More recently, we took some European friends out to the Washington Coast. We parked the car and walked out in to a dense fog that obscured everything. We could not see where we were going; the car disappeared behind us in very little time. Every now and then a person—or a dog—would appear out of nowhere. There was a calm surf sighing in the distance, but how far out was anyone’s guess as the sky and the sand and the water were the same color. It was exactly what I imagine walking in a cloud would be like.
We do not live exactly on the Pacific Ocean now; Puget Sound is a huge body of water connected to the Big Blue, but it’s not quite the same thing. It is a grand compromise, however, and though it might not have a crashing surf, the Sound does have other very fine qualities. There are the obvious tides, the sea life, the smell of seaweed and salt, the crunch of sand and seashells.
The fact that I can see water right here from my couch, even if it is only a tiny reflective patch of blue gray, is a source of endless delight to me. I can see more water if I walk out on to the front steps and ever more if I walk one block north and one block west. The street dead ends, so cars can’t get through, but there’s a footpath. And some kind people—maybe the people who live at this little spur of road—have placed a bench there. It’s a perfect spot to look out across the great expanse of the Sound, to watch the ferries and freighters and weather coming and going, and to see the water that connects all the way out to the Pacific.
People are surprised when I tell them that I’m a California girl but I am, through and through. I’ve never run on the sand with a surfboard under my arm, never danced on the beach like Frankie and Annette. But when I breathe deep of the Pacific, I am a summer night when I’ve driven to the ocean just for the smell. I’m a car winding over the Coast Range and turning south, the surf smashing the shore to my right. I am a mere hour on the sand, the trip made just for the feeling of sun through the marine layer. I’m sandy feet stuffed in to wet sneakers so I can cross the hot asphalt without burning my feet. I’m a pancake, just this side of burnt, seasoned with tiny bit of salty sand.
I can smell the edge of the Pacific from my front steps. I can imagine the water opening up and stretching west.
