Yachats, Ore.
The Pacific Ocean is across the street as I write this. As nearly as I can tell, the “c” in “Yachats” 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 Mount Ranier shimmering in the distance. Of course I had to point out that Ranier, at 14,410 feet, would not even be the highest mountain in Chaffee County, let alone Colorado.
Bill, of course, countered that our 14,420-foot Mount Harvard did not start at sea level, and thus Ranier was a much bigger and better mountain.
Saturday, the weather was more like what I expected – raw, wet and 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.
Ed Quillen of Salida (ed@cozine.com) is a former newspaper editor whose column appears Tuesday and Sunday.
