Seasalt

So this is part two of what was going to be a really cool post about camping on the Pacific. Now its a trilogy. It's gonna be Pre-salt, Seasalt, and Asphalt. I say "going to be" because I haven't written this one (obviously) or the last one yet. Man, I love how I'm sort of taking this seriuously. Explaining why this is late.

Enough of that.

So I went to sleep. Marshall's backyard, in Toledo, in a tent. I think that was around 11. Honestly, one of the last things I remember is this popcorn Marshall's mom made, which was basically popcorn sprinkled with Parmesan cheese. In fact, thats exactly what it was. I woke up at 3 because Marty, Marshall, and Natalie had gone on a walk somwhere late that night.

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I still love how seriously I'm taking this... no really. Okay its about three weeks later now from when all of this actually happened, but I hope it's still worth writing about. Sort of like how I hope this chicken in my freezer is still worth eating.

By the way, that dashed line signifies the time lapse. I'll probably never use it again.

So I woke up a lot. Turned out to be a good thing because I always had the pleasure of falling back asleep, usually warm. Yay for tents and sleeping pads.

The morning seemed to move with us, at our pace. We woke up, dressed and breakfasted with the sun, which is convenient because it meant we were on the road by about 9, heading out to the coast. By this our most intimate weekend fellows, the wind and the rain were keeping us close company. We stopped at a grocery store and in full spirit of proverbs 23:6-7 "Do not eat the food of a stingy man, do not crave his delicacies, for he is the kind of man who is always thinking about the cost. 'Eat and drink,' he says to you, but his heart is not with you.' ". Well, our hearts were definitely with us, as it was.

After more driving we arrived at the highway running along the coast. By this time, my personal hope of spending the day lying upon the beach had been transformed, radically and, depending on your point of view, mercilessly (considering the solemn, and yet almost gleeful joy of the weather, dashing my wish) or mercifully (as in one Calvin and Hobbes comic, Calvin and Hobbes are discussing wishes and Calvin wishes for something along the lines of a helicopter or super powers and Hobbes wishes for a sandwich. Naturally, as Hobbes points out, he got his wish) transformed into the hope of just getting to sleep in something that was warm and dry (which is rather uncommon in those parts). We drove about, still half-heartedly entertaining ideas of just striking out and pitching our tent, to heck with the rangers. Then I'd had enough and was willing to pay for a site. Given the weather, even if a ranger had found us, I'm not sure he'd be so much reprimanding as thinking we were complete fools and had already gotten our just reward from the mere environment. That adventure may just have to wait.

We got our site and began two activities that continually vied for the spot of "Most Trying upon the Patience of Tim Postlewaite", at least for the time of which their successful accomplishment was in serious doubt. Those two activities were starting a fire and setting, which, despite my most fervent and astonished worrying, turned out very well. They were both adventures in and of themselves.

Anyway, once the fire got started, that was almost the end of any constructive actions. For all we could tell, that fire was basically the only thing worth living for. Tell me about anything, true love, the meaning of life, music, the advent of caclulus, food and water, airplanes, justice and mercy, and you would probably a pretty hard time convincing me anything was more important than that pile of soggy, burning hunks of wood. Well maybe not food. And, as far as I was concerned, we were getting enough water for Noah to let all the animals know that there was going to be a 40 day, 40 night reunion tour of the whole freakin Earth all over again.

Of course, being as singly content as a toddler with a cardboard box can only last so long. Over the course of about 40 minutes, the novelty of having only one side of our bodies warm and dry at any given point had worn off, so naturally decided to go swimming. It was one dream that, come hell or high water (which, as far I as I was concerned, were both about to make a singularly stunning debut) was going to happen. Everyone had their doubts, keeping in mind hypothermia, so it fell to (cough) the two Boy Scouts, Marshall and myself, to hold up the long, and time honored tradition of being complete (but watchful!) idiots. All of us changed into our suits and embarked on what I felt to be the climax of the trip.

The beach was a short way through a fairly thin strip off trees that ran parallel to the beach as far as we could see. As we made our way along what was, despite all appearances, a path, I made myself stop shivering. Good sign. As the beach crept up from behind a sand dune (as much as something as colossal and awesome as the shore of an ocean can creep up behind anything) we were met with the sight of wisps of sand, playing quickly across the beach in the more excited gusts of wind. I can't remember a time before that one in which I had seen sand moved so quickly, motivated by nothing but the air. Never felt it before either, which I'll get to later. After we made it over the small hill seperated the beach from the land, in a very uninterrupted motion, we strode down to some logs, stripped down and walked into the ocean. There was a very call thrill. Waves crashed in, creating pushes toward the beach, but a wholly perpendicular and just as insistent current was in the air with the wind. We proceded further out, Marshall, Marty and I. Grace, who had been ill with mononucleosis remained on a bunch of logs, away from the water. Natalie patrolled up and down the coast as our life guard while Ashley stayed somewhere between her and us. I don't remember much of what the others were doing because the dual feelings of the massive expanse and raw power of the ocean and storm, combined with an immense fulfillment of expectation and longing for the chance to abandon so many traces of society were overwhelming. I would walk into the wind or out into the waves, feeling both of them crash over my body. My skin had become so tight that warmth became firmly tucked in my chest and casually rationed itself out to my extremities. The chaos of being buried in a wave became a tumble of relief from the unconcerned violence of the wind. Thoughts fled, leaving vacancy in my mind for peace and meditation. Nothing changed and nothing stayed the same. I couldn't stay there long enough and I would not stay there forever.

It was lucid, reckless abandon. Ivory bliss, and a taut relaxation that cannot be adulterated by any sort of human ideas or thoughts. Humanity can only (thank God) submit to such majesty. Without submission, the majesty can do nothing but remove its blessing.

Somewhere in my mind I was keeping watch of Marshall, who would go out further than any of us. The waves were such that although he could stand during the trough of the wave, he was behind the crest and we would lose sight of him. Eventually he came a little further in. I walked up the beach to pull on my clothes, in a pile, subject to the early stages of burial. Eventually everyone made their way back to the logs and Grace, which had served as a beacon so that we would not lose our bearing. We headed back to our camp site. Dinner was cooked and we ate, rum was mixed with cranberry juice and passed around, much to everyone's delight. To our further delight, finally, the cranberry juice ran out. Our glasses were the finest, none other than bottled water bottles, wihth the tops sheared off with camping knives. We had many fine things, including fruit, potatoes, and yams all seperately wrapped in tin foil and roasted. There were bratwursts and nuts and cabbage and cheese. All in all, it was a fine meal. I spent it mostly with Grace in the (twelve person) tent. Generally I was tipsy from the rum, to the point where everything feels delicious. People came and went, but mostly it was just Grace and I talking. I was vaguely aware of some light drama involving Marshall, Natalie, Ashley, and Marty but it wasn't my part of the story. Plus, I was very much enjoying the effects of rum. As well as the others. At one point, Natalie I beleive accused me probably a being drunk to which I responded in firm negative. Apparently, it was firm indeed, because then she (probably rightfully) called me defensive to which I replied with all of the intensity I could muster, "I am NOT defensive!". Of course, no one believed me. Gradually we all came to be in the tent as darkness fell. Talk became less frequent and then we fell asleep.

The rest of the trip was fairly non-eventful. We woke up and ate breakfast, packed up and left, smelling of smoke and saltwater. We wanted to get back, a desire made much more acute by the fact that in our car (Marty, Grace, and Ashley had left seperately and earlier because Grace and Ashley had to be back in Snohomish by that evening) drove 40 minutes in the wrong direction on an ocean highway. When we got back we set up the tent (to dry it out) and washed up, and reconvening at Natalie's house to finish off the food and watch the Chronicles of Narnia and Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Long weekend.