"The Coast" is not "The Beach"

At the tail end of Spring Break, we snuck in a quick weekend jaunt to the coast with our adventurous friends the Sharps. A trip to "The Coast" usually involves an intense amount of trailer provisioning, a plethora of motocycle gear, copious amounts of sand, tire pressure gauges, and sometimes sand shovels and a towing strap that can pull out 20,000 pounds of truck and trailer. The emphasis is usually more on the sand part of the coast and less on the water part. But for this trip we decided to take it easy and leave the steel horses in the barn and just take our bicycles for a leisurely relaxing weekend.

Kass, Mitchell, Tanner, Connor, Brock, and Chloe trade in their quads for bikes...they spend a fair amount of time complaining that peddling is a lot more work than twisting a throttle. Such cruelty!

This is Deanne, Mont, and Mark leisurely basking in the legendary hurricane-force winds so generously offered by "The Coast".
"The Coast" never ceases to shock me. No matter how many times I visit, it has always been a stranger to me. Like visiting a foreign country where you don't speak the language or that friend you're nice to but not really interested in hanging out with. My guess is that my relationship with "The Coast" is probably due to the fact that I'm not a native Oregonian. I spent my youth as an ordinary kid from Orange County wearing flip-flops year 'round, always outside and usually frolicking with friends at the beach. Huntington Beach was just a few blocks away from my childhood home in Fountain Valley.

All too abruptly, my family moved to a place called Oregon. The only thing a Southern California kid knew about Oregon was that people hunt there and supposedly wore coon hats. (We were misinformed about the latter, folks from Oregon have evolved to John Deere caps-which is a much more domesticated breed of hunter.)

When my new Oregon friends would talk about going to the ocean they called it "The Coast". My sun-baked ears had never heard of that term used as a destination before and I would often correct them, in my all-knowing California way, and say, "it's not a coast, it's called a beach". Everyone knows a "coast" is obviously just a map term, not a real place, and certainly not to be confused with "The Beach" which is tangible, where sand and surf blissfully meet for the barely clothed to frolic in, sunbathe upon, or surf within. I spent months correcting my misinformed friends who unknowingly confused the terms. A Coast is for a coastal highway, a beach is where one frolics...

The day came when I finally got invited to go with some friends and I couldn't wait. (I don't remember if it was the Cluff's or the Clark's who had the misfortune of inviting me along...) The three hour drive was more than I could take, it only took 7 minutes from my old house. The drive west was a bizarre patchwork of farms, pastureland, myrtle wood shops, twisted roads, colossal redwoods, and thick gray mist. Not one surf board strapped to a car the entire way. (This should have been a clue.) At last the car pulled to a stop, the doors flew open, and...through a veil of hair wildly windswept across my face I caught my first glimpse: plagues of huge jagged rocks erupting out of the swells, swollen dark clouds looming above, Oregonians not bathing in the sun but fully clothed and flying kites! Flying kites! The wind had stolen the leading role and was the star of the show! The water devoid of humans, upstaged in its moment of glorious soliloquy! The cold air numbed my tear-streaked face. In horror, I quickly turned to my friend and said, "This is not a beach. This is a coast." I stepped back into the car, forced the door shut from the snapping wind, and sunk into despair. I had packed my beach towel and SPF for naught.

I haven't quite recovered yet from that awful day, but now, when I come to "The Coast" I come prepared. With courage, kites, and coats...and hiking shoes don't hurt either! I have figured out that Oregonians visit the coast for the wind! (Incidentally, I hate the wind!) And as my hair will attest, during our weekend visit, the wind did not disappoint.

We brought our cousin Tanner along who happens to be afraid of heights and so he declined to pose in our cliff-side photo above. Instead he stood safely inland and shuttered at the thought of getting any closer.

So of course Mitchell had to freak Tanner out even more by hanging over the cliff...

Which of course made Tanner do this...

Once back on level ground Tanner was more than happy to join us for a family picture. He is playing the part of Cheyenne in this scene-she's still at BYU...(Cheyenne, whatever have you done with your hair, that buzz cut really plays up your eyes!)

Here Connor shows us one of the many fine features of "The Coast": Dead sea life.

Here is Chloe enjoying the chilly water by staying out of it!

Mitchell and Mark decide to do some bouldering, and of course Tanner declines with a brisk shake of the head.



Connor and Brock give it a go...


Tanner decides it can't be all that bad and gives it a try...




Here Tanner changes his mind and decides it's a bit too high for his liking. It's obviously a little late at this point to back out now so Uncle Mark and cousin Mitchell give him a nice scratchy tug up the rest of the way. (Sorry about your knees Tanner...and anything else that endured a little scratchin'!)


Tanner makes it up and actually poses for a photo but not too close to the edge...


See, it really is Tanner up there!


This photo was taken for Tanner's mom. These smart children are speaking whale. (Chloe looks like she has the most authentic accent!)

Another fine weekend at "The Coast". Next time we'll bring the quads-kites just don't cut it!