Deep summer, the dog days, the time of the
year when most people see the beach. Welcome
back. The summer beach is a different beach than
we see during the rest of the year; even the locals
find themselves in a new landscape. High pressure
systems now sit swirling offshore, bringing an
occasional sunny day. Winds pull hard out of the
north; the south winds of winter do an about-face
spin. Sculpted anew in this seasonal choreography,
dunes and less imposing ripples of sand abruptly
change directions, migrating slowly southward after
their plodding winter migration towards the north.
Aprons of dry sand leave long southward streaks on
the leeward side of windbreak rocks and logs,
artfully arranged arcs and curves, tossed there, grain
by grain, in the instantaneous drop in wind velocity,
the confused pathways of turbulent air that hang just
downwind from such an obstacle. Nearby, rock-
bound mussel beds hiss and crackle with stressed
out invertebrates in the hot, low-tide exposure. An
occasional gust of dry east wind litters the beach
with myriad forest insects.
Up there, in the background, along the tops
of the big headland ridges — Tillamook Head, Cape
Falcon, and their kin — lenses of thick gray clouds
hang and tumble. Here, moist ocean air blown
downshore bounces into the sides of headlands, and
then abruptly rises over a thousand feet to breach
these peaks; air pressure is lower there, at the
headland tops, and wet air condenses into a dense
haze of tiny damp droplets, spinning and falling.
Spilling over the headlands' tops, the air drops
again, returning to the higher air pressure of the
coastal lowlands. As quickly as the moisture had
condensed into clouds on its way up, the air's
moisture returns to clear, gassy nothingness on the
way down. For days at a time, these clouds cling to
the headland peaks, momentarily condensing and
dispersing, tumbling, rolling, in perpetual and
gentle motion. The ground is damp up there, in the
muted gray light, under a perpetual summer drizzle,
fostering wet cloud forests of dripping ferns,
fluorescent green mosses, lichens and liverworts
clinging to rocks and wooden rot and the trunks of
trees. Eagles rest there, after an occasional low and
cursory sweep through the dense, bristling, rock-top
nesting colonies of murres and pigeon guillemots,
looking to make a summertime lunch of the sick or
the lame. Fledgling songbirds harass their parents
for a buggy meal in the indistinct, mist-concealed
overhead branches.
If there is any one thing that changes the
look of the summertime beach, however, it is the
people. People everywhere, arriving from distant
places by Land Cruisers, Land Rovers, Land
Destroyers, luxury cars, sports cars, busses,
motorcycles, vast lumbering Recreational Vehicles,
and any number of other gasoline-powered
contraptions.
Their numbers increase every year. And
while their numbers have changed, so too have their
origins. Until recently, the Oregon coast was a
much funkier backwater, a subdued place
sometimes visited by the subdued people of the
Willamette Valley, a place seldom visited by
tourists from afar. Today, the coast has been placed
under the full admiring scrutiny of the tourist gaze.
Our visitors include an increasingly diverse cast of
characters: occasionally, there are tourists from
distant states and countries, but the biggest changes
in the summertime social landscape manifest the
changing demographic dynamics of the region as a
whole. The big cities just beyond the mountains are
now awash in recent regional immigrants, arriving
from California and points east: software engineers,
producers of high tech gizmos, dot-com
entrepreneurs, and all of the retail workers, bankers,
planners, lawyers, and builders that help keep this
genteel new Northwest running. Skilled people, by
and large an urban people, people who have spent
quality time on beaches in other, more densely
settled parts of the country.
They bring their remembrances of the
beaches past to this part of the world. Looking out
over the Oregon beaches, one can see the imprints
of this inheritance on the summertime landscape. I
speak mostly of what one might call "proxemic
behavior" - the culturally-influenced differences in
the ways that people place themselves relative to
(and in the proximity of) other people, places, and
things. In certain parts of the world, for example, it
is considered good form to stand very close when
talking to strangers, so that you can feel (and smell)
their breath as they speak.
In the United States, this kind of behavior
can cause people to back away slowly, call Security,
or seek legal counsel. Off and on during the late
20th century, studies of proxemic behavior became
popular in the fields of psychology, sociology,
anthropology, and architecture. Authors in these
fields reveled in the observation that, the further
west one went in this country, the more likely
people were to build their houses far apart within
the wide-open spaces, to stand at a considerable
distance when speaking, or sit as far as possible
from other people when choosing a seat at the
theater. In the west, the best neighbors were neither
seen or heard; they were free to do their own thing,
The Return of the Saber Toothed Salmon
so long as they didn't do it in any way that might
affect our space. Supposedly, the academics hinted,
this all illuminated some extreme western
manifestation of standard-issue American
individualism. The changes of the last few decades
have jumbled up this tidy generalization, as the
differences between regions have been tom asunder
by mass communications and mass migrations.
Today, on the beach, we see very different
proxemic behavior that was the case only ten years
ago. Formerly, people tended to walk down the
beach, sit as far from one another as possible, and
only crowd together in large groups if there was a
special event (e.g., a Crab Festival) or something
very interesting that had floated in on the previous
tide (e.g., something very big and dead). Large
concentrations of "beach gear" — the assorted
towels and umbrellas and vinyl windblocks and
stereos and beachballs and other multi-colored
paraphernalia - were relatively rare. Today, well-
accessorized groups of beach-sitters tend to loiter in
large concentrations, often only a few feet from an
adjacent parking lot, often sitting so close to one-
another that they could reach out and touch the
stranger on the blanket beside them, if they were
into that kind of thing. This, even as the beaches a
short distance away remain relatively empty and
uncrowded.
Not long ago, such behavior would have
drawn attention: beachcombing locals would have
peered out from behind distant logs in dazed
bewilderment; reporters from some little newspaper
or another might have gathered to determine if this
gathering signaled an accident, a new cult, or some
sort of peculiar, slow-motion performance art;
police might inquire if these people had gotten the
proper City permits for, well, whatever it is that
these people are doing. But this is an impromptu
gathering. It is a gathering of strangers. It signals
nothing more than the fact that these people share
some basic assumptions about how they are to place
themselves upon beaches, and place themselves
relative to one-another. Rather than proximity
indicating a heightened degree of intimacy between
these people — signaling that they are family or
friends, who are ordinarily welcomed into
Americans' "personal space" - this reflects a sort of
anonymous, eye-contact-avoiding, herd-bound
behavior that is fostered by the jam-packed
impersonal spaces of large urban places and the
tempo of life at the busy beaches nearby. (Some
Oregon coast tourists now even arrive hours in
advance to lay out their gear, to visibly "stake out
their spot" in the most heavily used sections of the
beach as one would make a reservation in a
restaurant, place bright orange cones in a parking
space, or lay a coat over 'taken' seats in a movie
theater. This too is very different.)
All of this is not necessarily better or worse
than the old ways, the ways of the Old-Time
Oregon Coast Individualist-Rustic ®, really, it is
just very very different. I recall how strange it
seemed at first. I recall seeing, perhaps only eight
years ago, a person park their car in a large parking
lot adjacent to the beach, walk a few feet, drop all
of their belongings, and plop down directly in the
first patch of sand in front of the beach access trail,
where groups of people continued to walk to and
fro. This was astonishing; at first, I thought that
they might be in distress, that I might need to
summon medical assistance.
No one would sit in such a busy place! He
must have overexerted himself carrying his beach
gear! The poor guy — no beach umbrella, not even
the biggest and most colorful one, is worth a heart
attack! But slowly it became clear: this was where
he wanted to sit, this was an intentional beaching.
No indeed, this was nothing to be concerned about.
I have come to learn and accept that this is how they
do it in other, more crowded parts of the country.
Somewhere, this is considered perfectly normal
behavior. And increasingly it is considered normal
here. Increasingly, our own time-honored desire to
be away from the pack might strike people as
peculiar, anti-social, indicative of deeper personal
issues. Let us bear this in mind. Cross-cultural
differences exist even within "American culture,"
among people who superficially appear the same.
As we increasingly find ourselves crammed
together, we must learn to play nice at the beach
and get along with others, no matter how odd they
might first seem. Everything on the land changes,
including its human occupants. Summertime at the
beach reminds us of this. More so every year.
Whether you are out on some wind-swept beach by
yourself, or sunning comfortably with the herd, may
you enjoy yourself. May you experience little more
than minor social disorientation in this ever-
changing landscape, this oceanside beach, in these
deepest depths of summertime.
by H, B. Lloyd
Long ago in what we call the Columbia River, there
lived a species of Salmon that were over six feet long and
weighed hundreds of pounds and had large protruding teeth
that were used to light off predators like giant sharks in the
ocean and massive grizzlies in the rivers. But the nver and the
sea and the land and the times changed and the salmon
changed with them New predators appeared and they swept
the rivers and the sea with nets and blocked the rivers with
dams and they poisoned the water and the salmon almost died.
The salmon knew that they must light back and they gathered
in the deepest part of the sea and pondered what to do. There
were few left and most of those present were not truly wild,
they had been raised by people and lacked the w isdom of the
wild. The oldest of the oldest family of salmon explained to
the others that there was only one hope, only one hero who
could fight back, the last of the Saber Toothed Salmon. She
was rarely seen since she quit migrating centuries ago, w hen
the Columbia changed its course and she lost her way and
relumed to the sea w ithout spawning. It was decided that a
young salmon would be sent to find her and lead her back up
the river, where she could finally find her place and spawn.
The task fell to the smallest, youngest, gentlest and smartest of
the salmon raised by the people. He had a fresh memory of
the river and knew the dangers.
The ascent started in early winter, to take advantage
of the weather that keeps most of the fishing Heels in harbor
and the water running fast and cold. The old saber t(x>th had
no problems with the nets that were out in the mouth of the
river, she either ripped them to shreds or pulled the boats
under. The taste of the water seemed to cause her the most
trouble, her skin started looking soft and her mouth with its
massive tusks was snapped shut. The first dam had a
relatively simple fish ladder, and with the young male’s
guidance she managed to navigate and destroy it at the same
time. She could feel her eggs inside coming alive after
centuries. After the second dam had been disabled the people
began to track them and tried to stop them but they could not
be stopped. With the small male safely inside her mouth she
would smash into the giant generator fans, ripping their blades
and freeing the water. When they reached the far side of the
final dam she smashed into the massive concrete base again
and again until a small crack appeared. She continued until
the dam cracked and the water ran free. The water swept
down the river, smashing into the next dam, and one by one
they gave way to a wall of water that was a hundred feet high
by the time it reached the ocean. She and the young male
continued until she smelled something familiar in the water.
The young male told her the people called this place Canada.
In a quiet eddy under a huge log near w here the water w as
running swift and clear she laid her eggs, and as she was dying
the young male swam over and fertilized them. There will
soon be a new kind of salmon on the old river, and they will
be respected.
W ME fiftKSHOLL tfcUS
LUST R. ATiVtJ} RTS
) OGOS
A& u lt F am ily H ome .
iW7? S .H emlock , POB ox 6?l~C«NNOnBtAc>y0R??ll0y
P hone .
HANDDRAWN t H M bU R vrre«
BLACK AND WHITE M T
4 3 6 -Z 5 5 0 PftGEfc 738^616;
GJ emnifer . S t i EM
S, CM ft *» ftov ids .* •>. L icensed ^ I nsured
UPPER LEPT EDGE ftUGUST 2000