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Sand
Aside from the Ocean, the obvious main ingredient of this long beach is sand. Unlike the mostly barnacle covered rocky beaches of the Puget Sound, near home, this beach is sandy, miles… of fine tan-grey colored sand. Depending on the tide there is about twenty to one hundred yards of beach from the edge of the grass-covered dunes to the changing ocean line. Here the ocean licks the sand, packing it into a high-speed surface, making for a smooth run near the edge. Or where as Sarrah preferred it, sand piled loosely by the wind, storms and high tides up against the dunes where the grass grows and waves like wheat fields; catching the blowing sand into thick, fluffy unstable drifts for jumping and plowing through.
Sand is magical; it brings out playfulness in a dog, youth in the old and delight in a kid. Sand does not care how careful you are, it will get into everything. These little bits of ancient rock ground in the waves, spread by the wind, over time will get between your toes and everywhere else. Sarrah loved it! She did her part to share it. It seemed no matter how well I wiped her feet, she somehow smuggled some in.
Beach House
Sarrah delighted in all aspects of going to the Peninsula. She usually sat up and looked out the windows the entire way there, to watch the world as it went on by. The journey from where we live starts with on average an hour of ‘freeway hell’, racing with the self absorbed rats on the paved necessary ugliness, known as Interstate 5. Then off onto Highway 101 where it gradually devolves from too much civilization and overpopulation into a sort of peaceful time travel back through the woods and near a few old small towns, too tough to die. This leg of the journey is packed with many little things that busy people miss or find “boring”. These things like mountains, forested land, rivers, cattle, wildlife; deer, coyotes, porcupines, elk, eagles, hawks and even bears were all noticed and points of interest mentally noted by my road wise companion.
Another perk around this area is the constant salted air and its medicinal affects. We knew it when we first explored Ocean Park and what remains of the historic town of Oysterville at the north end of the Long Beach Peninsula, this was the place. We came back a couple of times and narrowed the search to a community named Surfside Estates with a few rules (Covenants, Codes & Restrictions) to protect values from individual expressions. This little development of Two Thousand Eight Hundred subdivided lots is comprised of; about one-third with houses (mostly vacation, several retirement), one-quarter “seasonal camper lots” and the rest vacant, overgrown with dune grass and coastal pines. The community has approximately three miles of beachfront and a small lake (pond) with long canals that run the length of it. There are walking trails running East to West with foot bridges over the canals, creating easy access for all “members and guests” to the beach which extends as far as the eye can see… to the South and North.
We quickly found the one, close enough to the ocean to hear its methodical constant mumbling and an easy walk away. It was new enough to not only become a dreaded nest of repair projects. A cozy little two-bedroom house that would be greatly appreciated as-is, customized over time into “our place” and enjoyed along the journey through time.
September Two Thousand Five Nissa closed the deal, and we came out for our first three-day weekend and camped with Sarrah, in the empty one-year-old house. On this stay we personalized it by painting the garage floor, making it into more of a warm multipurpose room. This tan coating also has its share of the ever-present small black and white hairs permanently sealed into it.
Sarrah instantly liked the new little house and it quickly became her preferred home. She was delighted with being able to roam the whole place and sleep closer to me. Upon each arrival and inspection of the Beach House, her toys and the yard she would relax on her overstuffed bed and smile.
As a group we decided that the best spot for Sarrah’s bed was next to the sliding glass door, on the east end of the Great room. This gave a comfortable vantage point to guard the front door, see all that went on in the house and watch out for wildlife trespassers as they regularly strolled through ‘her yard’. One of the best perks of this spot was the morning sunshine, perfect for soaking up a little bright warmth.
Paradise
The combined goal was to have a getaway. Our own place to escape from home; gather experiences to build on and collect layers of memories with family, friends (old and new), by ourselves and of course with Sarrah. We felt the need to have a destination to long for, when elsewhere and in need of a daydream. The kind where, when you close your eyes and turn off your ears, magically… you are there. A retreat in our world where time is put in its place; less measured and untracked, removing deadlines and the forces that push them, in order to simply enjoy moments. As well, to be our familial gathering site for holidays, birthdays and for the best event, no special reason at all.
One main requirement was for somewhere that had ‘enough’ so that boredom wouldn’t sneak in, but ‘much less’ than where we live and work. Another priority was for somewhere that other people would be interested in joining us, on occasion. We wanted and needed a better connection with nature and land, perhaps even where land meets water. Near enough for an after work escape and the occasional early morning return “Cannonball Runs” back to reality. A peaceful spot to let human springs unwind and recharge batteries, repair the mind, refresh the body and I suppose nurture the soul.
We frequently reviewed the pros and cons of making this kind of investment. All of the traditional points of retirement planning and age-old wisdom were mulled over. Was this a wise investment? Would there be resale value if the need came? Should the required funds be squirreled away instead for later in life? As living Life reminds us all too often, Death usually arrives uninvited and often earlier than envisioned, erasing long term plans. The constant tricky challenge of maintaining the balance between “Save for a rainy day” and “Seize the moment” will always persist, with only the benefit of time passed to judge.
As we leaned toward the decision to enjoy some of life’s rewards now and along the way, our belief that the dividends from these experiences would payoff for the rest of our lives became clearer. It felt like the right thing for us to do. We chose to enrich our lives and those important to us, Now. Who knows, a working life retreat may become a retirement haven packed with the comfort of fond memories.
After a couple of years of leisurely exploring the quiet coast, small lakes and rural mountains of Washington, we narrowed our focus to the Long Beach Peninsula. The miles of beach, quiet unlit roads and laid back locals enable this area to drip with comfortable solitude. This area is around one hundred fifty miles or more importantly measured with time, around four hours drive, each way from where we reside. This distance is greater than we had initially hoped for, but it also enabled affordability (Seattle/Distance=Price).
The Weary Kind
A couple of business collaborations ended over a three-year span. One ended well having run its course, just a few months prior to the music stopping. The later fell to the circumstances, making it time to pick up and try again. I had seen glimpses of ‘the writing on the wall’ for quite a while in my handwriting (this is an example of where stubbornness isn’t always a quality) and knew that I needed to cause the latest change and jump into the pile of challenges that it takes, to move on. My human battery would not hold a charge and I sensed that this change should be done while I still had my four-legged assistant, before I would not be able to rise out of bed, let alone to the occasion. It was time to recycle my crippled career, in a new direction, with a new group, one more time. Sarrah was eleven and half years old at this time with most of her life in the past and the dark cloud that all animal people are aware of, but try to ignore, was getting closer.
A working week alone with Sarrah at the Beach House in the late winter of Two Thousand Ten gave me time to do many things, one of which was to finally embrace this conclusion and scrounge up the energy required to get on with it. While there I did some of the things that ease my mind, forms of what I suppose are mediation. We walked many miles on the beach, through the dunes and down the roads. The weather cooperated so I rode my motorcycle daily, around the community and the rural roads. Most importantly, I simply sat in the sunshine with my best friend and watched her nap. At each day’s end, we walked to the beach to watch the sun disappear into the ocean. Every evening I watched my favorite movie, “The World’s Fastest Indian”. This was my first lone stay at the Beach House. The quiet time alone was good for me and I feel fortunate that Sarrah was with me for this experience.
Shortly after returning, I met with another group who had expressed an interest in me, made ‘The Change’ and began the next chapter of my tired, working life story. Around this time a movie titled “The Weary Kind” came out along with a soundtrack of the same name by Ryan Bingham that felt like a fitting battle song for the times (especially the lyrics “Somehow this don’t feel like home, anymore” and “Pick up your crazy heart and give it one more try”), Sarrah and I listened to this tune every morning as we rallied to fight on another day.
Bridge = Over the Columbia River
Sometimes you need to walk over a bridge
Wet Feet
Change of Flow
August 2012 I attended a writing workshop titled “Making a Personal Metaphor from the Natural World” by the writer Matt Love at the Alder Creek Farm Conservation Site in Manzanita, Oregon.
Another of Matt’s prompts that day – was to use different blue crayons and draw a body of water resembling self.
My crude picture was a side view of a river meeting the ocean (I was thinking about the mouth of the Columbia River colliding with the Pacific Ocean between Washington and Oregon).
– Then name it
I came up with “Change of Flow”
– The next step was to write some thoughts about our sketch.
I wrote:
I am at a point in my life where, like the mouth of a river meeting the ocean, flow has changed.
No longer going in a predictable direction, now part of a more random, changing… Freedom.
The largely wilder side of uncertainty is both calming and stressful, at the same time.
This change of flow is unique in its position of looking into the future, while looking backward.
The gravitational nature of this place in uncontrolled.
– Next we were to go back and underline the top three words.
– Then write a sentence summarizing our thoughts.
“I am at a point in my life where, like the mouth of a river meeting the ocean… Flow has Changed”
Foam
Sometimes even the beach is Ugly
Coastal Sunset
Can Bryan Write? 