BEACH TOWN? THERE’S ONLY ONE

Beach town is where I grew up.

We had beaches all over the place, surrounded by beaches.

But it was a bay town, a town on Coos Bay.

Just not Coos Bay.

It’s still a great beach town with Horsefall to the north, Bastendorff and Sunset a short drive west.

It’s a great beach town, bay town, river town, but things change.

 

I was driving through the coast range headed toward the beach with my wife and dog.

The night before I was cuddling my sweet sleeping grand-baby, looking at sunny beach pictures and missing my other grand-baby.

In perfect baby boomer timing it got me thinking about where it all started.

Just the thought of where it all started reminded me of every anniversary story that begins with, “We met in the neighborhood,” or, “We met in high school,” or, “We met in college.”

I didn’t meet my wife in my childhood neighborhood. Or hers.

We met in real life, not in some science class or dorm.

We met, yada, yada, yada, and got married.

It didn’t seem like we were as young as we were now that we’re twice as old.

Cue Neil Young:

 

Hello, cowgirl in the sand (hello, cowgirl in the sand)
Is this place at your command?
Can I stay here for a while?
Can I see your sweet, sweet smile?

Old enough now to change your name
When so many love you is it the same?
It’s the woman in you that makes you want to play this game

 

Play This Game

I spent part of my honeymoon in a beach town.

We had a ‘walk out the door to the beach’ room.

That motel was torn down and replaced with a resort, but the memories remain.

I thought about that while I drove through the coast range with snow on the ground and more in the forecast.

Me: How many years have we been going here? Thirty?

Wife: No, not thirty, maybe twenty-five.

Me: We’re married thirty-seven years and spent our honeymoon here. You do the math.

Wife: Maybe twenty-five with the kids.

Me: We have pictures of them here playing in the pipe water so I’d call it thirty.

I’ve been going to the same beach town for somewhere between 25 and 37 years and finally it dawned on me:

This is my beach town, my wife’s beach town, and my kids’ beach town.

It’s more than a fancy-schmancy art gallery town full of hefty tourists demanding their right to cross the busiest street wherever they want.

More than a fish town with downtown docks, more than a carnival town with saltwater taffy.

It’s a family town with big rocks.

It’s an Oregon beach with buckets and kites and capes.

With tide pools, puffins, and driftwood, it checks all the boxes.

 

My Beach Town Claim

As married people who travel together know, travel chores break down between husbands and wives.

Much like the travelers on the Oregon Trail, there’s the heavy work and the organizing work.

With that in mind, I make my beach town claim after packing the contents of a Toyota Highlander jammed to the roof up three flights of stairs in five trips.

Why no elevator? Apparently we need to be rugged out here.

Now when my wife questions my regular workout regime, “Why is so important to you,” I’ve got a new reference.

Sixty-nine year old fuckers don’t pack their shit up three flights of stairs five times unless they practice.

But what if you don’t practice and still try?

Emergency rooms are full of fools who forget they’re not on their honeymoon and carry their little lady across the threshold.

They’re also not forty-five in the peak of the their ‘old man strength’ phase.

If you don’t practice, then don’t try and do things like carry the world up fifteen flights of stairs.

The painful lesson you will learn will be taught by your back, your knees, your shoulder. If you’re lucky.

If you’re not so lucky, your heart will be your instructor.

And, in case you didn’t hear, no one wants to die at the beach.

Sprinkle some ashes?

Not so fast.

Use your good sense, ask for help, and you’ll be fine in Cannon Beach town.

My town.