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| Matt Love |
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One Man's Beach
Commentary
By Matt Love
Thanking Rachel for a noisy spring
[Posted June 25, 2008]
Six thirty. The mist falls on one of the last spring mornings before summer begins. I hit the beach with the dogs needing the shot of salvation the beach routinely injects whenever the disease of depression infects me.
We cruise north to the south jetty. In the distance, a ship waits for calm seas before making the narrow run between the rocks toward the safety of Yaquina Bay. The dogs break off east to sniff at the wrack line and I turn my head and look the other way, to the water, where all life began.
Ahead, less than a football field away, I see two large raptor-like birds standing on the sand, unmoving, staring straight west, as the last inch of a wave trickles over their talons. What the hell? Hawks don’t surf.
Tacking at northwest angles, I move closer to investigate, employing all my senses as Henry David Thoreau once commanded me — all of us — to do.
Suddenly, it dawns on me: for the first time, I am watching bald eagles in Oregon not in flight. They now exist less than 50 yards away, on my beach, and not another human is around to pollute the moment.
Immediately, I don’t feel the disease of depression anymore because I know that without one woman, a scientist, a writer, a warrior in defense of nature, a hero, a goddess who should adorn our currency, I know that without her monumental effort, bald eagles would not exist in South Beach or anywhere else in America.
Her name is Rachel Carson, and in 1962 her landmark book “Silent Spring” launched the modern environmental movement by exposing the ecological disaster wrought by the indiscriminate aerial application of poisonous chemicals, namely DDT. It was an overnight bestseller around the world and attracted an astonishing variety of readers, including a President of the United States, John Kennedy, who convened a special panel to investigate the disastrous effects of pesticides on the natural world. Later, DDT was banned, and with the help of the Endangered Species Act and Richard Nixon, who signed it into law, the birds came back. The spring wasn’t so silent anymore.
Without Rachel Carson and “Silent Spring,” there wouldn’t be a pelican, peregrine falcon or bald eagle left in this county, even Alaska. DDT was wiping them out as the government and farmers sprayed oceans of this poison across the land and water. It was a modern-day industrial plague encouraged by chemical corporations and their hired men in white coats who apparently never listened to birds.
I feel better after seeing the eagles, but I want more. I want to see the eagles launch from Earth. I want to see something I’ve never seen before. Yes, it amounts to a rude hominid interruption but I’ll beg forgiveness later.
I sprint toward the eagles and they lift off the sand on course for Asia. They quickly bank east and fly toward the cliffs. From nowhere, a third eagle joins the formation and I watch all of this, annihilated yet saved, restored, ready to keep at it and get good work done, part of which is pulling all the weeds from my lawn by hand and not spraying herbicide.
Matt Love is the author of the Beaver State Trilogy and publisher of Nestucca Spit Press (www.nestuccaspitpress.com). He lives in South Beach and his books are available at bookstores along the coast.
He can be reached at lovematt100@yahoo.com
Haystack Rock and roll will never die
(posted June 11, 2008)
Is there anything more sacred in nature to Oregonians than recreating on our publicly-owned beaches? No, nothing even remotely comes close. A few confused people might say skiing on Mt. Hood tops the list. To that I say: every Oregonian has a beach story. Not every Oregonian has a Mt. Hood story. I don’t.
If anyone further doubts my claim, they would have been instantly convinced last year had they attended the first annual Cape Kiwanda Music Festival in Pacific City. There, local bands such as Lunker and the Retroactive Gamma Rays ripped through savage sets in front of a laid back audience of all ages, races and sexual orientations, drinking pop, beer or milk. In the background, surfers, dory boats, dogs, a wedding party, flying kites and small camp fires filled out one of the most quintessential Oregon scenes I have ever witnessed. It was sheer Beaver State beauty.
And don’t ever tell me Oregon rawk is dead! Not after you’ve seen Lunker tear it up with a groove so poundingly awesome that even the dwindling numbers of rockfish offshore and the spirit of Oswald West came out to boogie. Or heard the Retroactive Gamma Rays’ spine tingling surf instrumentals that make you want to dance with a total stranger.
Cost of admission? Totally free! Unlike skiing.
You still don’t believe my claim about the primacy of the Oregon beach experience? Well, it’s time once again for the free Kiwanda Music Festival, so on Saturday, July 5, make the drive to Pacific City and judge for yourself. I might also add that this year’s eclectic lineup blows away last year’s stellar one. The music starts at 2 p.m. and runs until dusk. Fireworks to follow.
Just head to Pacific City and follow the signs to Cape Kiwanda. The schedule is listed below.
Cape Kiwanda Music Festival
Saturday, July 5
2 p.m. David Twigg (solo acoustic from L.C.)
2:45 p.m. The Broke String Band (bluegrass from Portland)
4 p.m. Retroactive Gamma Rays (surf rock from L.C.)
5 p.m. The Dead Trees (indie rock from Portland)
6 p.m. The Juke Joint Gamblers (rockabilly from Portland)
7 p.m. The Whiskey Robbers (rock n’ roll from Newport)
8 p.m. Lunker (heavy funk rock from Pacific City)
9 p.m. Ninth Moon Black (ambient metal from Eugene)
The Great Birthright
(posted May 30, 2008)
“In the administration of this God-given trust, a broad protective policy should be declared and maintained. No local selfish interest should be permitted, through politics or otherwise, to destroy or even impair this great birthright of our people.”
This great Oregon birthright is our ocean beaches. Oregon Governor Oswald West wrote these words in 1949, 36 years after signing into law a bill he drafted that declared the wet sand areas of Oregon’s ocean beaches a public highway. He claimed a solo horseback ride in 1912 from Cannon Beach over Arch Cape and Neahkahnie Mountain, and into Nehalem, inspired him.
West also wrote: “So I came up with a bright idea. And this was very much of a surprise for I have enjoyed but few such in a lifetime.
“I drafted a simple short bill declaring the seashore from the Washington line to the California line a public highway. I pointed out that thus we would come into miles and miles of highway ‘without cost to the taxpayer.’ The Legislature took the bait — hook, line and sinker. Thus came public ownership of our beaches.”
West’s masterfully brief law reads: “The shore of the Pacific Ocean, between ordinary high tide and extreme low tide, and from the Columbia River on the north to the Oregon and California State line on the south, expecting such portion or portions of such shore as may have heretofore been disposed of by the State, is hereby declared a public highway and shall forever remain open as such to the public.”
Sixty-six words. With his law, Oswald West changed Oregon forever. He helped establish and enshrine in law a unique cultural relationship between a state’s citizenry and a natural recreational resource. Unique? It was and still is pretty much unprecedented in the world.
And to think that the Oregon Parks and Recreation Department doesn’t have one sign at any of its coastal parks honoring West, including, incredibly, Oswald West State Park! That amounts to a crime against Oregon history.
He was hardcore Oregon
[Posted May 14, 2008]
On Feb. 14, 2009, Oregon celebrates its sesquicentennial. You can expect significant media fanfare when the big birthday rolls around and all sorts of commemorative events. As Oregon approaches 150 years old, one question all of us living here might want to consider is: what qualifies as something authentic hard core Oregon? Something that can’t be found anywhere else in the country and is worth celebrating because of its utterly unique Beaver State quality. Something worth extolling, too.
May I offer a candidate for consideration? I met him a few weeks ago.
And thought I was a hard core Oregonian who dug Oregon’s ocean beaches!
Six thirty in the Wednesday morning. Rain smashes down on the skylights like a Keith Moon frenzy on the drums. Time to walk the dogs on the beach. If I don’t, a possible canine mutiny.
I don the pea coat and put on the stocking cap. We walk outside and greet slanting walls of rain. An umbrella? Are you kidding me? This is the Oregon coast. I once broke up with a woman who used an umbrella. I couldn’t be seen with her. Who doesn’t want to see rain fall on their partner’s face?
Seven minutes later we hit the beach. The pea coat has lost the battle with the rain. I can’t see beyond a quarter mile.
I let the dogs off leash and they bolt to the ocean. Suddenly, in unison, we see a man walking toward us, emerging from the clouds. It is a man? Or an apparition? The grim reaper? I’ve hit this beach with the dogs exactly 48 mornings in a row and this marks the first time I’ve seen another human being.
Interloper! Trespasser! This is my private church service. I feel violated.
The dogs trot over to the man. He pets them. I change course to meet him. There has to be a story here. Stories are worth interrupting church.
He wears a hooded sweatshirt without wearing the hood. His Levis are soaked through and he wears tennis shoes without socks. No expensive hiking accoutrements whatsoever.
He tells me he’s walking from the south jetty in Newport to Lost Creek—and back. I add up the miles. Close to 12. He must have started two hours ago.
I wish him good luck. He heads north and I head south. I never got his name.
As November nears, the writing is on the wall
[Posted April 30, 2008]
A drizzle falls as the dogs and I ramble south down Driftwood Beach, a few miles north of Waldport. I see no other vehicle in the parking lot, always the best sight at a state park beach wayside.
I am here to read the writing on the wall, or more precisely a sandy cliff, where on a previous visit to the beach, I’d noticed from a distance some letters and symbols carved into its face. At that time, I was eager to investigate, but an unrelenting downpour had swelled a creek and dissuaded my attempt at a long jump.
No downpour today. We approach the creek and I take a running jump and cross the channel by a millimeter.
Safely landed, I move toward the cliff. At the very moment I begin to read some of the words, a hummingbird bursts from a nearby willow thicket and flies inches past my face. It jolts me. I see the whites of its eyes. I’ve never seen a hummingbird at the beach and the juxtaposition of this beautifully tiny creature and the roaring vastness of the ocean presents an electric contrast.
I regain my composure and turn to the cliff. Initials, initials everywhere and not a sentence to drink: M + C = ; JR + S = forever. Sweet teenage math.
Outside of a smiley face and a nicely rendered drawing of a large smiling rodent, initials and names dominate the literature of the cliff. As I read, it suddenly occurs to me that there isn’t a single expression of a political nature. Not even one crude statement in a heated time of contested presidential election and protracted controversial war. What is one to make of that?
I don’t know. I have a theory but will refrain advancing it here and let the reader answer the question for herself. We should all answer it. And free walks on an Oregon ocean beach always makes for an opportune time to answer tough questions of love and war. Did I tell you I figured out the meaning of life there?
What do I really know about the absence of political statements on Driftwood Beach’s cliff, where, 40 years ago, I am sure they would have dominated the literature? I just found this wall and was surprised not to find a single expression of political belief. There is one now. In fact, there are two.
One night a storm will arise and hurl waves into the cliff and erode the carvings. But that might not be until after the first Tuesday in November, when things will surely change. Or remain the same.
Singing the praises of Sidney Bazett
[Published April 18, 2008]
Often when I ramble the beaches with the dogs, I often think about the people who created and protected this inalienable Oregon right that I freely exercise like a religion two to three times a day. These people deserve recognition and honor and that’s one of the reasons I started this column. In the coming months I’ll be profiling some of these people, the kind who never make it into the history books, unlike, say, generals and governors.
In the late 1960s, a Republican representative from Grants Pass offered the following explanation as to why he effectively sacrificed his political career to protect Oregon’s publicly-owned beaches: “The people of this state who can only afford a tank of gas and a picnic basket have the right to spend a day with their children on the beach without having to rent a motel room or pay a toll.”
His name was Sidney Bazett. He is one of the many unsung heroes in the successful fight to pass Oregon’s famous Beach Bill back in 1967. He died decades ago, but left behind a legacy benefitting every living person who has ever enjoyed a moment on an Oregon ocean beach. For free.
Isn’t that about everyone in the state? And everyone visiting the Oregon coast?
In the spring of 1967, HB 1601, which later became known as the Beach Bill, landed in a subcommittee of the House chaired by Bazett that oversaw beach issues. At the time, several motel owners were making unprecedented ownership claims to the dry sand areas of Oregon’s ocean beaches. The bill sought to protect the public’s long-standing use of these areas by declaring state control from the median high tide to native vegetation line, roughly to 16 feet in elevation.
A majority of Republicans dominated the subcommittee and they quickly moved to table the bill. Bazett was not among them. Even though he ran the subcommittee, he didn’t have the votes to push the bill forward and it appeared dead.
Had that been the end of the story, Oregon’s ocean beaches today would be desecrated with fences, boardwalks, ‘no trespassing’ signs, security guards, hot dog stands and espresso carts. In other words, it wouldn’t be Oregon. It would look like everywhere else.
But it wasn’t the end of the story.
Bucking his fellow subcommittee members and the leadership in the House, Bazett employed a series of clever stalling tactics until the public learned what was at stake if the Beach Bill went down. He leaked to the press. He met with members of the public and implored them to come testify on behalf of the bill. He postponed hearings. He bought time anyway he could.
The tactics worked and, later, the Oregon public rose up and demanded their beaches be held in public trust forever. The legislators listened and the Beach Bill has since become holy Oregon law.
For his efforts, for putting Oregon above party, Bazett was, as he later wrote a friend, “shunned,” literally, in the halls of the capitol.
Did I mention that Sidney Bazett hailed from Southern California and was a comptroller in the movie industry before migrating to Southern Oregon? When I learned this, I had to take back all those nasty things I’ve said and written about Southern Californian transplants over they years.
One of them helped save Oregon’s beaches for everyone, including those, “who can only afford a tank of gas and a picnic basket,” to enjoy.
A coast Classic
[Published April 4, 2008]
In serious training for the upcoming third annual Oregon Coast Instant Haiku Classic, I have taken to composing a haiku every morning during my walk down the beach with the dogs.
Let me tell you: composing a haiku in 35-mile per hour winds and sheets of rain is quite the hearty literary exercise.
Fortunately, this morning’s weather proved more amenable to composition. My effort:
Dogs bolt to the waves
One gull probes at the wrack line
West, a crabber floats
The haiku. The ancient, Japanese-in-origin, three-line, seventeen-syllable, five-seven-five structure form of poetry that distills the essence of a moment in nature. In a country where everyone probably talks too much and too loud and takes forever, if at all, to get to the truth, haikus offer a compact and quiet alternative. They never confuse. They always clarify.
The Classic, set for Saturday, April 12, at Café Mundo in Newport in the Nye Beach area, upholds and updates the venerable haiku tradition.
The Classic is a four-team poetry competition, scored by the audience in a format similar to a diving event where judges hold up numerical scores. All poets are randomly grouped into four-person teams. The host throws out a prompt, say “bonfires,” and then poets have 90 seconds to compose a haiku.
That’s right. On the spot, with a full house watching. Then the poet performs the haiku to the full house and judges score the effort. Winning teams advance for the right to take home the coveted Whitman Cup and special prizes.
There’s nothing like it on the Oregon coast, or for that matter, the entire state.
The competition begins at 7 p.m. Anyone interested in participating as a poet should show up at 6:45 (or earlier) to register. The event has been packed the last two years, so spectators should arrive early if you want to get choice seats.
Admission to the Classic? Free… which coincidentally and not by historical accident, is the cost required to ramble Oregon’s ocean beaches. More on that later.
A final word of advice for poets: Get to the beach and start practicing. Others are.
To muse and scavenge
Gulls and poets: much alike
Are you Newport bound?
Off and Running
[Published March 21, 2008]
Welcome to the first installment of One Man’s Beach, my new column for Oregon Coast Today. I have two modest goals for the column: 1) visit beaches from Manzanita to Yachats and share my observations, intuitions and meditations; 2) report on those matters that created and strengthened Oregon’s special relationship to its ocean beaches – a relationship utterly unique in the country, if not the world.
So what’s with the name, One Man’s Beach?
In 1938, a writer named E.B. White moved from New York City to a small farm on the Maine coast. Over the next several years, he contributed a series of essays on his new country life to the New Yorker and Harper’s that culminated in the 1943 publication of “One Man’s Meat.”
Sixty-five years later, the book is still in print and considered a classic of memoir, reportage, observation and the definitive look at the rural American home front during World War II. After the publication of “One Man’s Meat,” White went on to write, among other books, “Charlotte’s Web” and “Stuart Little.”
Eleven years ago I escaped the Pearl District in Portland to South Tillamook County on the Oregon Coast as a one-year cultural experiment to improve my mental health and try to establish myself as a writer. I succeeded on both counts and I’m still here, now recently relocated to South Beach. I’ll never leave the Oregon coast and have made its people and places one of my main literary passions.
Not long after moving to the sea, I picked up a copy of “One Man’s Meat” at a used bookstore in Lincoln City, read it that night, and was immediately struck by its compact prose style and participatory, yet restrained narrative voice.
“One Man’s Meat” exerted a tremendous literary effect on me when I first read it and the feeling has remained. The genesis for this column is a direct result of this feeling.
We are off and running, literally, since the last five mornings, in the overdue fulfillment of a New Year’s resolution, I hit my local beach at 6:15 a.m. for a reckless run down the sand. It was either raining or foggy or both. No other human was around. I saw the same western gull every morning in almost the exact same spot. Every morning I saw the dawn descend over the south jetty of Yaquina Bay. I didn’t have to pay a cent for this privilege. Perfect. Quintessentially Oregon. I ate it up…like a big piece of meat.
Matt Love is the author of the Beaver State Trilogy and publisher of Nestucca Spit Press. His books are available at coastal bookstores or through www.nestuccaspitpress.com. He can be reached at lovematt100@yahoo.com.
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