Aug 17, 2005

The coast with the most

Forbidding. Dangerous. The coast with the biggest tits in the world.

I was thinking this morning that I have been rather out of it for the past week or so, and it finally struck me why--I'm out of a rut. Unintentionally, but out of a rut nonetheless. If you've read for any time now, you know that I'm quite the routine-oriented person. I like standards of behaviour because they give comfort to the Neanderthal Me that resides in my hindbrain, hunkered over his fire. And I've noticed that the past week has been, not strained but has been off a little bit. I've had that feeling that something is not quite right, that I'm missing a nail in that horseshoe, or that perhaps I've left the iron on.

It occurred to me this morning--I haven't been to Oregon this year.

Long story, which I shall attempt to trim, for those of you not in The Know. As part of my divorce arrangement, my daughter (the biological one) spends summers with her mother in Oregon; Dexter, if you were curious. And as part of the arrangement, I fly up there each summer's end, usually the week or so before school lets in, to fly her back home. And being of the poor variety, we always make pains to turn that ordeal of a trip into a micro-vacation, which means that every effort is made to spend Saturday on the Pacific Coast, from Florence up to Newport or thereabouts. Every moment of that day is spent anticipating the sights or absorbing them, and the trip back is always such a morose one, because I know that I have to bid farewell to my beloved ocean until next year.

Except this year I didn't go back. The daughter spent this summer at home, or more accurately, at her grandmother's home, with occasional walks back here to make sure I hadn't sold her room or gotten rid of her beloved television set. And so the rather expensive trip to Oregon was bypassed.

And it should have happend last weekend, which is why I've been so off. School lets in Thursday, so I should have been flying up last Friday, spending all Saturday traipsing up and down beaches, over rocky outcroppings, peering into tidepools, and otherwise trying to study or otherwise offend any sort of beach life I could manage, and taking dozens and dozens of pictures as I went. And I haven't. The closest I got to studying sea life was pouring fresh water into the outside cat's bowl and having to see what had taken up housekeeping therein.

And so that's why I've been off. Part of me has been packed and ready to begin the ordeal of airplane terminals and transfers, interminable flights with lousy food and poor movies, and one day of rapturous joy, to be followed by more terminals, lost tickets, very expensive airport food and white-knuckled dislike of flying. It's been a lot cheaper this way, and I did have my daughter for the summer, which is unthinkably good, but part of me still wants to be standing up on the tip edge of a huge boulder when the surf comes pounding in.

Even if it does cover me in seawater.

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