I found an article in the paper that I wanted to share. I'm sure most of you will wonder why I posted this... I mostly wanted to get it saved somewhere, but also, to shed a little (humorous) light on what its like to live here.
The column is called "Beach Slapped" and the author is Barton Grover Howe. Look him up. Better yet, here is his link: http://bartongroverhowe.com/
I love that all his writing is good, clean humor. His recent piece on Disneyland through the eyes of his daughter brought tears of laughter to my eyes.
Anyways, I hope I am not violating some major copyright law or anything, but here is the column:
"Theres no beach like home"
When I was growing up in Colorado, my favorite thing to do was go on vacation somewhere with a beach. Now that I live on the beach, my favorite thing to do is go on vacation somewhere else with a beach.
To some people, that makes no sense - people that don't live on the coast of Oregon. Because if you live here, you know there's a sad reality to saying "I live on the coast" - it comes with an asterick, one that reads something like: "*Where it rains all the time, the wind can cleanse your intestines and random objects are waiting to kill you when you least expect it."
I knew this when I moved here, of course. Even Stevie Wonder could read the many signs about town reminding you this is a great place to die, so don't enjoy it too much. Rogue waves, riptides, tumbling logs, being garroted by a kite string: This is what you came for?
Of course, these days you're as likely to get whacked by a sneaker coming out of a wave as a sneaker wave. Whether it's littering idiots or Japanese debris, the summer of 2012 presents all sorts of opportunities to get whacked. Yes, you may feel placated that the giant dock from Misawa didn't kill anyone coming ashore in Newport. But remember this: The last time a giant Japanese thing came out of a radiation fallout zone, it was months before Tokyo got the crap stomped out of it.
Perhaps that's why, when I booked my latest vacation, I looked to get as geographically far from the coast of Oregon as I could without having to leave the country or perch my butt near a volcano. (I don't have a current passport, and Macadamia nuts taste funny).
Cocoa Beach, Fla., now there's a beach. Famous from it's hey-days of astronauts both fake and real, and genies and Jeannies both fake yet bikini-ed, it's miles and miles of white sand beach, with the occasional pier and Tiki bar to break up the marvelous monotony.
Is it perfect? No, the wind blows when a hurricane passes through, and there are animals in the water waiting to nibble on your parts, as my wife painfully discovered. But nowhere do you get the sense that one false step will bring about your death or demise, save getting drunk, falling off the pier, and landing on a shark.
And even if there is something potentially fatal waiting in the wings - or under it (I saw a Great Blue Heron leave a deposit that I swear could dent a roof) -at least the locals don't spend all their time scaring the crap out of you. Truly, if Lincoln County folks ran Disney World, it would start with Mickey announcing that Space Mountain will send most fat and pregnant people to the hospital.
And yet.
As I walk the beach with my REI stroller, I noticed people were looking at me like I was a freak. And when they were done, they all had to slog back to their cars in the $5 a day parking lot so they could beat the traffic back to Faceless Suburban City No.213. Forget horrible ways to die, that's a horrible way to live. And a reminder that come what may on the Oregon coast, and you know it will, the best beach in the world is the one five minutes out my door.
It's nice to be home."
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