Very Pacific

In my June 16 post ('Not So Pacific'), I was describing the difference between the wild ocean in central California near Bodega Bay, and the largely calm ocean that I see from my window or on a walk on the Sunshine Coast in B.C. The two pictures above are taken of the Sunshine Coast's Pacific Ocean: respectively from the Roberts Creek pier and from the promenade at Davis Bay, about five miles north of Roberts Creek. These are both south-facing beaches, and the mountains in the distance are the mountains of southern Vancouver Island, about 26 miles away, if you are a crow.

I guess there are a lot of different Pacific Oceans, depending upon where you are. On the island of Yap, in Micronesia, there was a surrounding reef that tempered that Pacific as it entered the transparent and turquoise lagoon (whose water temperature was usually in the 80-90 degree range because it was so close to the equator and because the lagoon was not very deep). In Santa Monica, near where I once lived on the ocean at Venice Beach, there are surfing waves but there aren't the kind of rock formations that central California boasts. To live on the ocean is, actually, to live on a very specific point at which the ocean meets the land. In that sense, there really is no single ocean, I guess; no one Pacific, no one Atlantic, probably not even one Mediterranean.

Not So Pacific

Out at the Pacific Ocean today at Bodega Bay. Hard to believe it is the same ocean as the one I would see if I just turned to the right and walked about 890 miles to Point Roberts. The color of the water is both deeper blue and lighter green; the sand is dark and rocky rather than fine and beige or pebbly, and the rocks very big: veritable rock pillars and islands instead of small polished stones. The waves roll in and in and in, relentlessly, as if they came in and never went back out, with the continuous and loud sound of breaking water--so much more aggressive than our waves on a nice summer day. The sky is bright blue, the sun hot, and the breeze very brisk and cold, so that you are somehow both hot and cold at the same time. The waters and the air of the Georgia Strait seem so much gentler, tamer, or just more restrained by comparison with this.

Perhaps more appropriate that the chilled English first made their way to the northern waters, while the heated Spanish came here to the south, to Bodega.

A Walk on the Wet Side

I went for a walk on the beach today. I haven’t been down there all winter, and now winter is effectively over. I was struck by how many of the cottages have been spiffed up since last summer. Part of that is because there’s been something of a real estate boom here over the past year, so the new brooms are in sweeping clean. But some part of it also just seems to be standard renewal of summer cottages. Most of these places are tiny: clearly not houses anyone is planning to live in for any length of time. And virtually none of them is winterized so you can live in them only during the summer months. There also seemed to be a bunch of new fences.

It’s not that there weren’t fences on the Point before this last round of property sales, but they tended to be casual, see through items, wire or driftwood. The new fences, though, are much more substantial—massed cedars or heavy lumber--and I’m guessing these are being put up by new owners, who bring a somewhat different sensibility about fences to us. Or maybe they are the fences of people who have recently come by a very strong dog that needs to be restrained at all times from lunging into the street. Surprisingly, roaming dogs are the exception up here. Roaming coyotes; well that’s another matter. And thanks to the roaming coyotes, no roaming cats.

Lawns and fences: American obsessions. Why most people need either one is a mystery to me, Carl Sandburg to the contrary notwithstanding.

Down at the water, the fences are all behind us. The beach is sandy…maybe a mile or two long of continuous beach. None of it’s mine, of course, and I am trespassing at all times. In California, people own the beach to the high tide; but in Washington, they own it to the low tide, so they own it all. There’s a big sign on the beach that says it’s a private beach, no trespassing, but I’ve never seen anybody do anything about it. I fantasize someone coming up to me, and the someone and I are the only people in sight as far as the eye can see, and the someone tells me that I am trespassing, and I imagine saying, “I’m sorry; did I get your sand dirty?’

Today at the beach, there is me, and an older couple (not older than me, of course), and a man with a big black dog. Looking out to the water, there is a 180+ degree view of mostly calm, dark grey water with a single silver streak far off shore where the sun is hitting it, cumulus clouds with light grey bottoms and big fluffy white tops, and blue sky right at the top. The sun is just getting ready to shine upon us fully. Edging the water on the far side are the many Gulf Islands and some of the San Juan Islands. They appear as a continuous land mass, but are themselves separated by water I can’t see. On the water is one working boat, fishing for something, as well as one large swimming seagull and what appear to be four loons. It could scarcely be or feel more desolate, more elemental. And I want to yell to whomever: ‘What’s with all those fences when you’ve got this to look at?’ I don’t know that anybody would have an answer, though.