If it’s not a comeback, but a return, then it’s not the beach — it’s the coast. I suppose if it’s never warm enough to do more than roll up your jeans, and touching the water is more of a dare than a retreat, it needs its own name.
The Oregon Coast.
Where even the tiny nods to the now look like they’ve been there since Reagan’s first term.
We’ve been coming here so long, there isn’t a single place that doesn’t harbor a story that starts, “Remember when you got seasick,” or “You were carsick here and…” The fishing boats the Bro and I both went out on are still running, the saltwater taffy still tempts you to add two of this flavor and two of that, and the sea lions still wriggle contentedly under the docks.
And the water is still cold enough to chase you from the foam.
1989 and 2012.
“Typical. You were showing off for the camera and I was working on something.”
This time I held the camera, that little kid drove, and the rolled up jeans weren’t in the name of “FASHUN.” (Though let’s be real, were they ever?)
And no matter how much things change in the middle, the edge remains the same.