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About The daily Astorian. (Astoria, Or.) 1961-current | View Entire Issue (Oct. 22, 2015)
CLOSE TO HOME River, salmon and whales a man alone in his kayak ere on Bak- er Bay, just inside the Mouth of the Colum- bia, we are guided by basic cur- rents: past and pres- ent, hope and prayers. Here alone: a man, one kayak, silver cours- ing water. Paddling here alone, ask me what difference peace makes in our lives? My heart is soaring. A mission proclaimed: to catch a salmon from my kayak, hopefully a mighty Chinook. Certainly, I would settle on a sleek silver salmon, a Coho E\ DQRWKHU GH¿QLWLRQ , ZLOO paddle several miles to the Hole in the Island, West Sand ,VODQG DYRLG FRQÀLFWLQJ FXU- rents, boat wakes, and any surging wave over 3 feet in KHLJKW(YHQLID¿VKHUPDQLV lucky enough to hook a salm- on, he or she must land the ¿VK LQWR D WLSV\ FUDIW ZKHUH freeboard is just inches above the water line. Generally, that H PHDQV GURSSLQJ WKH ÀRSSLQJ desperate salmon between one’s legs. There isn’t any other place in the kayak. That tail slaps like a strong back- hand. The sun rises, lifting above the dark blue horizon like an effervescent bubble from the deep blue. First rays from the GLVWDQW ¿UH EDOO RXU PRWK- er-father sun) creep, step by step, higher and wider. One FDQ¶W IXOO\ GH¿QH WKH FRORUV Here are a multitude of hues: gold, red, tangerine, pink and lavender. The edges scribe something like the many-hued colors of a great blue heron. It takes muscle to power a kayak over several miles, par- ticularly if the tide is propel- ling you backwards. You can do it! It also takes a modicum of coordination. This vessel is tipsy. The thinner and longer a vessel, the more unstable it remains. Here is a confession: If I can do it, so can you. I have a potter’s hands, steady and sure. Beyond the wrist, the rest of the body is more ques- tionable. I was never a com- 4 | October 22, 2015 | coastweekend.com Photo by David Campiche A man and his boat with Cape Disappointment in the background. petent athlete. I had willpow- er but dubious coordination. Therefore, if I can steer a kay- ak across rough water, against ÀRRGLQJZDWHUVRFDQ\RX At six in the morning WKH VHD LV O\LQJ VWLOO DQG ÀDW There is a 6-knot current, but you can’t see it. Certain- ly you feel it. The surface of the Columbia River has trans- formed from turbulent water into a mirrored surface. Ric- ocheting off that glass-like surface, those colors, so hard WR GH¿QH JORVV body and mind like a massage by an angel. Landscape is rai- son d’être. That blitzkrieg of color usurps the mission. Fish RUQR¿VKEHDXW\LVHQRXJK 7RGD\ , WUROO D EULJKW ÀR- rescent spinner. Other times an anchovy. Salmon like ancho- vy and herring. So do whales. Rumor has it that humpbacks are plying the river between the Mouth and the “Bridge to 1RZKHUH´DVDSKRULVP for the second-growth forest at the north end of the Colum- ELD3DFL¿F%ULGJH3HUKDSV I will spot one, or, better yet, a pod. Whales troll too, troll in groups or pods or community. They commu- nicate with pips and squeaks. They even have radar. They’re bright, fu- eled by a large two-compart- ment brain. One side must stay awake at all times or they drown. They are mammals and require air. Each side of their brain is larger than ours, meaning Homo sapien’s. Meaning, perhaps, that they are as intelligent, or more so, than we. They don’t start wars. They appear not to hate us, us humans, even after all we have done to endanger Landscape is raison d’être. That blitzkrieg of color usurps the mission. Fish or no fish, beauty is enough. them. They always care for their young. And they make beautiful music. I paddle and troll, the large spinner hopefully seducing an unwary salmon into the bite. But the whales must be com- municating with the salm- RQ %UDLQ SRZHU LV ÀRRGLQJ the mouth of the river. The VDOPRQ DUHQ¶W ELWLQJ DUWL¿FLDO lures, at least not mime. I paddle on; paddle on and on and on. Meanwhile, the sun is rising. What colors now, you Picasso? Let’s call WKLV ÀRRG RI EOXHV DQG VLO- vers a kaleidoscope of color, a hundred hues of ultramarine and quicksilver and chrome. Mostly, the reds have desert- ed us. 2QDQGRQDQGRQ1R¿VK A soft wind is pulled in with WKH ÀRRG WLGH 7KH PLUURU RI water turns choppy. I paddle on, out of the Hole in the Is- land, out into the channel of the Columbia, out along the south side of Sand Island and ¿QDOO\ LQWR D WKURDW RI ZDWHU that leads to the Port of Ilwa- co, or, in this case, just short, into a slough that will land me and my boat at China Beach, a jewel in the crown. The tide begins to ebb. The Chinook camped here. It was easy access to the ocean. Otters frolicked. Salm- on were as thick as syrup. It is easy to imagine their con- tentment. What tribe of peo- ple ever choose an existence so interlocked with the sea? Were they more content than I am today? Answer me those questions, please. 1R ¿VK 6R ZKDW" $ORQJ the shoreline an eagle rises into an updraft. Hardly mov- ing a wing, it lifts skyward. 2K VR VRIW VR PDJQL¿FHQW Geese scatter. I like that word: scatter. I dip my hand into silky ebbing water. Feel the tug of the current. It is shallow be- low me. Just under the wa- ter surface, long tendril-like grasses sway with the ebb, being pulled oceanward. I think of Ophelia in “Hamlet,” drowned, her hair unleashed DQG GDQFLQJ ZLWK WKH ÀRZ RI water. Wind scatters clouds. Rip- ples waves and tide. Tousles my hair. And there, a mile DZD\RYHUP\VKRXOGHUWKH spout of many whales. Ancho- vy are scattering frantically. So are the sea birds. Scatter- ing. Out the blowhole, water lifts and drifts like steam. Let the autumn wind scatter our dreams like that, just like that! Today, I feel so free. Coastal Life Story by DAVID CAMPICHE
