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The Pacific Ocean is across the street as I write this
from a rental beach house in Yachats, Ore. As nearly as I
can tell, the c
is silent and the place is
pronounced Yah-hots.
There's no point in making fun
of Beaver State orthography, not when we have
Saguache
with a silent g.
The idea was to take a vacation in the traditional American way -- that is, mooch off friends and relatives. We flew to Seattle to visit some old college friends, Bill and Jan Hays, who have for years visited us on their trips to Colorado and often invited us to see them on Puget Sound.
Denver was overcast and misty when we left that Friday; Seattle was warm and clear, with Mt. Ranier shimmering in the distance. Of course I had to point out that Rainier, 14,410 feet, would not even be the highest mountain in Chaffee County, let alone Colorado.
Bill of course mentioned that our 14,420-foot Mt. Harvard did not start at sea level, and thus Rainier was a much bigger and better mountain.
Saturday, the weather was more like what I expected -- raw, wet, windy -- as we took a ferry to Whidbey Island, where we saw some truly vicious water at Deception Pass. These passes, like ours, are gaps in the terrain, although theirs allow boats to pass -- sometimes. Bill said he'd once spent six hours anchored in a sailboat waiting for the proper tide.
He also said this was wonderful weather, bracing and invigorating. I felt especially invigorated at a warm saloon that served fried clams and steamed mussels.
The plan was to get from Seattle to Eugene, Ore., where
our daughter Abby lives, by the comfortable Cascades train.
When we made the plan, we told Abby that the train would
arrive at 8:45 p.m. She laughed. Something will go
wrong. I'll figure midnight.
She was right. Our train stopped at the Olympia/Lacy station named Centennial, or something like that, and it stayed there for two unscheduled hours. Somewhere down the line near Centralia, they told us, a trespasser had been hit and killed by a train, and we had to wait for the coroner to complete an investigation.
Didn't sound like more than a 10-minute job to me, but the day was pleasant, and wandering around the park at the depot was a big improvement on being stuck on a runway. Abby was only 13 minutes off on her estimate, made weeks earlier, of the arrival of Amtrak 507 in Eugene. It pulled in at 11:47 p.m.
Our other daughter, Columbine, lives in Bend, Ore. Our girls had decided that we should all rent a beach house along the coast, since Martha loves salt water, and our home in Salida is about as far as possible from the tides.
After driving for several hours, we were established in a comfortable small house in Yachats. Out the big front-room windows, I could watch the waves rush to the shore and break up on the dark rocks as birds swirled about. We could relax.
Well, not exactly. We live in a society that believes in
warnings, just in case you're not worrying enough. I headed
for the rocky beach below the bluff, only to encounter a
sign that said Danger: Bluff drops off. Falling
hazard.
At the next trail to the sea, it was Danger:
Bluff unimproved for beach access.
There were no
improved bluffs
nearby, so I took my chances. I'm
used to unimproved terrain.
But I was not accustomed to the topic of the next
warning. Sneaker waves cause many deaths each year on
the Oregon coast. Small children, or even adults, are often
caught by an unexpected wave and are quickly carried out to
sea by the undertow. Stay clear of driftwood near the surf
and never turn your back on the ocean.
So I sat on a bench at the top of the bluff and enjoyed
the view. I might have seen a gray whale, spouting on her
way north for the summer. After a pleasant hour of
beach-watching, I rose and then noticed the sign on the
back of the bench: Tsunami Hazard Zone: In case of
earthquake, go to higher ground or inland.
Well, I do plan to return to higher ground. After all these warning signs, I need to return to work to be able to relax and quit worrying.
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