'"UPPER’ LEFT-EDGI
VO LUM E.
N U M B E R
OCTOBER.
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If the people lead,
the leaders will follow
bumpersticker
Anemones
By Charles Le Guin
Home is Bridger Bay. On the Pacific Coast, in the
Northwest. If you are looking at the ocean and the beaches
you might just miss Bridger Bay as you drive past,
especially now that there is a sort of short "ring road" around
the town. Coast highway traffic no longer has to drive Bay
Street, either terrorizing or being confused by the little old
male and female locals.
If you do miss Bridger Bay, you miss a very special
place. Even a quick drive through will tell you it is special.
The town sits on a series of natural terraces called by the
natives Benches. They surround the bay in a semi-circle.
The bay itself is the stage of this amphitheatre. The
backdrop is the low, omnipresent fog; at times it becomes a
blanket covering the whole of our town. Among the stage
properties are the rocks off shore -- the sharp Needle; the
Brcadloaf; the Hump; and a number of other less distinctive
large and small forms - all familiar to the townfolks. The
edge of our stage is a lovely sandy beach which all but
disappears at high tide. Tides have long ago broken off the
Needle and its companions and annually threaten to add to
them. For as long as I can remember they never succeeded
in doing anything more than carry out the pair ot Municipal
Stairs that go down from First Bench to the beach.
It was a tradition at Bridger Bay High School that there
be an end-of-school picnic. It always came on the evening
of the final Friday of classes, and was held, naturally
enough, on the town beach. The beach was given over to
the high school from 3:00 pm on Picnic Day and was off
limits to anyone else, young or old, always excepting the
unsuspecting occasional tourist who didn't know any better.
As the town beach is a couple of miles long, there was lots
of room for us to disport ourselves as we pleased, about a
hundred of us alone on the curving sandy shore. Though we
all gathered at the proper time around a large campfire for
roasting hot dogs and marshmallows, at almost no other
time during the picnic were we really a high school
gathering. Rather, we were four class gatherings- mighty
seniors having little to do with mere juniors; those
performing the final act of their freshman year ignored by
wordly and superior sophomores.
It was a measure of community trust and, I think,
maturity, that the town gave up the beach to us; an even
stronger indication of Bridger Bay's belief in its young was
the fact that the picnic was unchaperoned. People in town
acted toward us students, at least for one day a year,
according to the principle that my parents constantly applied
to me, the principle of trust, knowing full well that trust is
the severest disciplinarian, the hardest task master. And on
the whole, we students earned the trust placed in us, arid so
the principle continued to be applied year to year. It's not
that we were angels, of course; there were cans of beer
slipped out of family refrigerators, and a joint or two
perfumed the air around one or another of the smaller groups
gathered around intimate campfires in the convenient niches
and crannies that adorned the shore at the foot of First
Bench. It was riiostly seniors who smoked, proving to
themselves that they were ready for the "real" world they
were about to enter. I’m sure the town elders and parents
knew exactly what was going on, but they did not do an
inventory of the family beer supplies and could not expect
the adolescents of Bridger Bay to be wholly innocent of pot,
since marijuana cultivation in the remote interiors of the
North Coast, illicit and illegal though it was, was a
flourishing enterprise which had replaced a declining forestry
industry and almost disappearing fisheries as a major
economic activity in our part of the world.
Nor did a little beer and a little pot and the absence of
chaperones lead to wild orgies. There was an expectable
amount of pairing off, but given the topographical
possibilities of Bridger Bay town beach and the way in
which the high school picnic was organized and conducted
from year to year, there was no remarkable increase in
teenage pregnancies and mid-winter babies. The community
expected us to behave reasonably, it trusted us, and we
obliged, and in most ways lived up to what was expected of
us. Taken seriously, we responded with that seriousness of
which adolescents are capable. A certain amount of
expetience was gained, and no doubt a few things were
learned over the years at this annual affair. Not the least of
these things was responsibility.
The picnic area was located in the center of the crescent
shaped beach, and we juniors moved south of the common
area to establish our class base. Some spread blankets and
immediately sat and began again the continuing bull session
that had been going on for nine months up the hill at the
school. A few of us wandered around in search of firewood
for our class fire, so that we would have a sufficient supply
to keep us cozy when we sat around after we had eaten and
darkness fell. It didn't take long to gather enough: by the
end of May, North Coast twilight lasts a long time, and the
party always breaks up at 11:00.
I've never found the beach a place for conversation, and
the thought of four or five hours of rather stale small-talk
made escape essential. When enough wood was gathered, I
walked off toward the southern extremity of the beach, where
South Arm Creek rushes into the ocean. This, and the
opposite area, where North Ai in reaches the sea, are dramatic
brackets of our beach. The sand plays out into the rocks,
round pebbles become larger boulders become great
outcroppings, out of which the two creeks flow to meet the
tide with a good deal of exciting turbulence. Here too are
endlessly fascinating tidal pools with all the activity ot sea
shore life readily on view. The ends of our beach are my
favorite parts of it, though few people ever bother to walk
that far from the central sandy stretch just at the foot of the
stairs leading down from Bay Street.
Since I generally have the extremities of the beach to
mysdlf, I have naturally come to consider them mine. But I
was not to be alone on this picnic day. As soon as I was
away from the chattering knot of juniors, I detected another
sound mixing with the slushing noise of the waves breaking
on sand, the sucking sourd of another pair ot footsteps. All
I could think was, don't let it be Denise. Denise can never
not talk.
It was Steve, and I felt relief. He didn't talk, he didn t
even greet me. He just fell into step and side by side we
made our way south to the tidal pools. There we spent a
silent hour or so, hopping from pool to pool, no longer in
step, each in our own separate sphere, watching, absorbing
the beauty and the drama of tidal pool life, drinking in the
cool salty air, listening to the great crash of the surf and the
lonely cries of the gulls. In time, we converged onto a
particularly elegant pool, an almost perfect oval of deep
placid water. At the bottom was clean sand and innumerable
small shells and rocks; the dark rock sides of the pool were
coated with the thick fur of sea anemones, all colors and
shades of coral, green, white, lavender. I knew this pool
well and always went to it last, before I turned back. I don't
know whether Steve had ever seen it before, but he appeared
as hypnotized by it as I have always been. I could see this
in his face as it was reflected back from the mirror-like
water. We squatted, side by side, gazing, watching the
anemones open and shut, shut and open, sending out their
delicate filigree tentacles in a rhythmic dance, drawing them
in, sending them out again.
Finally Steve spoke: "You know why they open and
shut, open and shut?"
I didn't respond -- perhaps it was the shock of having
Steve initiate a conversation — and he probably didn t expect
ne to Certainly he didn’t wait for me to answer.
"They open to let the spirits of fishermen who have
rowned have some freedom. When a fisherman drowns, his
pint is imprisoned in an anemone. But there is no real
-eedom when the anemone opens. The spirit is captured
gain as soon as it shuts. There is no escape." Then Steve
tirred the water in the pool, poking it with a stick. The
nemones closed quickly.
"When you stir up the water like this, they think you are
rying to free the captured spirits, so they all shut rapidly
md imprison the spirits again.
With that he stood and said, "Come on, we d better go
,ack It's about time for food and we want our share."
So we made our way side by side silently back to the
»nfire and the weiners and marshmallows and pop and
•ocoa at the center of the beach. It was all very good and I
vas hungry; everybody was happy and jolly. I simply can't
emember whether I took part in the camaraderie or simply
iidn't even try. All 1 know is that my thoughts were
CORRECTED FOR PACIFIC BEACH TIDES
CORRECTED FOR PACIFIC BEACH TIDES
O ctober - Low Tides
O ctober - High Tides
»»MUNCHUN ANDffl^COMT TOL-
DATE
1 Sur
2 Mo"
3 be
4 wee
5 Tnu
6 Fn
7 Sot
9
10
11
12
13
14
6
®
Mon
be
Wee
Thu
Fri
Sot
16 Mon
18 Wed
19 Thu
20 Fn
21 Sat
22 Son
23 Mon
24 Tue
25 Wee
26 Thu
27 Fn
28 Sat
PM
tim e
ft
A M
ft
! rime
9
•
0:12 -02
1 25 0 1
2 38 0.1
3 42 0.0
4 37 -0 1
5 24 -0 1
6:07 0 1
6 47 0 4
7 25
801
1.2
8 37 1.6
9:13 2.0
9 51 2 4
10 34 2 8
11.26 3 1
0 19 0.9
1:22 1.1
2:25 1 2
3 21 1.1
4 ,0 1 0
4 53 1.0
534
1.0
6 14 1.1
654
1 3
7 35 1 5
8 18 1 8
905 2 1
958 2 4
or
,2:12
1:33
2:52
4:01
5:00
5:52
6:39
7Jt
8:03
8:43
9:21
9:59
10:39
11:25
2.6
2.6
2.2
1.5
0.8
0.1
-0.4
-0.7
-0.7
-0.7
-0 5
-0.2
0.2
0.6
12:32
1:46
2:55
3:55
4:46
5:32
6:16
6:58
7:41
8:25
9:11
10 . 00
10:54
3 3
3.1
2.7
2.0
1.3
0.5
-0.1
-0.7
-1.1
-1.3
-1.3
-1.1
-0.7
DAYUGHT TIME ENDS
29 Sun
30 Mon
31 lue
<
9 59
11 10
26
28
10:54 -0.2
11:59 0.2
12:29 2.6
HDb
AM
tim e
DATE
1 Sun e
2 Mon
3 be
4 Wed
5 Thu
6 F n
7 Sat
8 Sun ®
9 Mon
10 lue
11 Wed
12 Thu
13 Fn
14 Sot
15 Sun
16 Mon, 9
.17 Tue
18 Wed
19 Thu
20 Fn
21 Sat
22 Sun
23 Mon •
24 Tue
25 Wèa
26 Thu
27 Fn
28 Sat
ft
650
803
9:09
1005
10:53
1136
63
6.4
6.8
7 4
7.9
8 4
04,
1 27
2 1,
254
3:37
4 23
5 12
6:07
7.08
80 8
903
9 49
1029
,1 06
11 4,
0 21
1.09
1 57
246
33 7
4 32
>'9
7 8
7.6
7.3
7.0
6 7
64
62
6.2
63
6 7
7.2
7 7
82
8 6
7.6
7 8
7 8
7.7
7 5
7 3
PM
1 lim e
ft
6:05
7:27
8:48
9:59
10.59
11:52
,2:15
12:51
1:25
1:56
2:27
2:58
3.32
4:10
4 59
6:04
7 23
8:40
9:45
10:42
11:33
7.6
7.3
7.3
7.5
7.8
7.9
8.7
8.8
8.7
8 6
8.4
8.1
7.8
7.4
7.0
6.6
6.4
6.5
6 8
7.1
7.4
12:16
12:5,
1:29
2:09
2:54
3:44
9^0
9.3
9.4
9.5
9.2
8.8
/
DAYUGHT TIME ENDS
29 Sun
30 Mon
31 Tue
e
43,
535
6 40
7 2
7.2
7 4
3 :4 2
4:54
6:17
8.2
7.6
7.2
BASEBALL
It is becoming obvious that our
beloved voice of the Cubs, the Buddha
of Budweiser, Harry Carey, is going
to be hearing "last call" in the near
future, if not by the end of this
season. He has been doing less road
games, and the long seasons are
showing in his play by play and his
voice. This is neither sad nor
unexpected, his service to the game
spans decades, and his leqacy is
firmly in place in the Hall of Fame and
his son Chip who broadcasts for the
Braves. He deserves a rest. But, you
gentle reader, may , not have ever
actually listened to him, as he sang,
"Take me out to the ballgame" during
a seventh inning strech at Wrigley
Field. So do yourself a favor, tune in
one of the final Cub's games of the
season, early this month, and listen
to a legend. It is something you will
be able to tell your grandchildren.
Oh, and by the way. wait til next
yearl
Go Cubbies!
M £
(Programs)
********************
"May not be much of a place, but it's our'n," William
Estvold, the druggist, offers with every aspirin sold to a
stranger Not that there are many strangers which may be
why it's not much of a place. Bridger Bay has not been
discovered bv strangers. And Bridger Bay preters it that way.
Cannon Beach/Manzanita «9.5 • • TilamooK'CatWamet ■ 90.1
Lewis * C lark/S outh Astoria • 91.1
UPPER. L E F T EDGE OCTOBER. 1115
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