16 // COASTWEEKEND.COM
Close to Home: The glory of storms
By DAVID CAMPICHE
FOR COAST WEEKEND
T
he rain fell in tor-
rents, slapping the
bare skin on our fac-
es. Cold, wet rivulets leaked
through any opening in our
rain coats, seeped down
the neck and into our shoes
until the souls squished.
“This is fun,” said Gina,
the partner in crime of my
dear friend, Maurizio Papa-
ro, chef extraordinaire from
the Excelsior in Eugene.
Fun, I thought, dropping
my head as the next volley
of wind raced across the top
of the North Jetty at Cape
Disappointment State Park.
This is the mouth of the
great Columbia River and
a culmination of rip tides,
angry dancing clouds and
gray torrential water, both
ocean and river, and what
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falls from the sky.
Fun, as the wind
screamed and wept and
bullied. Fun, as the wind
bludgeoned our bodies.
Years ago, when my
children were kids, I would
wake them early on the
morning of a sou’wester
and drive them to the North
Jetty, climb up on that rock
edifice and marvel at the
force of storm and hundred-
mile-per-hour winds.
At first, they protested.
I showed them how to lean
into the wind. I showed
them how those powerful
gusts would literally hold
them up, brace them against
falling, even though they
leaned into the storm at
about a 30-degree angle.
After a few trips, it was
the kids who woke me up
just after first light, and en-
couraged me to drive to the
long, sturdy jetty. There was
excitement in facing down a
storm. Excitement in watch-
ing Mother Nature display
all her might. To dance the
devil’s dance.
The big one
In 2007, during our first
major hurricane (perhaps
the Columbus Day Storm
qualified, too, but we
weren’t yet familiar with
that concept), I stood on the
small dock at China Beach
and watched wind gusts
agitate the tidal waters of
Baker’s Bay into a froth.
The waves were cresting
at nearly 30 feet. Balls of
spume resembling gobs of
mayonnaise rode the wave
tops like rodeo riders on
bucking broncos.
It was then that the wind
would grab the spume and
hurl the drift for hundreds
of yards. All that in sec-
onds. Meanwhile, the wind
was ripping the shingles and
roof off the old sea house
that we rent as a B&B.
The word “frantic”
comes to mind, but it was
COURTESY DAVID CAMPICHE
A watercolor by Eric Wiegardt
simply bigger and more
menacing than that.
To some degree, we live
in secure castles. Much
of the time, we insulate
ourselves from the rain
and wind. Our homes are
heated, and electric lights
allow us to move about
without fear of bumping
into furniture or falling
over stools or other im-
pediments. We can sit in a
comfortable chair and read
a novel. If we travel, our
cars are insulated against
raging weather, and an um-
brella can keep our bodies
relatively dry. (Yes, I know
that umbrellas aren’t used
with great frequency here
on the North Coast, but you
get the idea.)
Lessons from nature
So, Gina, Maurizio and I
walked down onto Benson
Beach, then headed north up
the fragile sand spit until we
were literally soaked to the
skin.
Let me tell you: It was
a pleasure to turn back
with the wind at our backs.
Meanwhile, the drama un-
folded — ocean and surf and
raging skies — and I was so
glad that Gina had insisted
on our adventure. Here is a
toast to strong women.
Back in the cabin with
heat churning from the
fireplace, we toasted our trek
with a good glass of brandy.
We talked about our
ancient ancestors living in
caves or temporary shelters.
How they struggled to start
fires and wrapped them-
selves in furs, and feared
for their lives from the
threat of large mastodons
or sleek huge cats. Or from
other bands of roving Homo
sapiens.
Of course, life is not
always safe, not a hundred
years ago or today. But we
can press the 911 buttons on
our cell phones and general-
ly receive quick and efficient
care. We have wonderful
hospitals and schools and
universities where hope-
fully, we can illuminate or
heal our souls. Naturally,
there are no guarantees. But
most of us have freedom
of choice, and perhaps that
is our greatest gift, though
some decisions are fraught
with fear and complications.
Gina reminded me of a
greater force than the cell
phone. She reminded me
that a good pelting of rain
is better than six hours of
mundane television. This
was poetry. This was the
indomitable spirit of nature.
This was God raging, as
God is wont to do, on certain
dramatic occasions. Per-
haps He (or She, or It) was
declaring, “Look at me, you
men and woman created in
my image. Remember my
force. Remember my joy.
Remember that she who
walks with her face con-
fronting the gale, walks with
me! Unabashedly. Boldly
and without fear. CW