Finding Myself at the Edge of the World

“I feel like I am being strangled by my life…” This is not a statement one generally wants to hear from their spouse, but my husband put on his game face, and listened patiently while I tried to explain myself…

Early July. I am losing my mind.

We were enjoying a casual lunch a few weeks ago, on the patio of a waterfront seafood restaurant, during a leisurely bike ride at Alki, on a beautiful sunny Sunday. I was complaining that summer was passing me by, and that I felt hampered by workplace demands, a not-quite rehabilitated knee, and a schedule that left no breathing room between anything. I knew that I had three weeks ahead of a miserably tough schedule. My husband, doing his best not to take such a statement personally, said “But, isn’t this fun?” My reply was that yes, it was fun, and I was enjoying myself, but that it would only serve as a “surface charge”, and what I really needed was a reboot. I am a person who enjoys her alone time. Time to freely float in an uninterrupted stream of consciousness, to let my mind free-flow through the issues of my life, to have internal dialogue with the people I know, and sometimes, to just let my mind go blank. Always being around people is like trying to read a book, with non-stop interruptions: you wind up reading the same paragraph over and over, and you never get to finish the book. To truly recharge, I need to be by myself, away from other people, in a natural setting. It is where I feel most like myself, stripped of the costumes that I wear to perform in all the other acts of my existence. The people who know and love me best understand this about me, and when I wave the white flag and call for a time-out, they stand aside and gift me with the freedom I need.

I have a good life. I have a family, a home, a job. Enough money, food, clothing. If I examine each component of my life, I love every part of it, and feel deep gratitude for what I have. So to complain about my life sounds extremely whiny and very much like a first-world problem. However, too much of a good thing, or too many good things in rapid succession, can still smother a person.

Like a sci-fi shape-shifter, I move through my days being many different things to many different people. A mother, a wife, a sister, a daughter, a friend, a boss, a business owner, a taker-of-orders, a giver-of-orders. I do not believe for one minute that this makes me special. The same can be said of everyone. One of my qualities, and it can be a good one or a bad one, depending on whom you ask, is that when I am in, I am all in. So when I am being the supportive mom at a baseball game or volunteer event, I love it and I am all in. When I am at work, and everything and everyone is depending on me to make the right moves, and I am the last one standing, I am all in. If someone needs something from me, I do my best to fill the need, and to guess what the next need might be, and then meet it before they even realize there was a need. All in. I move from act to act, changing costumes, with just moments to spare between set changes. I have been teased many times about being a bag lady, because I literally have bags of costume changes with me at all times. One must always be ready, always be on call, and to be caught unprepared and at less-than-battle-ready is unforgivable. Every day, I ride a very fine and wavering line between efficiency and chaos, brilliance and disaster, laughter and tears. It is exhausting.

August 4. Surface Charge.

Another episode of “This is fun, but not the recharge I need”. When I found myself in the eye of the storm, I asked for my husband’s blessing, and informed him that I would also need to deprive him of the use of his truck for the weekend, then called my sister and told her to pack, because we were leaving the next day. When she asked about our destination and plans, and what she should be prepared for, my answer was thus: Somewhere on the Washington coast, narrowed down to the northwest quarter of the state, we’ll make it up as we go, and be prepared for anything. She is a kindred free-spirit, and far too trusting of her older sister, so she happily complied. I wouldn’t be alone, but she agreed to respect my no-talk zones. It turned out to be a weekend in which luck preceded us, and flexibility, faith and good humor carried us through.

Regarding tent camping: Been there, done that. I had been longing to hammock-camp on the beach, having seen others do it at some of my favorite ocean beaches. All I was missing was the hammocks, naturally, so on Thursday night after work, I headed straight to REI to pick up a couple. As usual, I had to work late, my son was being his uncooperative fifteen-year-old self, my husband was away on a business trip, and my car was in the shop. By the time I had sorted out the logistics of the evening, I arrived at the store with a whopping 26 minutes until closing time. It is my good fortune, and may be my eventual downfall, that I live within driving distance of the REI flagship store. I marched in the door, recruited the first employee I could find, and we proceeded to fill my cart with everything I would need to accomplish the seemingly simple act of stringing a hammock between driftwood logs for a rugged and cheap camping experience. 27 minutes and $918.00 later, I was headed home to pack, gas up the truck, retrieve the extra car that had been left at my office, and tidy the house. In bed by 2:00 am, back at work by 9:00, I was exhausted before I began. I sprung the news on my colleague that I was leaving after lunch, took care of the necessary projects on my desk, and left in an enthusiastic mood. Which lasted exactly 90 minutes.

Sitting in the summer heat on a Friday afternoon, rendered motionless by freeway traffic, in a truck with air-conditioning that only works if the truck is actually moving, I thought I may lose what little was left of my mind. It took us two hours to travel forty miles. Our entire state had been covered with wildfire smoke for a week, sucking the very color out of the days, sinking down and smothering me like a dirty gauze curtain. It was beginning to feel like a metaphor of my current disillusion. The smoke mixed dangerously with the traffic exhaust, filling my asthmatic lungs, and gave me a sore throat and cough. I was tired and grumpy, and I realized I had been too busy to eat dinner the night before, and forgot about breakfast and lunch. Before utter despair and loss of sanity could fully set in, we reached Olympia, and the turn that would take us westward to the coast. The smoke lessened slightly, the temperature dropped, some blue sky emerged, and my mood began to lighten.

I had my heart set on camping at Second Beach, in La Push, but I knew the chances of finding a spot, late on a Friday evening in August was a long shot. As we hit the coast at Kalaloch, and headed north toward La Push, we stopped at every campground, trying to find an open spot for the night. My sister was repeatedly thrown against the door as I pulled U-turns, commented more than once that I drive the truck like a race car, and said it was no wonder Marc’s first question is always a seemingly innocent inquiry about how the truck is running. We were having no luck, so we started to look for places that after dark, we could take a chance at parking and sleeping in the back of the truck, as a backup plan. As the sun was dipping lower, we decided to push on to Second Beach. When we finally reached Forks and the turnoff to La Push, the sun was just setting. We drove straight to the Second Beach parking lot, and were not surprised to see cars lining the road on both sides, and both parking lots overflowing.

We decided it was too late to walk the forest trail and try to find a spot, then set up camp, in the dark. We went around the harbor and over the river, thinking we may luck out at Mora Campground. At the turnoff, I decided to take a chance and pull into the Riverview RV Park and campground, where the kind owner had graciously put me up once before on a sold-out weekend. She remembered me, and greeted us warmly. She was truly sold out for the night, but when I explained that we were prepared to sleep in the back of the truck, she said we could park in a spot near the restrooms, which we were free to use, as well as the nice fire pit. We gratefully accepted, and set up a tarp and sleeping bags in the truck bed. We made a campfire, then turned it for what was a surprisingly comfortable night of sleep…warm, dry and safe.

We woke up the next morning, made Plan B arrangements with our host, and headed toward the beach. On the way, we stopped at Mora Campground, and nabbed the very last spot, paying for it sight unseen. We figured that while it was not the beach site that we had hoped for, it was a step up from the gravel lot next to a chain link fence. As it turned out, we later discovered that it was the last designated camping spot on the entire Washington Coast. We tossed the cooler and a couple of chairs into the campsite, so it would not look empty and available, then headed to Rialto to do a day hike. We had been on the beach for all of ten minutes, when my sister decided that we should look for a place to camp on the beach. I was open to the idea, but it seemed so crowded, I doubted we would be able to find a spot. That did not deter her for one second, and she headed into the tree line and began to look for a place to string the hammocks. I told her to look for three or four trees. She found a spot immediately, but I did not like the feel of it. The trees were too close together, there was vegetation under the trees, and it was not what I had seen at Second Beach. I told her my vision, of some big driftwood logs, a sandy space, room for a fire, a log to lean on, and logs in front to make it feel secure. She was disappointed, but like a good little sister, did as she was told. Within minutes, she stumbled upon a perfect spot. The backpackers were filling in behind us in a steady stream. We knew we would lose the spot if we both left, so we decided that I would stay and secure the spot, and she would walk back to the truck to get as much gear as she could carry. Then she would stay, and I would hike back, go back to Mora to surrender our campsite, retrieve the items that we left there, then return with the rest of the gear.

When she arrived back after the first leg, she said she had run into the man and his young son we had met at the campground. While we had been paying for the last spot, they were looking at it, but we had beat them to it. We had offered to share it with them, but they had decided to take their chances and keep looking. She had run in to them again in the parking lot at the beach, and informed them that we were moving, and they could take the campsite for themselves. He agreed, and said he would see us there when we came to retrieve the cooler and chairs. I took my turn, hiking back to the truck, giving up my hard-won parking spot, and returned to the campground. The man and his son were nowhere to be seen, so I shrugged off the $20.00 fee, grabbed our stuff, and headed back to the beach. I found a spot, and started to unload the gear. I realized that not only had I forgotten my clothesline, somehow a necessary strap had fallen off my pack, and I figured it was probably in the campground, which was only a few miles back up the road. Reluctantly, I got back in the truck, abandoning another rare parking spot, and went back. In the fifteen minutes that I had been gone, a couple in an RV had pulled in and set up camp. I greeted them, and said I had forgotten my clothesline in the trees, and possibly lost a strap on the ground. I also told them that we had already paid for the spot, and given it to another man and his son. They replied that he had just come and given it up, and that it was now theirs. I explained that I did not want the spot, but had already paid for it, and it really hadn’t been his to give up, and he had planned to reimburse me. They were suspicious and on the verge of hostile, so I suggested we walk over to the camp hostess, who had been chatting with my sister and I while we paid for the spot, and she could confirm that we had paid, and then he could just reimburse me instead of paying the park for an already paid-for spot.

The camp hostess, who had been quite friendly when we were planning to stay there, and was going to meet us in the evening for a fireside chat, now was offended that we were moving spots, and suddenly developed amnesia about the whole episode. I was ready to walk away, and forget the $20.00, when the man apologized for his gruff behavior. He said he and his wife were from Gig Harbor, and had spent the day checking out every campground along the coast from their home, all the way to Neah Bay and back, and that the entire West Coast of Washington was sold out. He handed me the $20.00, we wished each other well, and I was on my way.

When I got back to the Rialto parking lot, it was even more crowded, and I had to sit and wait for twenty minutes before I could find a spot. I finally was able to park, unloaded my gear, and headed back to meet my sister. I arrived as the sun was setting. We finished setting up camp, made a fire, ate yet another meal of trail snacks, and watched the moon rise over the trees. It was like a long lost friend was sneaking a peak at us through the trees, and checking to make sure we were all right. We tucked in for the night, and slept comfortably and without incident. The new hammocks were a success. The next morning, we each took a long beach walk, then packed up and headed home. I have been known to drive far longer for far less, and while the weekend had moments of bliss, it had involved too much moving about, haggling, and logistics to be the restful getaway I craved. I was already planning in my mind for the next attempt.

August 12. The problem with teenagers.

My son plays several seasonal sports, but his baseball team requires varying levels of time commitment for 11 out of 12 months of the year. When the baseball season concluded at the end of July, with a volunteer-labor intensive fund-raiser tournament, followed immediately by a week of travel for another tournament, I was ready for August, the off-month that is supposed to be devoted to family time, vacation, freedom. I made travel plans, I made anniversary trip plans, I looked forward to kayak trips with my husband, with the new kayak I insisted he buy. The weather continued to be warm and dry, our boat was finally repaired, having been out of commission for the better part of a month, I was just about caught up at work. I was ready to get down to the business of relaxing and enjoying time with my family. My son, who is just shy of sixteen, apparently had other plans.

Having gone over the August calendar, and realizing how chopped up the month was going to be, between work, Marc’s business travel, Carter’s two trips with friends and relatives, and a few days away for Marc and I, I realized that we had one weekend day where we could spend some fun time as a family. I texted Carter, days in advance, and told him that it was our only day, and be prepared to say yes to an invitation to spend the day with us. He acknowledged and consented. Over dinner Thursday, we came up with a plan that seemed to satisfy everyone’s wishes – we would go to Seattle for the day, spend the first part of the day shopping, having lunch, and enjoying the city, then attend an evening baseball game. Mutually agreed-upon plan in place, I went to bed happy, looking forward to spending the day with my family.

Little did I know, my weekend was about to unravel.

Friday night, I arrived home from work, and Carter was leaving for the evening. Marc and I decided on a spur of the moment boat ride to Gig Harbor to get dinner at our favorite destination, the Tides Tavern. By the time we got to the boat, it was 7:30. We headed out of the slip, and Marc realized that we had not used the boat in a while, since it was being repaired, and there was not much fuel. We stopped at the gas dock, and found it closed. It was a calm night, and the water was smooth, so we decided to head out, and see how far the gas was going to get us. Two thirds of the way there, Marc decided we would not have enough fuel to get us there and back, so we turned around. Even with his conservative estimate, we pulled back into the marina on fumes. We decided not to even take the chance of going to the slip, and instead, tied up to the gas dock, and left a note promising to be there when they opened the next morning. Rather than a cozy meal at the Tides, we had to settle for a late-night fast food dinner. No problem, because I was still looking forward to Saturday. I asked my son not to stay up all night playing video games, as he has done all summer, so that we could get an early start to our day, and he agreed.

Marc was up early, and went to gas up the boat, in case we decided to take it into the city. We had heard that the baseball game was going to be well-attended, as it was Edgar Martinez weekend, but did not purchase the tickets in advance, just in case our plans changed. The weather had turned overnight, and we decided that going by boat was not going to be the best idea. We putted around the house, doing a few chores, and waited for Carter to wake up. Hours went by. When he finally appeared around noon, it was only because he smelled lunch being prepared. We began to discuss the baseball game, and determined that we should buy tickets before we left home. Much discussion ensued, and looking online for tickets, then realizing that the special weekend had added a premium to the ticket prices. The boys decided that the price of the tickets was unacceptable. I said we could still go downtown, but Carter was already looking for a way out. Each and every suggestion of what we would do in the city was met with a “been there, done that” response. So a bike ride was suggested, but that was a no. In the hour and a half of discussion, the weather had improved, so a boat ride was suggested. After all, we now had a full tank of gas. But no destination was acceptable, and that was also abandoned. It was now 2:30 in the afternoon, and my agitation level was getting high. Marc finally suggested that we leave Carter home, and go do something by ourselves. I was bitterly disappointed, because Carter was leaving on a trip the next morning, and I had been looking forward to time together. I was annoyed, but relented. And then the discussion began about what Marc and I should do. And it was all downhill from there.

It was too late in the day to go very far away from home. A bike ride was again suggested. A boat ride was again suggested. One of the major differences between our personalities is how we process information and make decisions. My husband is very measured, reasonable, prepared, and calm…all good qualities. When I am in a state of agitation, it makes me beyond crazy. The faster I want him to move, the slower he goes. By 3:30, with no decision made, I was on the verge of a blowout, and fighting back the tears. No wonder nobody wanted to do anything with me. I needed to be away from everyone, so I went to the garage to try to get hold of myself. I decided I was going to pack up my camping gear, which had been airing out in the garage for a week. I also was making a getaway plan, because it was becoming very clear that I was going to need that trip alone sooner than later. Maybe very soon.

I was sorting out my gear, making a pile to be packed for a solo escape, when my husband appeared. I am sure he came up to the garage expecting to find that I had driven off in a fit of rage and a cloud of dust, and he seemed somewhat surprised to find me still there. He did not seem surprised to see me packing up my gear. In the most reasonable tone I could dredge up, I asked what he had decided we should do with what remained of our afternoon. He replied that we should do whatever would make me feel better, and that no matter what he suggested, it would probably not be enough. On that count, he was absolutely right. I started crying, and could not stop. My husband, like most men, does not appreciate a crying scene, and he reiterated, for the one millionth time in our 36 years together, that he just doesn’t know what to do when I get “like that”. I tried to explain to him, for the one millionth time, that periodically, I need some time to myself, time where there is not endless discussion and group meetings and indecision about what, where, when, how. If I had said we should leave right now, and head to the coast and stay out on the beach overnight, he would have consented. The backpack on the ground by his feet was proof. But I realized what I needed was to take that trip alone, and it would have to wait a little bit longer.

I decided that we should take the boat out. At least I could sit quietly, enjoy the sunshine, and give myself a time-out. When I came back into the house to grab the “go on the boat” bag of costumes, Carter could see that I had been crying, and asked why. Not wanting him to feel guilty, I just said that I was feeling sorry for myself about summer passing me by. He looked at me for a moment, then decided it would be easier to believe me. And I let him.

Back to the marina. 4:30. Another later than desirable start, but it was still warm and the water seemed reasonably calm. I suggested we head north, to Blake Island, a pristine little state park, and another favorite destination. I wanted to circle the island and view the campsites from the water. We had seen them all before, and camped at some, but I wanted to view them again with the goal of finding suitable sites to try the new hammocks. Two-thirds of the way there, the boat engine began making a terrible noise, and vibrating. Having just spent the last month haggling for service calls, waiting for parts, spending a small fortune on repairs, and losing valuable summer boating time, now my husband was the one in a state of agitation. We turned around, and headed back to the marina. After an excruciatingly slow ride, in which we were waiting to break down any minute, followed by another late-night fast food dinner, during which the decision was made to cancel our upcoming anniversary boat trip to Port Ludlow, we were now both in a bad mood. We decided that after we saw Carter off the next morning, we could get an earlier start, and make up for the lost Saturday. Then we checked the forecast. After 60 straight days of glorious summer weather, which had been viewed for the most part through my office window, the forecast now called for rain. I realized how seriously in need of that reboot I really was, and like a battery about to die, the surface charges were lasting only a short time. I kept my face turned away as we drove home from another unsatisfying dinner, tears dripping off my chin. Counting the minutes until I could take off again for the ocean, alone.

August 21. Solar Eclipse.

Somehow, a glimmer of light appeared, and a small gap opened up in my schedule. I announced my intention to head to the ocean to camp, alone. It would be my first solo overnight adventure without the safety of walls. I had been wanting to do it for years, and had always pictured that it would be on Mt. Rainier, with my first attempt being at Summerland, an alpine paradise on the east side of the mountain. I have seen bears on virtually every hike to Summerland, and I had always intended that this be the site of my first solo camping trip, because it has a fairly sturdy outhouse enclosure, which I figured I could retreat to in the event of an aggressive bear visit, and I could even crawl into the crap hole, as a last resort.

I had not planned on watching the solar eclipse, because I was already booked to be in Oregon two days later, and I was not about to drive to Oregon and back twice in one week, nor did I have any interest in joining the throngs of travelers stuck in traffic. Watching it at my favorite ocean beach seemed like a good compromise. Unfortunately, I had not planned ahead enough to purchase any approved safety glasses with which to view the eclipse, and it was too late to buy any. But for some reason, the idea of being at the ocean in time for the eclipse became very important, and I could not shake it. I thought maybe, instead of looking directly at the eclipse and risking blindness, I could watch the world around me, and see how the natural world reacted to the event. Would the sea rise up to meet it, or suddenly be still? Would the birds stop their singing, and would the forest animals creep out of the shadows and stand beside me to watch the untimely dusk? Would the sudden darkness feel like a moment of respite and silence, and would the new dawn feel like a new beginning for me? The urge to find out began to feel like an obsession. Again, with my husband’s blessing, I made an escape plan.

We night owls are usually preoccupied with hooting at the moon, so we don’t see many sunrises. When I woke up at 5:00, the morning was foggy, and my enthusiasm for an early start was dampened. I was tempted to stay in my bed, where I could tangle my cold legs with my husband’s warm ones, but I forced myself up and out. It was still dark as I set out, but as I headed south, the sun was rising behind me. I could feel its warmth on the top of my head, and as it rose over the hill behind me, my rear-view mirrors lit up bright orange. The construction cranes along the freeway glowed like bronze temples. The sun’s rays seemed to be nudging me from behind, telling me to go faster, go faster. It restored my faith that I was heading in exactly the right direction, toward the place I was supposed to be.

As I drove down the freeway, every announcement sign flashed the message “NO STOPPING FOR SOLAR ECLIPSE”, and the idea that WSDOT was in on the hype felt a little surreal, suggesting a scene from a movie, one of those apocalyptic tidal wave/earthquake/end-of-the-world meteor-strike films. I have a minor frame of reference for a highway horror flick. When I lived in California, I was headed to work very early one morning on Westminster Avenue, the long, straight stretch of road that connects Huntington Beach and Seal Beach, and cuts through the Seal Beach Naval Weapons Station. It is an eerie expanse of fields with a ghost town feel, fake houses scattered among humps in the ground, each with an armored door leading to the underground armory. There were only a few other cars on the road at that time of the morning, and as I was driving, my car started to bounce violently. I thought I had blown a tire. In the slow motion way of the brain trying to make sense of the unbelievable, I realized it was an earthquake, and that the entire length of road before me was undulating like a ribbon in the breeze. The memory of that has stayed with me, as well as the sight of the drivers who stepped out of their stopped cars, and stumbled to the ground, tossed about by the strength of the tremors.

So, as I passed by one warning sign after another, I conjured up an imaginary scenario: A brief interlude of utter darkness, chaos, and a thousand-car pileup. Then, me standing outside my car, unscathed, but trapped by the smoking carnage. Suddenly, as I am standing there, surveying the destruction all around me, the save-the-day team of Robert Downey, Jr. (as Iron Man), Jeremy Renner (as anything), Jeff Goldblum (as his delicious self), three 007’s (Pierce, Daniel, Sean), The Rock, and two Ryans would appear, leaping over cars and sprinting toward me from all directions, then converging simultaneously, each putting out a hand, looking intently into my eyes, and saying “We’ve got you…” Some clever banter, followed by a speedy hatching of an impromptu plan, and then I suddenly transform into a wonder woman, vibrating with my new super powers, and we all leap away together to save the world. I was half tempted to linger on the freeway, to see if my fantasy would play out, but decided that the likelihood was slim. Plus, the pull of being on a road that sees more deer than cars kept me driving south as fast as I thought I could get away with. I was not really expecting to see much of the eclipse, but it felt important to be somewhere special when it happened.

I settled into the long drive, lost in the scenery and the music on my I-Pod. Thoughts and stories and phrases tumbled around in my mind, polishing and taking form. As I passed through Aberdeen, heading west now toward the coast, the fog was suddenly thick and heavy. I kept going, wondering if I was making a mistake, making the ocean my destination, and calculating how far I would have to backtrack if the coast was fogged in. I was quickly extrapolating how far I would have to go to retrace my steps, and if there would be enough time to make it back before the eclipse. But luck was with me, and as I neared the coast, the fog lifted, and the blue sky and sunshine prevailed. The eclipse time was quickly approaching, and I kept a heavy foot and a steady pace, occasionally stealing a quick glance at the sun through the treetops as I raced along. I could see that the moon and sun had begun their dance, and the eclipse was beginning.

I have been disappointed before by highly hyped celestial events – lunar eclipses, meteor showers, comets. Only one truly sticks in my memory, a comet that appeared when I was a child. It could be seen with the naked eye, trailing its comet tail, even in daylight, and was visible for days. I arrived at the parking lot at Rialto Beach, gathered my pack, and quickly headed out to the beach. There were a few people here and there, all facing toward the sun in anticipation. I approached a group on the beach, and asked them how soon it was until the eclipse. They said it was happening right then, and one of them kindly offered me his glasses so I could take a look. Through the glasses, I could see that the moon was nearly covering the sun, seeming to match the 90 percent coverage that had been estimated for our location. The beach seemed no darker than if there had been a heavy marine fog. I took a picture through his glasses, and another with my phone, aiming to where the sun was while shutting my eyes against the light, hoping I was pointing it in the right direction. Momentous occasion complete, I thanked them for their generous sharing of the glasses, and turned to hike up the beach. It was as if nothing unusual had just occurred. The sea took no notice, the animals did not appear, and I felt no different than I had minutes before. The only deadline of my days away had come and gone, and now I was free to get about the business of doing nothing.

I headed north, toward Hole in the Wall, and the site that my sister and I had camped at just two weeks before. I arrived to find it unoccupied, and proceeded to set up camp. I was tired from nights of no sleep, and the early morning wake up, so it took a while to get situated. When I was finished, I stripped down to my beach clothes. I pondered the idea of stripping down, literally and figuratively. About the idea that I was taking off the snagged and rumpled costume of my life, and now I had the time to unravel my garment, examine each thread, and inspect it for wear and tear. To reweave the same pieces back into a costume that was essentially the same, but a smoother, better fitting version. A tapestry with more colors, more light, more sparkle. No holes, no frayed edges.

I spent the day sitting and watching the tide come in, go out, and come in again. Watching the birds fly past, skimming the surf. Watching the offshore rocks appear in the low tide, then disappear underwater when the tide came back in. When I got tired of sitting, I would walk. When I got tired of walking, I would sit. When I got hungry, I would eat. There were very few people on the beach, being a weekday, so I had the place to myself. I spent hours laying in the groove of an ancient tree, immersed in the freedom of having nowhere else to be, and nothing else to do. Just listening to the sound of the surf, and feeling the sun on my skin, the smooth wood beneath me. I watched the sky from beneath my straw hat, and watched the trees sway gently in the breeze, repeating the mantra of “green blue, green blue, green blue”…

At some point during the day, when my thoughts began to turn toward the inevitable darkness and the idea of sleeping alone on a nearly deserted ocean beach, I realized that I had, in my haste to get on the beach for the eclipse, left my bear spray in the trunk of my car. I grappled with the indecision to go back, or make do without. I had used the bear spray as Exhibit “A” in my rationalization to Marc that I would be perfectly okay by myself, and that the bear spray could be equally effective on an aggressive bear or an aggressive human. And, if I have not already mentioned it, I can become petrified with fear over the thought of being mauled and eaten by a bear. I have carried bear spray with me for many years, and though I have encountered many bears, I have never had to use it. But, I figured, if I didn’t go back and get it, this would be the night where I may wish I had it, and it would only be a three-mile round trip. So back to the car I went.

As the sun set, and the sky began to darken, I enjoyed a small campfire and a light meal. Exhausted by the last few days, and knowing that I would wake up with the sunrise, I tucked into my hammock, bear spray by my side.

I had barely fallen asleep when something rammed into me so hard, it nearly knocked me out of my hammock. I was awake in a flash, and the first thought that came to me was that there was only one animal out here that could hit me that hard, and it had to be a bear. I had taken my contact lenses out, it was pitch black, and the rain fly was covering the hammock, so I could not see what was lurking outside. I had attached my bear bell to the hammock line, so with one hand, I rang the bell as hard as I could, and with the other, I beat on the rain tarp, in an effort to scare away the intruder. I scrambled to put on my headlamp, and grabbed the bear spray. When I turned on the light, I looked past my feet, and I could see the face of a small raccoon, who had crawled under the rain fly, and was poised on the log that held my hammock, ready to crawl right in with me. He was completely unfazed by my noise and flailing about, which I had thought would be enough to scare off a bear. I had stored my pack on the log, sans all food and smelly items, and the raccoon, being of a curious nature, had decided to investigate. He had opened it up, and was helping himself to the contents, when it toppled off the log and onto my legs. It was a relief to know that it had been my 30 pound pack landing on my legs, and that I was not being head-butted or pawed at by a bear. I managed to scare off the raccoon, and picked my pack off the ground and put it in the hammock with me. I spent the rest of the night not sleeping, legs cramped up by my pack, and listening to the raccoon, inches beneath my hammock. In the dark, I had not noticed that my first aid kit had fallen out of the pack, and the next morning, the contents were strewn everywhere. He had managed to chew through a bag of emergency painkillers, and I hoped that he had not ingested any.

I got up the next morning, as soon as it was light, and decided to pack up and spend the day at another beach. I was anxious to revisit Second Beach, and make the acquaintance of Third Beach, both in La Push, to inspect the areas for suitable hammock camping. I packed up, and was back at my car by 10:30. I drove the short distance around the harbor to La Push, and since I was trying to get some additional charge on my cell phone, I decided I would poke around town a bit before hiking. There is only one restaurant in La Push, and the thought of breakfast seemed appealing. I made an internal agreement with myself that if they were still serving breakfast, I would go in, but if not, I would wait to eat until later in the day. I inquired at the desk, and was informed that they had just switched over to lunch. For some reason, maybe because the hostess was so nice, or because I had a feeling I was supposed to be there, I changed my mind and decided to stay. I ran back out to turn off my car, and was seated at a booth by the windows overlooking the harbor. As soon as I sat down, I remembered how long it had been since I had washed my hands, so I jumped up and went to the restroom, taking my belongings with me. When I returned, I was confused about which booth I had been seated at, because there was a book on the table where I had been. I asked the waitress if someone else had decided to take that table, and she replied no, but “a lady left you a book.” I asked more questions, and it was determined that she was not a local, they had never seen her before, and that when I went to use the restroom, she had gone out to her car, retrieved the book, told the waitress she was leaving it for me, and then had gone on her way.

I sat down, ordered my meal, and began to thumb through the book. It was called “A Year by the Sea, Thoughts of an Unfinished Woman”, by Joan Anderson. The jacket described it as the memoir of a woman who, when confronted with an unexpected move prompted by her husband’s job, realized that she needed to leave her husband and find herself, instead of moving with him and starting over in a new town. The “about the author” section described her as living in Cape Cod, with her husband. It did not specify, of course, whether that husband was the one she left, or a new one. I was mystified by what prompted a stranger to leave me this book, and what she had seen that made her think I needed it. In flipping through the pages, I saw that it came complete with underlined passages. I wondered how many hands this book had passed through before finding its way to me. It is not the first time a book has literally fallen into my lap, so, trusting that I was meant to read it, I started at page one while I waited for my lunch.

I finished my meal, decided I could read more later, and that my place now was at the beach. I headed to Second Beach, packed a light day pack, and started through the forest. I was enjoying the beautiful day, and the shade of the woods, but I was feeling the effects of a sleepless night. I got to the steps that lead down to Second Beach, and decided that I was only going to have enough energy to do one or the other, so I would head back and try Third Beach. I turned around and headed back to the car. When I arrived at the parking lot, I realized I had lost my sunglasses somewhere on the trail. I knew it would be a long drive home without them, so I asked the first people passing by my car if they had seen any sunglasses on the trail. They replied that yes, someone had picked them up, and perched them on a tree. How far back? All the way. I dumped my pack, so I could travel fast and light, and set back out to retrieve them. As I neared the spot where I had been told I could find the glasses, I decided to make a quick thank you token to leave for the party that picked them up, so they would know I had come back and found them. As I walked, I picked up a branch, some bear grass, and a heart-shaped leaf, and wove them into a little trinket. I had not made it as far down the trail that day as the Blessing Tree (See “Second Beach…All who walk here leave their mark, September 16, 2016, in my archives) but I could create a new one, and hope that it conveyed my gratitude, and brought joy and a feeling of connection to kind strangers that I will never meet. After returning to the car, I decided that my energy reserves were now depleted, I missed my family, and the place I now needed to be was home.

August 23. Yachats. I am not alone.

For the balance of my week off, I had reserved a room for Marc and myself, at my favorite retreat in Oregon, a quaint place called Ocean Haven. It is small and cozy, and sits, isolated, on a bluff overlooking the ocean. It is also on one of the best agate beaches in Oregon, accessible by a goat trail and a thick rope. I have stayed there alone a couple of times, and once with my sister, and I was looking forward to sharing it with my husband. In describing it to Marc, I may have glossed over the fact that there is no television, no cell phone service, and Internet that is patchy and intermittent, at best. I knew he would not like that, and I was right. The timing could not have been worse, as my husband was in the midst of a work crisis, and the trip became a test of his patience and peace of mind. Which turned out to be a good thing.

We headed out early the first morning, to catch the low tide, and spent the entire day poking through tide pools, and looking for agates. There is nothing more relaxing for me than to lay on a stony beach, poking through the pebbles, looking for agates. Marc was intent on finding the bigger prizes, and moved around quite a bit, but I spent hours in one spot, combing the beach for agates, some as small as tiny beads.

We headed out on foot the second day, to a cove a couple of miles south of the inn, where I knew we could make a little home base, and spend the day. We had not checked the tide chart very carefully, or actually at all, and when we arrived at the desired spot, we realized that the tide was going to come in enough to trap us in place. Marc didn’t like that idea much, and deemed the first cove too isolated, so we compromised on the next cove over. We could have headed back at that point, but we chose to stay. We inspected the high tide line of the day before, noted the current tide, and decided that we would set up a day camp there, knowing we would be stuck until the tide receded, hours later. While there would be no way out of the cove during high tide, we felt confident that the weather would hold, and that if it came in higher than expected, there was a rocky headland we could climb up on, if need be.

We set about making a little fort with the few items we had brought with us, supplemented with what we found on the beach. It was fun to have our minds engaged only on the here, now, and how, and it felt good for me to surrender control on something, and watch how my husband’s mind worked, without the usual interference from me. When we had finished our little love shack, we ate our picnic lunch, and watched the waves coming in, ever closer, to our fort. With six hours to burn, and no agate hunting to be done on the sandy beach, we decided to amuse ourselves with making a miniature driftwood house.

Once that was finished, we decided to dismantle the fort, in case the waves crested over our tiny spot. We had just untied the last knot and folded up the last tarp, when the waves came in and covered the place where we had set up. We climbed up on the rocky outcropping with our gear, and tried to calculate how much time we had left to wait. We decided to climb the rocks on the next headland, for a change of scenery, and spent some time watching sea otters, crabs, and the tide. As the tide slowly receded, we worked our way back, stopping to explore each cove, watch the sea life, look for agates.

When the bluff with the inn finally came into view, we were relieved, tired, and happy to be back. I told my husband later that I was proud of him. He had embraced time out in nature, with no clear plan, had agreed to let himself be marooned and trapped by the tide, had allowed himself to play like a child. That for an entire day, he had let his life be ruled by the rhythm of nature, and no other measure. The surprise gift for me was the realization that he too, could benefit from time spent unwinding in a natural setting, and that it was possible for us to do it together. To be in a place of solitude, together, and give each other the gift of being alone with our thoughts, while taking comfort in being in each other’s presence. To work together to build, play, rest, recharge. That maybe I don’t always have to go off alone to get my reboots. That maybe, we both need the same thing, and that we can grow closer by doing it together.

When I came down with a bad cold that night, and needed to go to bed early, my husband stated that this was not a good time for him to be left alone with his thoughts. But I left him alone anyway, and he survived it. I finished the book left to me by the mystery woman, and was relieved to discover that the author had found herself, her husband had used her time away to find and replenish himself, and that they were reunited and living their new life in a seaside cottage in Cape Cod.

We spent the last full day driving up the coast to Depoe Bay, having lunch, and watching whale after whale come right in to shore. We walked along the bluffs between Whale Cove and Pirate Cove, watching the whales and the waves, visited a lighthouse, and enjoyed the sunshine, the breeze, and each other’s company.

We left early the next morning, knowing we were heading back to chaos, but still taking the time to drive up the coast to Astoria before cutting over to the freeway and the inevitable Sunday night traffic. My week off had given me what I needed: time alone, time in nature, time to think. I felt relaxed and recharged. I knew it was a good thing that I had been able to put my oxygen mask back on, and the air was flowing. I didn’t know what we were headed back to, but I knew I would soon be called upon to provide support to others, in ways that were going to test me like never before. For the moment, I felt ready.

September 1. Summer is over.

The last hurrah of the holiday weekend is hours away. August flew by in a blink of an eye. School starts in a few days, and for the nineteenth year in a row, I will get up early, and take a first-day-of-school photograph of an impatient child. Only two more years to follow after that. Fall sports season has already started, and our rhythm will soon fall back into place…the one where I go where someone else needs me to be, when they need to be there. I feel oddly at peace, and the hysteria of trying to fit an entire summer of fun into a few weeks feels far in the past. Could one night alone on the beach have been enough? Maybe.

Driving to work this morning, I was reflecting on where I am today, at this moment. Am I the person I intended to be? I am still many things to many people, and that will never change. I think back to when my grandmother died, so many years ago. Her death came at a time of upheaval and crisis for our family. The loss of the person that held us together as a family left us reeling, and we staggered away in separate directions to each deal with our sorrow alone. Years ago, when I was at a point where I was circling the drain, emotionally, I went away on a ten-day retreat. A retreat from my life, which I felt was about to crack me in half. It was a life changing trip, to a place that is designed to change your life. One of the evenings, there was a bonfire gathering. We were invited to write down something that we were ready to let go of, and throw it in the fire, in a symbolic gesture of finality and surrender. I wrote that I was ready to let go of the grief over the loss of my grandmother, and that I was ready to embrace the role that I was in. I vowed to do my best to become the “glue”…to be the person that held it all together for everyone else, to always be ready to put out a hand, to fix things that were broken, to be the one my family and friends could come to in times of need, and find strength. To try to fill the void that had been left by my grandmother. I was a working mother of two young boys, my business was in its first decade, and I had no idea what the next fifteen years would hold for me. As I stood there, watching the smoke rise from the fire, tears streaming down my face, I wondered if I would be able to find the strength to pull it off.

Today, I am still standing. The grief did not dissipate into the night air with the smoke. I have my days where I feel like I can’t do it anymore, then I just suck it up and do it anyway. I still have days where tears stream down my face, and I wonder where I will find the strength I need. I realized this morning that I am comparing myself to my grandmother, who was at a completely different stage in her life, one that allowed her more freedom and time to be everything to everyone. I will continue to strive to be that person, and hope that I can ease gracefully into that role. My job now is to be able to identify when I am about to succumb, and make that message clear to those around me before it gets to the crisis point, and then take what I need to save myself from cracking under the pressure. To know the difference between all in, and head under water. To take the time for creative outlets, even if it takes me two months to finish a story, like this one did, to weave together my thoughts and experiences into something that feels like a worthy message. To take a day or a week, here and there, or just take a minute during the day to close my eyes and remember the salty air, the roar of the ocean, the crackle of the fire.

To take a moment to repeat the words “green blue, green blue, green blue”, until I can breathe again.

 

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