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1:52 p.m. - 2005-02-26
There really isn't anything like the Oregon Coast.
It was a brief trip - got to Cannon beach around 7 pm Thursday, left around 1:30 pm Friday - but a good one nonetheless. I find myself still partial to Lincoln City/Newport. But that's "the beach" to me. Cannon is a lot more tourist oriented, if that makes any sense.
I didn't work out Thursday, and was fearful that Friday would be the same, since I had to get to work right after returning from the coast. So around 8 o'clock yesterday morning, I got up and went for a run. Yes, sacrificing precious sleep for exercize. I'm becoming a weird person.
Anyway.
I stepped outside in the chilly air and evaluated the options. There were hiking trails abound that twisted through the forest and streets surrounding Cannon Beach. Or, there was the shore. I opted for the latter.
There were a few people strolling by the sea together, laughing and talking and enjoying the surroundings. But I didn't hear anything. The sound of the waves crashing in was deafening, in a good way. I looked at my watch: 8:05 a.m. I figured if I ran for 20 minutes, that would be a good 2 and a half miles. Haystack Rock seemed equidistant to my prediction from my starting point, and I began to run.
It was cold outside, but I quickly warmed up. The sand was my track, the Pacific Ocean was my coach, urging me along. My lungs were burning from the crisp morning air, and my legs began to go numb. Stupid me, wearing shorts on an overcast day at the coast. I listened to the sound of my feet hitting the sand, and the water creeping up ever so slightly with each incoming wave.
The gentle rhythm of the ocean and the beating of my heart sent me into a trance. I forgot about fatigue, or pain, or the long run that was ahead of me. I thought about life. I thought about Jeannine, work, love, God, everything. My mind was literally racing along with my body. Before I knew it, I was standing in front of Haystack rock.
There isn't really anything spectacular about it. It's an oversized mound of the trash of the ocean. Barnacles and shells and a lot of seagull poop. And yet everyone around seemed to be fascinated by it. It's a historical site, for sure, but I wasn't impressed. My romance with the Pacific seemed to overwhelm my mind, and I didn't have much to think about a big rock in the sea.
I jogged back to the hotel. The return journey was less pensive and more 'How the hell am I going to make it this far back'. But everytime I thought I couldn't go any further, there was the sea, pushing me along, threatening me with the icy water.
I long to go back to the ocean. Cannon beach didn't prove to be anything spectacular, but it's the same water, the same feeling. It really does feel like home.