surf conditions

I was feeling bad about the long absence, little blog. I was going to say it was such a terribly busy academic year that I found not a minute to spare for hobby writing. That there was no inspiring travel in my life between September and June, no sufficient inspiration to create or commemorate anything non-academic anywhere. There are measures of truth, and of sloth, in all that, but moreover, who cares? Just now I feel finished with excuses, archival pressure, creative guilt. I feel confident in que sera, set to glide through the swaying dandelions of the long summer reaching ahead of me, all the way through a short-stacked, sabbatical-subsidized year into two Septembers from now, and maybe even further. It begins in Seaside.

My oldest friend, Kriste, is an excursion junkie (hence her appearance elsewhere on this site). Last fall she said, Let's start next summer with a long weekend by the sea. Astoria, Oregon is halfway between us. 30 years after we followed the Goonies to the pirate ship Inferno's lost treasure there, it was a date. Kriste decided to make an eight-day reservation at "the historic house of 1000 windows" two blocks from the beach in Seaside (a skosh down the road from Astoria). Tag teams of women from her vast network would visit throughout the week; my co-swashbuckler, Jessica, and I would be the first shift. Late on the Monday morning after graduation, we submitted grades, loaded the car with leisure reading, swim gear, and gourmet snacks, and took off down a relatively open I5. We cut over to the coast at Olympia, made an Aberdeen Starbucks stop, and once beyond the muddy banks of the Wishkah we were happily gulping the briny vacation air. Aside from one disagreeable construction stall on the Astoria-Megler Bridge, the drive was a seagull flocking, Columbia sparkling delight. Arriving with no expectations at our 1000-windowed house around 5pm, as if home from work, was a thrill.

Let's set out the essential thesis now: I thought I knew what the Oregon Coast was, and I was wrong. This keeps happening to me lately in the Pacific Northwest, where I have lived for more than two decades. I have been up and down the 101 through the middle state many times. I have seen it in the dark and the light, under clouds and sun, accompanied and alone. I wrote college poetry about its uniformly splendid vistas. I camped on the Dunes, lunched on the Newport pier, toured Tillamook, and took photos of it all in my prior life. Wonderful. But with whatever new eyes I've been growing since I turned 40, Seaside shimmers like something more than a routine, rugged coastal railway between life points.

The rental house is fun, a web of boxes weaved together by a caffeinated spider. One bedroom opens into the entryway, another into the kitchen, another is accessible only through the sun-drenched back deck. The decorator is Mrs. Roper. The southwest corner walls are a lattice of windows; pastel fabrics and marine bric-a-brac abound. The kitchen table has already been adorned by Kriste with assorted wine and spirit bottles; we add the contents of our cooler and pop tabs on the canned champagne. After designating beds and getting K and J properly introduced, we wrestle the ancient front door lock into action and wander up the street --two short blocks indeed -- to the beach. In the sandy grass between the promenade and the shore is a swing set which steals Jessica's heart. The sand itself steals mine. Practically a half mile of rock-free, bramble-free, luscious gray sand from us to the tide line, which itself seems to stretch another quarter mile out to the breakers. By God, this is a real beach. And as far as I can see in either direction it's nearly empty on this balmy first Monday night of summer.  

  

We promenade north four blocks to the main drag, Broadway, which is a midway of arcades, bumper cars, retro candy shops, souvenir vendors, a carousel. There are lots of people here but plenty of room for us to roam on the sidewalk. We recognize the caricature of a kid sobbing over his scoop of blue ice cream splattered on the ground, empty cone useless in his grubby little hand. We make plans to procure a memento at one of two old-timey photo shops. Near the end of the street we sit down for dinner at a joint called Dundee's, where there's a private TV at every table and a zany menu which includes a donut burger. We inquire about the Punchbowl cocktail and I disappoint Kriste by declining based on its seven shots; we plan to come back for it tomorrow night when there are more ladies in town to share it. After dinner, leftovers in hand, we walk home via the neighborhood, passing a $10 fortune teller and a surrey rental shop, both of which we plan to visit tomorrow.

Most of the houses are cute and weathered, front doors open and folks gathered in the cluttered front yards. The people are working-class, roaming, young, skateboarding, small town punk rock. Weed aroma hangs in the air unapologetically, water pistols douse indiscriminately. Each block from the midway gets incrementally more sophisticated, with pretty cape cod shingles and shady upper decks, a trellis of antique roses or a Tom Sawyer white picket fence. I'd be glad to spend a week in several of them. Back behind our own 1000 windows, we open a bottle of wine and soon enough it's time for Cards Against Humanity, a second bottle, the Dundee leftovers, much unruly laughter. We eventually sleep well, despite wondering what might be behind the locked closet doors and in the attic. I find it hard to feel penetratingly afraid of anything at the beach; a real beach, to me, does not accommodate hiding places. 

Around ten am on Tuesday, Kriste and I go back to Broadway for breakfast at the Pig'n'Pancake (Jessica sleeps in and then soaks up the hot sun on the windless back deck). After pancakes, we stop, for quite some time, at one of the full-service candy shops, and bring home $40 worth of taffy, nostalgic bubble gum, chocolate dipped chunks of sea foam, and a dozen cordial shots in miniature chocolate bottles. These two morning capers are the only "plans for tomorrow" I accomplish during the trip. And that's fine, because what I do instead, is be beside the sea.

At the height of the afternoon, the sand is smoldering -- Jes and I keep our flips on until we lay out our towels where the high water line cools things down. I shortly leave her there, with her journal and Virginia Woolf, and walk south in the tide. It's littered with crab shells and green ribbons of kelp. The water is cool up to the mid-calf but warm in the pools and streams that cut through the uneven shore. Groups of gulls and ducks peck into the mud for lunch, a few people in wetsuits surf the small breakers, a few more chuck balls at giddy dogs; mostly it is quiet. I pick up an intact sand dollar, and find its underside feathery and seeming still to breathe. I carry it carefully, bending to soak it once in awhile and wondering if it is dying all the time. I walk until the beach runs out -- turning into a rock pile that wraps around Tillamook Head -- and then walk back. It's the most satisfying hour in my recent memory. I feel anchored, measured and grateful, for my feet, my legs, my breath. I feel that it's absolutely ludicrous to only walk along the ocean once or twice a year at best.

Before 5pm can strike the end of happy hour, we go home, rinse off, and return to the promenade in time for a sublime round of cocktails. On the breezy patio with a view of the very handsome waiter, I sip a beachcomber that puts me right on a boat in Hawaii. K and J have margaritas that might have been mixed by a tropical sorceress. Best ever, they say. It's the simplicity of the recipe of course. We pay happy hour price for a second round, though it's well past happy hour. Our mellow mood hits a bump on the quick walk home when Jessica is bitten, though evidently not stung, on the knee by a bee that comes tumbling out of her maxi skirt onto the sidewalk. It's almost chaos, as the bee looks dead and the knee bears two read welts but no stinger; but brave, allergic Jessica keeps her cool while I speed to the grocery store for Benedryl. When I return, she's preparing a plate of lavender crostini for incoming guests Molly and Andrea, who arrive from Portland around 8 with a couple of famous Hot Lips pizzas. At sunset we introduce them to the beach and sit for an hour amidst bonfires and some early bottle rockets raining sparks in the distance. I dig absent-minded tracks deep into the cool sand, pleased with all the salt infusing my skin and hair. When there's nothing left in the sky but Venus and a stray companion star, we head back to drink dark and stormy's and play more Cards Against Humanity. Hysteria ensues until the wee hours.

I rise first on Wednesday and take advantage of the shower. There had been talk of everyone driving up the highway for an Astoria adventure day, but 3/5 of the ladies in the house are now compelled to sleep away the morning. Kriste goes out to find lattes and write letters. The back deck eventually gets too hot for me and my Vanity Fair, so I move into the front sunroom, where Jessica joins me in pajamas and I read most of Caitlyn Jenner's life story aloud to her. M and A emerge and head out in search of their own lattes, but report upon returning that they were enticed into a pair of prawn-festooned bloody mary's instead. They are knackered, we are ambivalent, the driving adventure is definitely out. So Jes and I repack the beach bag and head for our reserved spot at the high tide line. All I really want to do is spend another hour walking in the surf. This time I go north. With more of the waterfront hotels in that direction, it's comparatively crowded, and this particular mix of beach people and proclivities is engrossing.

Dudes in hoodies and black baggies rolled up not far enough, looking confused by the water; teen girls in cropped skinny jeans carrying Lacrosse sticks; toddlers in drooping wet diapers and reddening kids playing kitchen with the mud. Large ladies in 50's pin-up swim dresses and handkerchief- wrapped hair; old folks on their lawn chairs in the shallow eddies. Grandpa knee-high in the waves smoking a cigar. Boys in plaid trunks skidding across the wet sand on boogie boards, girls offering sea glass treasures to their daddies. Dozens of amateur surfers in wet suits. As I reach the outskirts of the water throng, I spy a big fellow running across the hot sand, dragging a practically airborne kid behind him, yelling something at a group of sun bathers. The tone of the scene shifts and I track my eyes to the group he's yelling at, where I see a similarly big couple rise from their blanket. The awkward runner is yelling "help" and it's a strange thing to register. I slow down as I pass him, looking for the emergency he's running from, looking to see if anyone is holding a phone or needs mine. The couple from the blanket are picking up their pace as they come toward me, connect with the yeller, and keep going, obviously winded. The woman has her phone in hand, and a look like a panicked aunt about her. Okay, I can't help, I can only ogle. The sight lines meet and right ahead of me now I see a half dozen surfers struggling out of the water, one guy hauling another who is prone. Having just three nights prior seen Jaws on the big screen for its 40th anniversary, I'm now waiting to see if the guy being pulled out by his shoulders will have his legs attached. Is this what a real life shark encounter looks like? No blood in the water as I pass the scene, yes the incapacitated guy appears to have all his limbs. I keep moving, not wanting to be one of those people gathering to gape at what may be a stranger almost drowning. To compromise with the pull of curiosity I turn and walk backwards, so I can see the panicked runners join the party and two EMT lifeguard jeeps arrive. The guy who pulled his friend from the surf's clutches is crawling to the back of the crowd clearly exhausted; the guy having the truly worst day is being turned onto his side and I'm still close enough to see the water start heaving out of him. Worse, close enough to hear him making a totally singular sound, some kind of scream and moan fused together, the salt water setting his whole cavity on fire, pain and fear scrapping for purchase on the same ledge, profoundly disturbing. I finally turn myself forward again and let it be.     

A quiet settles back in; the north beach is at this point just as sparsely populated as the south end, with more birds and crab carcasses than people, more warm eddies and corrugated expanses between the breakers and the high tide line. Unlike yesterday, even when the hotels and houses give way to a cedar grove, the beach goes on; presumably I could walk to Astoria. And I'd like too, again feeling such gratitude for the barefoot walking, for my controlled relationship with the soul-nourishing ocean, no swimming necessary. But I remind myself that I have to walk back as far as I walk out, so I do turn around while the Seaside promenade is still in fuzzy view. The accident scene has vanished by the time I pass it again, and back at base camp I find just two towels and no people. Jessica is in the shallow waves; Kriste texts to say she's coming down for a brief sun bake. When she gets settled I read aloud, upon request, another Vanity Fair exposé, and around happy hour again it feels like time to go in.

K and J talk about teaching while I start collecting ingredients for an impromptu taco dinner. M and A are napping in the room next to the kitchen and I hear them awake to horrible news on the phone. They stumble out in a daze, awaiting a follow-up call, and we helplessly suggest they walk the beach while they wait and process. When they get back from the walk, an impressive ten-bowl taco bar is spread across the dining table, but they have gotten the final blow from the second phone call and can only think to drive back to Portland immediately. We quickly fill a grocery bag with snack provisions and send them off with feeble clingy hugs and hopes to meet again some much brighter day.

Our original trio eats somberly, but our show must go on -- it's the last night for Jes and I, and Kriste wants our own bonfire. She makes a quick trip to the store for firewood and s'mores supplies. We pick a spot on the beach where the remains of someone's fire the previous night are conveniently nestled next to a driftwood log bench. As the sun starts its drop into the water Jes gets the sticks blazing and I set up a gourmet s'mores assembly line. We have giant marshmallows, each bigger around than its graham cracker square, and a mixed Hershey's miniatures bag. We're making obnoxiously oozing Krackel smore's and Mr. Goodbar s'mores, 50/50 Special Dark surprise s'mores, and we can't stop making them so we start a delivery service to nearby bonfire parties. The first couple we approach are understandably leery, but we make a few others happy with our no-strings dessert gifts; later two lovebirds approach to thank us for the perfect addition to their anniversary wine picnic. Another job well done. We halt production while half the supplies remain for Kriste and company another night, but we stick with our little fire for the magic sun-dip moment, the lavender wash of the cloudless sky, the wink of Venus and what will turn out to be her historical shadowing by Jupiter. We stay out until almost 11, soothed, satiated, grateful, ready for a bit more beach sleep.

Thursday morning we're in gear rather early, packing quickly, saying goodbye to the 1000 windows. Kriste plans to tell the owner to keep the cleaning deposit as a down payment for next year. We agree, it's a fine annual plan, and next year we'll stay all week. I'm thinking of something longer in fact. Walk with the ocean every day, forsake the city congestion, be in your body, see a way, change your life.

Kriste follows us out of town to a bakery in Gearhart, for which she has heard rave reviews. The Pacific Way Cafe's lemon tart, blueberry scone, ham and cheddar croissant, onion and chevre biali for the road, each made of the most perfect dough, earn every accolade. I would drive a long way on a weekend to eat that dough. Excellent part one of the plan, Kriste. Part two is to climb the Astoria Column, a 90-year-old, 164-step spiral staircase and observation deck. Coincidentally, both K and J have climbed it somewhat unsuccessfully on prior adventures and seek redemption; it would be an anxiety-conquering effort for me as well. So we caravan through the fisherman shacks and up the precariously steep Goonie streets into the park of Coxcomb Hill, where a quartet of deer prance down out of the sun-dappled ferns, across the street right in front of us, and down into the ferns on the other side. We observe that the Column is suspiciously saran-wrapped, though, and at the top of the hill we confirm that it's closed for structural upgrades, but pay $2 to park in the lot anyway, and I'm not disappointed. The view is smashing, and fun Lewis and Clark placards cover the perimeter rail. I look down at that long Astoria bridge, traffic revision still in progress, and feel much more strongly suited to cross it than I did three days ago, maybe to cross it back and forth, gladly, again and again...

We take our wistful leave from Kriste and after an easy drive back to Olympia, in the jolt of I5 traffic, confined in the 90⁰ bake of the car through the downtown sludge, a bell rings plainly: change your life. And so I may. Certainly I'll spend the coming light-footed year contemplating it in newly serious ways. Thanks for that Seaside. This one is for Justin and Anna.