I want to take in every last bit of Oregon, but I want to write about it while I’m in it, so I’m going to try to do both.
We’re on Highway 101 headed home. My husband Scott and I have been on the road for nineteen days; merging and turning along Coast Highway towards Oregon from San Diego to endure the chaos and occasional break in plans a road trip provides, hoping to feed on the spirit of spontaneity.
This morning I went for my last surf in Oregon. When I first paddled out, I was alone. I focused on feeling the wind against my face, wondering about the tourists taking pictures on the cliff above; who they were and what they loved about Oregon. I looked at the sand brushing back and forth across the bottom, the waves making their own art on the ocean floor.
A few five foot sets began marching towards me. I couldn’t decide what to do with them at first. After getting bowled over by a few, the competitor in me couldn’t leave without catching one and seeing what I could do with it. I loved the sensation of being smaller than the waves. Running after some of those closeouts felt like chasing trains.
My dad texted me that the water in San Diego got up to 72º. That’s appealing, but we don’t have old-growth trees or sea stacks that stand out in the water like crossed-armed giants protecting the waves from the winds.
A part of me thinks I would be very happy in Oregon. Of course, it’s easy to fall in love with a place when you’re on vacation. But I love the wild we found here. I felt like we were breathing it in and becoming wilder ourselves.