If you’d gone out to the right fork at South Beach on any sunny summer afternoon in the last 40 years, you would have seen her. Dressed in long shorts and shirt, a wrinkled white hat, thick socks and sneakers, Ellen Kendrick would have been there, crouched on a towel, talking to friends. The stories were familiar to the group that met at the same place in the sand all summer.

Stories about her childhood vacations in the Adirondacks, her teaching career in Syracuse, early days on the Vineyard with Jim, Katy’s operation, Ann’s travels, Dan Casey’s wedding on the ferry. Those of us who sat with her knew the stories so well that it didn’t matter if some of her words were lost in the sound of the surf.

Ellen was, admittedly something of a gossip, and she went to daily mass to be forgiven, but she couldn’t help herself because everyone was interesting to her. She welcomed newcomers into her group on the beach, and many long-lasting friendships were made there where people came together year after year. Her house out on the farm was always open to visitors. “I’ve had 65 people visit this year,” she would say. “Sixty-five people!” Family, friends, acquaintances, a bus driver from Syracuse and his wife, a priest, a party of nuns, a family of cousins, friends of friends and their dogs. They were all welcome. Nothing pleased her more than a full house and a carload of people to drive around. I believe driving was Ellen’s favorite sport. She may have liked it even better than swimming. She was always willing to take someone to or from the boat. Once, she picked up a Vietnamese family she happened to meet at the ferry dock and gave them a tour of the Island. Jim, who was asleep in the car, woke in surprise to a car full of strangers.

Ellen prowled the streets of Edgartown in her old blue station wagon, cruising down Main street to pause in the parking lot by the yacht club, then up North Water just to see what was going on in town. My house on South Summer was part of her daily round, and she always knew when I was home. When I first knew Ellen she was in her 60s — old from my point of view, at the time, but certainly not from hers. She postponed retirement as long as she could. “I love my job,” she told me. “I never wanted to retire!” She went to her 50th college reunion at Syracuse and helped other classmates down to the banquet on the floor of the Carrier Dome. “They couldn’t get down all those steps in their fancy shoes,” she told me. But steep stairs and high fashion didn’t bother Ellen. She had worn her Bass Weejuns.

A lifelong Democrat, Ellen delighted in President Clinton’s visits to the Vineyard. She went out to the airport every time he arrived. Working her way up close to the barrier fence so she could shake the hand of the man himself, no matter what he had been up to. Perhaps her years as a guidance teacher inspired her ready defense. “He couldn’t help it,” she said of the President’s indiscretions. “Look at the terrible childhood he had.” She tracked the news with The New York Times, The Washington Post, and with her TV permanently tuned to CNN. Tenacious in her political views and fierce in her disdain for policies and politicians of which she disapproved, Ellen spoke her mind. Her audience might beg to differ, but Ellen spoke her mind.

As the summers rolled on, all of us on the beach grew older, We took our daily Lipitor, compared our blood pressure and discussed the pros and cons of knee surgery, but Ellen had nothing to say on these topics. She had her own prescription for staying alive: “Swim every day and eat soup.” By the time I knew her, Ellen had stopped swimming at South Beach. After she had held court there on the sand, she went to Bend in the Road for a dip in calmer waters. I often saw her, hair tucked away in a blue swim cap, bobbing back and forth in the gentle waves. Upon leaving the water, she wrapped herself in a bathrobe and withdrew to the parking lot where she managed to change her clothes in the shelter of open car doors, a routine which shocked her friends but made it possible for her to appear at the post office, dry and respectable, in time to pick up her mail.

The last time I saw Ellen she was dressed up for the Fourth of July parade. She looked smaller and more frail than she had last year but was as eager to talk as always. “I’m 90,” she said. She straightened up as she spoke and she repeated the fact as if she still found it hard to believe. “I’m 90 years old!” She leaned in closer to me “I had a birthday party, and 300 people came. I didn’t know who they all were, but 300 people were there.” Ellen, who always knew how many people showed up, was still keeping count.

The next time I climb up over the dune at the entrance to South Beach and look around past the bright umbrellas and tanned young bodies, I won’t catch a glimpse of that familiar hat pulled down over a head of flyaway white hair. I’ll miss the smile on Ellen’s weathered face, and the murmur of her voice mixed with the wash of the waves, but I still have her stories, and the friends I’ve made from years of sitting with her on the sand. There was a party after her funeral mass. Many of us came to share our memories and celebrate her long life. I certainly hope someone counted heads because she would want to know how many people came.

Ellen often said she liked the endings to my written pieces. So this time I’ll end with a promise. When President Obama arrives on the Vineyard next month, I will go out to the airport to greet him. I’ll do it for my friend Ellen. She would have been there.

Betsy Campbell lives in Edgartown and contributes occasionally to the Gazette.