55 miles per hour is the speed limit equivalent of broccoli. You know it's one of the better speeds to travel at for your personal safety, your car's fuel efficiency, and the overall health of the planet, but damn if it isn't the last speed you auto correct to when behind the wheel of a large automobile. Much more comfortable clipping along in the realm of sixty five to seventy miles an hour I slalomed through the moss draped trees of some forest who's sign I missed and therefore shall forever remain known in my memory as that forest you drive through to get to the Oregon Coast. Rain plastered the rental cars windshield as I left more mild mannered native drivers in my wake, wondering why seemingly no one in Denver or Portland seemed to drive with a sense of urgency. There were sights to see and I had to get there and see them, fast! So out of the way you laid back pot smoking West coast hippies, a man on the move has places to be! Upon reflection I realize the fallacy in this. There are sights to be seen as long as you have functioning eye balls. But the mission was to get to the coast, so to the coast I went. Myself, Johanna, Matt, Stella, and Indie the Catahoula happy hound arrived in the little town of Seaside and we're immediately immersed in the blessed scent of open sea. I could hear the breaking waves from the public parking garage and was... I don't know, aroused? Excited to the point of feverish action? I can't put words on it. I wanted to be in the water, I wanted to roll in that cold embrace, wanted to taste the salt on my lips from Gaia's sloppy wet kisses. I can't explain myself near the sea. If one could hear my inner monologue it would be intermittent spurts of "holy shit, holy shit, that's so fucking amazing" followed by doggy style excited panting. I don't know why. I was born and raised as landlocked as any other fundamentalist Christian in Kansas City. Yet some ancient unexplainable genetic itch develops when I see the horizon swallowed by the endless gaping blue of that terrifying depth. I started flirting with the sea by allowing it to "accidentally" soak my shoes. Then I let her reach up my ankles and wrap her icy fingers around every individual hair on my calves and pull them into goose pimples. Finally without warning or rational I walked over to Johanna and began stripping to my underwear. Lord knows what that sweet woman thought as first my shirt, then jeans and socks are flung at her. "Here? On the beach, in front of all these people? Well, maybe, but jeez whatever happened to foreplay? " Alas, Johanna was not the lover who's arms I wanted to rush into at that exact moment, though she is the one who's arms I seek when not drunk with lust for the thrill of rolling around in something that could kill me. You see, I am that dramatic about wading in the sea because I am a shit swimmer and I have bad enough common sense that I quickly get myself, pardon the pun, in over my head when around water. I love that "oh fuck" moment when you feel the undertow pulling at your legs and you put all of your juice into paddling back to shore and you go nowhere. You know that your energy is finite and the ocean is infinite and eventually you will be the one who gives out and the ocean will eat you and that will be that, as the people say. But then the ocean sends another wave to shove you back where you belong, and in the breaking surf you can almost hear it say "just fucking with ya monkey." I would scramble ashore after these interactions cold and feeling oddly triumphant. I'd jog over to my people with a big, dumb, shit eating grin and say something benign, laugh, and trot back to the water to ask the sea to have mercy on me one more time. A few dozen trips back and forth, the sun lolling about the sky and I'm spent. Food and coffee are needed, with no delay. During the refuel I look at my phone and see that it's earth day and I think about how much I love this earth. She is beautiful and though I didn't consciously observe the details I think of the trees, the moss, the water and all the goodness that those things encompass. I experience the unique only found in oysters taste of oysters and give thanks for this slimy delicious creatures gift to me. Later, on the trip home a herd of elk cows would appear before us and Jo and I would chase them like we were tough enough to fight them all if they turned on us. Matt would hold his breath and ask his higher power to protect us. We'd look out the window and see where vast angry swaths of forest were ripped out by men and women who valued a pay check for buying iPhones over the sustenance the forest could offer them if they'd just let it continue living another millenia. Quiet with our thoughts the excited chatter of the morning was replaced by the thousand yard stare of reflection on the day. In appreciation for everything my ankle pivoted, my foot lifted, and I drove just a little bit slower. At least until we hit rush hour traffic. ~A
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