dispatch #13: cannon beach, oregon

i must've been 7 or 8. probably 7 turning 8. it's hard to be sure. birthdays were often celebrated on the road. the pitfall of a summer birth.

i remember pulling off to the side of the road in some pacific northwest rainforest. mom told me to go look for something interesting (scat? roadkill?); some pretense so she could stick a candle in a hostess ding-dong & get out my present (little professor digital tutor for my flagging math skills. [can't have those when step-dad's a jr. hi math teacher.])

i tested my aptitude in basic mathematical operations as i got car-sick1 along the coastal mountain roads to the space-age communications of my math buddy. three blinks = correct, static-staring red LEDs = try again. (mom swears i loved it.)

our destination was the tourist village of cannon beach, oregon. a quaint little seaside hamlet with only a small percentage of year-round residents.

one of my most vivid memories of the vacation was walking back to our RV campsite from a dinner in "town".

i must have been doing something. racing my shadow from the street-lights. lagging behind. standing on, then jumping off of fire hydrants. pushing the swinging doors of trash can lids (the kind like they have @ disneyland). something that would keep an 8-year-old from dying of boredom. & my mom must have called my name, because a drunken sailor stumbled out of the town's only tavern exactly like a drunken sailor would stumble out of a sea-town's only tavern. @ least, i assumed he was a sailor because he was stumbling drunk out of the only tavern in a sea-side town with water far too cold for body-surfing. in the middle of summer! & the drunken sailor looked at me with cartoon astonishment as only a drunken sailor can, and exclaimed, "rodney?!? that's my name!" as if he just learned i'd somehow stolen it from him.

he smiled & put his arm on my shoulder in the sort of mock affiliation i was used to only from uncles on holidays. he might have winked @ my folks (or just my mom, if i can indulge the drunken sailor character a bit further). they exchanged a few polite words, a chuckle, a gesture perhaps, & we were on our way & he his (as best he could).

years passed & i developed a romantic passion for the sea. read stories about solo circumnavigational adventures, joshua slocum, sea quest, kon tiki, windsong summer. i read three biographies of john paul jones. i took a sailing class @ the local reservoir. i went sailing on my great uncle's sloop. i drew square riggers, clippers, yawls, ketches, schooners, & frigates for all my art assignments & on all my pee-chee folders. i spent summer weekends & sometimes week-long vacations @ my grandparents' house in malibu. i wore swim-trunks every day in the summer & mourned that time in the fall when i no longer rushed to get my shoes off after school. i practiced climbing ropes so i'd be ready in case i ever got the chance to "scramble up the ratlines to the crow's nest". i pondered the sailing-ship schools advertised in the back of sunset magazines (the ones where kids aged 13-19 spent 3-mos on-board an actual clipper ship leaning how to sail on the open ocean, tie a mean bowline hitch, & still complete the requisite educational minimums of most states).

it's been a long time since then & a lot of my expectations have changed, but i was driving the dark highway from portland to cannon beach. & i started feeling like i was traveling an old path in new shoes. & portland's whisper-drizzle turned into coastal-mountain rain. & i pulled off the main highway. & i crawled onto the loop of the little town.

i think i'll stay till tomorrow. i think i can find that tavern, or one like it. i think i'll make a toast.


to rodney. (if that's even his name.)



1 actually more likely a Wolff-Parkinsons-White episode. read egger's you shall know our velocity for a prosaic explanation.