Dawn Patrol

Through the eastern window of my bedroom, the orange glow of the rising sun blankets the coastal range. Rummaging for my glasses, I laboriously struggle out of bed and stumble upstairs.

  I’m not a morning person, but the rich coffee aroma and possibility of glassy surf makes me a devout member of dawn patrol. From my third story post, I scope the cove through my binoculars… chest high peelers and only two guys out. I pour my java into my travel mug and grab a pear, pack my wetsuit into my pack and pedal north to the point with my nine-footer tucked under my arm.

  Four of us—all familiar faces—share the early morning surf. Gary, an older local with long gray hair and a bulldog stature, trims the waves from the nose of his log as effortlessly as buttering his breakfast toast. Another local, Stan, sits deep inside the cove and carves long, endless rides. These dawn sessions are the only time I see Bates, the local shaper and shop owner, in the lineup.

  By 10 o’clock the lineup has nearly tripled, which means breakfast time. For the past week, the swells have been consistent, but mid-afternoon winds occasionally turn onshore, adding chop to the surf.

                                     

  Come sundown, there’s been a welcome trend of offshore winds. Paddling out at sunset is enchanting. The sun punches holes in the jade green walls of the Pacific creating a passage into sanctuary. Sitting in the lineup, the spray catches the low angled solar rays, casting a rainbow that trails the barrel.

  Surfing until dark wraps another days worth of tranquility to be continued when dusk becomes dawn tomorrow.

                                    

Stranger than Strangers

  “Strangers are people I haven’t yet met,” Steve-O, the skydiver whom I met at the Point the previous afternoon, tells me. Strangers can also become instant friends, which is why I’m moseying towards a Taiwanese man with long thin facial hair and a black braided hair tucked in a weathered truckers cap. He’s posted in front of a beat up white van watching the surf through tortoise shell glasses in the shade of his multi-colored beach umbrella.

  I compliment his rig and we get to talking. Shortly after introducing, Salat (saw-lot) invites me to sit down on a broken stool and offers me a beer. Salat and his wife are road tripping to San Francisco along 101, but a ding repair has sidelined him in Pacific City and he might not make it to the Golden Gate due to time restraints.

He isn’t bothered by it one bit.

  “This is like surfing nirvana,” he exclaims. The past three days has been nothing short of sunshine, consistent 4-6’ swells, and with the weekend crowd come and gone, fairly empty. Though momentarily boardless, a former stranger named Mike offers his longboard to Salat. The mid-afternoon surf is mediocre at best, with winds turning onshore, but Salat’s ecstatic grin after catching a couple waves pushes Mike and I into the water.

  After what turns out to be a decent session, I head up to the van where Salat compliments me on my timing while arranging fresh albacore tuna on the grill. Handing me a plate of grub and a glass of IPA, we talk travel—past, present and future. Once Salat fulfills his cultural obligation of feed guests until they can’t swallow another bite, I insist on washing the dishes. When I return from the shower, Salat’s board has reappeared from Seven Surf Shop.

  With the sun nearing the horizon, I leave Salat and Kadai to enjoy the last sunset of summer together as I wander around the beach wishing everyone a happy equinox… and shortly thereafter a new moon.

  Once the sun crests the long blue horizon, I find Salat curiously eyeing the surf and before I realize the side ache we’re in the line up with winds blowing offshore and glassy five foot sets rolling in. I could not imagine a more serene way to end the summer.

  The next morning I paddle out at the first sunrise of the fall. From the lineup I see the white van. Salat and Kadai are headed for Winchester Bay in search of more surf and new sights. As we part ways, Salat reminds me to keep meeting new people, and I assure my friend that I surely will.

 

Pickin ye Blunder

                              

(September 19, 2009 is National Speak Like a Pirate Day, therefore it was boat rule that all conversation aboard the vessel must be carried out in Pirate jargon. In due response, this entry shall conform to those standards.)

  Y’argh the blarney tide be slippin off yonder and me mateys and I be droppin traps fer the buggers that be crawlin 'long Davey Jones locker in Netarts Bay. The three of us be handy racin up the lanyard an riggin sails an plunderin boats, but we be newbees pullin crustacean from the deep. Pete the master baiter on board be settin the traps with bottom fish and fowl while scallywag Pyle be swabbin the decks. I be mannin the riggin. Ay the traps be tossed, we pillage and plunder the bay be eyein the wenches and drownin the swill.

                             

  Shiver me timbers, the first round o' pots be bloddy empty and the crew be drownin the sorrow with swill. It be lookin like another eve burying rum on an empty belly fer the crew. Even we pirates be suffrin the rampant reseshen.

                             

  With less than one turn o’ the hourglass, we sail south yonder our ferthest pot and be pullin a full cage o crabbys. Takin cue, we toss whatever chum an traps we got handy, lookin forward to a feastin. At days end we be scramblin with five buggers over ten shillings each. The day be endin with a plank walkin as deck swab Pyle be traitin flags tryin to run home crab in hand ignoring to the traditional feastin to be had after a day at salty sea. Tis be a watery grave… couldn’t swab the deck clean anyways the blasted popper. 

                                             

Flight with the Ex-Presidents

                                      

It’s so crammed inside the small Cessna it feels like I'm playing a long game of Twister with the other passengers--they're only temporary though.  Cowered behind the pilot seat, I observe the anxious faces of three men about to take a 10,000’ tumble. I myself have a parachute loosely strapped on in case I see the bottom of the pilot’s sneakers leaving the plane, but I'm hoping for the best. Rick, the veteran jumper, tells me I’m better off going down with the craft than pulling the rip on the spare shoot. Worse comes to worse, I figure I can tap into my “radical son of a bitch” side and hitch a ride like Keanu in Point Break (the entire time I'm wondering if these guys could be the Ex-Presidents. There's only three out of four though, and I reserve a moment of silence and gratitude for a recent fallen icon). 

                                    

The fact that we’re 10,000’ over the Pacific is a bit unsettling, but watching the jumpers launch off the wing I, in an odd way, hope for the shit to hit the fan so I skydive sans $200 fee. Glancing yonder at Cape Kiwanda, however, I have second thoughts and decide I’m comfortable where I am, especially now that won Twister and have the entire cabin to stretch my legs out.

 The view from up top offers a perspective I’ve imagined my entire life watching the small aircrafts constantly flying overhead in Pacific City. Cutting through the low-lying wetlands, the Nestucca River snakes its way from the coastal mountains and empties into the sea. From up here, the dune looks like nothing more than a bump and Cape Kiwanda between Cascade Head and Cape Lookout resembles Jerry Garcia’s ring finger. Haystack Rock—or Point Rock as I’ve come to know it—wears a white judges wig of sea foam visible only from this vantage.

                                                    

 Distracted by the view, I nearly excrete my innards in an instant as Captain Mike catches some G-force on turns that make my horizontal photographs appear to be taken in vertical composition.

                                    

Dropping in hot at the P.C. airstrip, Mike tells me not to hang on to anything but my seatbelt—preparing me for a rough landing. Surprisingly, touch down is flawless. “Not bad for a beginner huh?” the Captain tells me.

 

                                              

Coastal Days

I'm turnin' my back to the Valley and the Cascades and skippin' West to find my balance at the coast for a month. While I'm in Pacific City Oregon, I'll be surfing, hiking/moseying, photographing, writing and meeting eclectic strangers in hopes of getting my head straight. 

Here's the view from my deck.

                                  

Commencement Day

Today marks the last day of my college career. Since I forewent the "walking" process, I decided to treat my folks to a graduation self-portrait. We all remember the "first day of school" photographs our parents took of us when we were in grade school--back when our parents used to dress us as well. As an ode to those days, I decided to end my scholarly days dressed the same way as I started them. Thanks Mums and Pops.


Don't think this means I've grown up though.