N.2

Every morning I’d wake up to dew covered windows. Utilizing my multipurpose bowl, I’d wash my face and brush my teeth with whatever water I’d rationed out from the night before. My clothes would be swapped under the safety of a beach towel before journeying to the designated water source, usually a beach camping lot. With a bathroom, water spicket, hose, and spacious parking area, it was home for most crisp, wet, Oregon mornings. Almost every day I’d crest the small dune hill and view the vast, foggy beach outside of Newport. I would choose between north or south, and walk, looking for something new to emerge from the gray atmosphere. I was often successful.

I will never forget that beach, or the boundless water. Everything flowed into itself, no separation between land and sea, sky and earth, only disrupted by methodical crashing waves the fog hid mostly from view. They added more and more gray with each tumble, further obscuring the horizon and hiding me from the surrounding world and occasional morning beach jogger.

The ocean speaks to me.