Tuesday, 2 September 2014

Here the sea grasses rustle as the coastal winds roar inland. As high as corn rows and thick like fur there is room to lose your way pleasantly. The mornings are rheumatically chilled much like the evenings past eight. The ocean breaches - drum rolls - just over the crest. The sky is perfect.

Looking northward the view reminds me of a scene from another trip, to another beachhead. But here I think more of the days leading to this place. Of the voyage through a town named Aberdeen where Kurt Cobain vomited under a bridge; where you were constantly reminded of the threat of tsunami wash outs. Then there was the crossing of the mouth of the Columbia River just beyond the place Lewis or Clark named Dismal Point; where you could look out at the water where slaughtered sharks sold their livers to aid the eyesight of American bomber pilots as they guided their arsenal overseas. On the south shore we could see the bucolic wonder of a town lost in time with board and batten and Victorian filigree. And then there were those remarkable beaches where surfers curled and dipped and young women read paperbacks and arranged stones in the sand and sipped white wine from plastic cups as they secretly wished they too could feel neoprene, salt and sea foam against their skin.

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