CLOSE TO HOME
There’s great pleasure to be found on an evening walk
he night begins
moonless. It’s
raining softly,
more mist than
downpour. The
beach at Seaview
appears deserted
to the unwary
eye.
Golden
grasses — sedg-
es — have devalued into silver. They
poke from the sand dunes like a bevy
of porcupine quills. The year is 1966,
and I am a teenager.
Nearly 45 years later, I’m walking
a similar path. While I walk, I’m rec-
ollecting my past, my youth. I’m re-
membering walking the trail that led
from my parents’ house, westerly, to
the beach in Seaview. I’m remember-
ing how I stalked darkness on many
a night. How I would hunker into
the beach grasses, a natural nest, and
watch the waves leapfrog for shore.
One’s eyes acclimate at night.
Darkness lightens. On certain
nights a full moon rises, throws
vaulted ivory rays over the beach,
paints wave tops, face and hands. A
thought occurs to me that this is a
form of prayer, or perhaps a small
epiphany. Call it what you may, but
anyone can see how special the mo-
ment is.
So tonight I leave my own house.
It is dusk, nearly nightfall. I travel a
new path much like the old one. The
ocean calls my name. It calls and
calls and calls like an insistent mis-
tral, a stealthy wind tangling in the
trees, into treetops and tree limbs,
into the soul. I wade through tall
yellow grasses. “Go West, young
man.” Old words echo. The wind
is cold and nor‘westerly. The tall
grasses seem to sigh gently, as if
they have a voice of their own. I’m
nearing the edge of Terra Firma, a
land mass called Turtle Island by the
people who lived here long before.
And now I’m upon it: the surf,
the crashing waves, the soft silver
sliding edge of a tidal surge. Let’s
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the nails are gnawing at the sandy
beach. As I mentioned, it is dusk,
a half-hour before that wonder-
ful thick blanket of darkness that
smothers Turtle Island, at least this
part of the continent we call home,
here on the North Coast.
I’ve come a bit early — early
enough to take photos. Early enough
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watch the transformation of color:
cranberry and crimson; to silver,
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shades of gray: noir. I turn south
and traverse my solitary path toward
Beard’s Hollow. There is absolutely
no person, no man nor woman, on
the beach. Behind me, my path is
scrubbed clean by the tide. Vocifer-
ous: the cackle, strum, the timpani, a
symphony of waves and water. The
harkening of ocean trumpets. In the
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fair to say that under the cover of
night, our senses are set free? Re-
leased like a bird of prey, one, bro-
ken-winged and then healed. Free.
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In sensory confusion, I cover
another mile. Then two. It’s dark
now, but a full-faced moon breaks
through scudding clouds, illuminat-
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low. Igneous rock faces thrust from
the sea, appear like ancient tombs or
tells or monuments to sea gods, om-
inous, in the half-light of nightfall.
At the southern end of the Long
Beach Peninsula, beach sands are
abruptly dominated by tall rocky
cliffs and igneous domes, headlands
and islands shaped by molten mag-
ma. I stand in the small cove listen-
Coastal Life
Story and photos by DAVID CAMPICHE
4 | June 25, 2015 | coastweekend.com
ing to other sounds: the mewing of
gulls, mostly. There is a family of
songbirds behind me, in the spruce
trees that line the tall cliffs. Their
tiny songs sound like the tinkle of
remote bells, far away but clear, il-
luminating. There are animals here
too: deer, bear, coyotes, an occa-
sional porcupine, beaver and pos-
sum. Mostly, one hears them, rather
than sees. They are wary, but less
so at night. They feel protected by
the darkness, and so do I. Back in
1966, I realized that I was invisible,
nestled there in my dune haven. If
I sat still enough, nobody could see
me. There was security in that ob-
Just before sunset, the author set out from Beard’s Hollow for a walk along the beach to Seaview.
servation.
And I’m struck by one further
revelation. There is now but one
sound here, one song, and that is
the voice of the ocean. All else suc-
cumbs to it. The sound of breakers
or waves or surf is so dominating
that other sounds transform into a
kind of silence, a silence onto itself.
That one sound transforms itself
into an ocean chant. Into the great
universal Om.
Walking here, now under the
stars, under one particularly bright
evening star — is that Venus? — one
becomes caught up in mood or med-
itation. Into something that seems
bigger even than the ocean before
me, bigger than this force we call
the great sea. Let’s call it “The Great
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on an evening walk where quicksil-
ver and moonlight and moondance
surround us until we are moonstruck
or oceanstruck or starstruck, when a
particular and invigorating delight
overwhelms us.
And through this wonderland
I walk home only to be greeted by
my lovely wife who has just taken
out of the oven the most tender and
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she adds several scoops of Oregon
strawberries and a mound of whip-
ping cream and hands me a cup of
fresh brewed decaf coffee served
in a delicate demi-tasse porcelain
cup with just a touch of brandy, and
the world is suddenly perfect, for at
Rocks form interesting shapes and contrast against the setting sun in the evening at Beard’s Hollow.
least one night.
The ocean calls my name. It calls and calls and
calls like an insistent mistral, a stealthy wind
tangling in the trees, into treetops and tree limbs,
into the soul. I wade through tall yellow grasses.
‘Go West, young man.’