And from 101 to La Push is 14 miles, 14 miles of cut and standing timber, 14 miles of wildflowers and saplings reclaiming the freshly logged forest, bold intrusions of thick brush, a dark, slow moving river, and tremendous anticipation.
There were places to park at the first beach and the second beach, and I thought about stopping, but decided I'd go to the end of the road before making my decision. At the third beach I found the community, not really a town, but a fishing settlement, the real, working world of a group of Native Americans who cater to tourists in addition to pursuing their traditional occupation of fishermen.
Cars were parked, and I drove on. A store and rental cabins appeared, and I drove on. The road rose up and ended at something that looked like a school. From that raised parking place I could see a major part of La Push. Behind me, along the creek, were the houses and boats. The jetty went out almost to an island, steep sides with a thick stand of fir trees on the top. Looking around, all the coastal islands, and there were many, had miniature forests on their flattened tops, unless they were so eroded that they were jumbles of sharpened pencil points. The little wooded islands stretched up and down the coast. The sky was a dull, endless gray and blended softly with the ocean at the horizon. I looked down the rocky beach at the late afternoon surf, and it was dotted with surfers, lots of surfers.
Looking down the beach, I could see perhaps a dozen guys out. The dull gray waves were shoulder to head high and nicely shaped. They were also a couple of blocks south, so I turned the truck around.
Back past the stores and cabins I saw gravel roads leading through the trees, toward the beach. I drove among the high brush until I came out on the beach. I was driving on cobble size stones that seemed to get bigger the closer I got to the sand. Soon I could go no farther. Cars were parked all over, and huge drift logs blocked off the actual beach. I parked and got out.
People were camped all over, many of them surfers. There were tents, and there were people car camping . Surfboards leaned against logs and vans, and guys in trunks sat in folding chairs enjoying the warmth of the dull sun.
The surf looked good, not perfect, not really big or really small or really anything. It was just good shaped, head high, not crowded, get out and do it surf.
A short exchange with some of the guys who had been out charged me up. In a couple of minutes I was in the wet suit and ready. For an hour and a half, I had the surf I'd thought about for two years. It wasn't the best surf I'd ever had, but it was in many ways the most rewarding. It was all the romance and mystery of the far Pacific Northwest. It was a place that had waves when most places were flat. It was a Mecca for surfers from all over Washington; it was free camping on a perfect beach. It was forests that ended at the rocky shore. It was the promise of winter waves that were probably the size of houses. It was a destination, a place where one could be simply a dedicated surfer among dozens of dedicated surfers. It certainly wasn't the city beaches of Southern California or the Santa Cruz scene. This was surfing like it was in California back in the sixties, basic and uncrowded. The rides were short but fast, and by 6:30 the tide or the wind or both had changed to the point where there was nothing but a take off, almost a close out on every wave. I hung it up.
A parking spot right up against the drift logs was open., and I backed up until I almost touched the logs. Hungry from surfing and not willing to give up my parking spot to drive the dozen miles or so to the last roadside grill, I walked to the Indian store. They had some burritos, chips, fruit, beer, and all the odds and ends one would need to survive the night.
The twilight that lasts for hours was washing over the day. The last surfers, down near the massive, dark headland, were finally giving up and paddling in. The guys around me were standing around, watching the waves and talking surf. I finished my quick meal, opened a beer and joined them.
It seemed we talked for hours, while the setting sun crept imperceptibly toward the horizon. I learned all about the surf at La Push, and how, with few exceptions, there was always surf here. I learned about how and when Westport, the place I'd stopped two years earlier, broke. Used as I was to driving an hour and a half to the coast, I was amazed that some of these guys drove three to four hours, around Puget Sound, through winding country roads, over ferries, and through tourist choked towns to get here. They came and hung on, cooking on the beach, sleeping in cars, and living simply in order to spend two precious days in the wonderful Washington surf.
Still, the waning day still refused to end, so I bid farewell, in the purple twilight, to the other surfers, and crawled into my sleeping bag in the back of the truck. The tailgate was down, and I could watch the fading sun, hidden in the thick clouds, extinguish itself with a sigh in the west.
I was still a thousand miles from home, a drive in a Summer rainstorm, a long haul through Oregon, a night in a rest stop on the California, Oregon border, a kayak trip at Point St. George, walks in the redwoods, a familiar swim in the Eel, a bout of kayak surfing in Pacifica, and a final, sad trip home. But at that moment, the future didn't matter one damn bit. That the surf would be small the next day, and that rain would muck up my urge to kayak that coast didn't occur to me. What hit me in the fading light was a song.
It was. a song from the "Fear" album by a wonderful new group called "Toad the Wet Sprocket." The song was, "I Will Not Take These Things for Granted."
And, watching the last light play out in slow motion over the endless Pacific Ocean, thinking of all I'd seen and done on this trip and a hundred others, I thought of the taking of things for granted, of how much of life is wasted that way. I certainly will not take any of these things for granted: perfect morning waves, redwoods damp with spring rains and musty fungus, otters playing in the kelp, moonlight flickering on dark bays, seals sunning on the rocks, verdant coastal hillsides, wildflowers in the spring, winter storms in remote canyons, shifting coastal dunes, laughing children at play, glassy surf at remote beaches, starfish among the kelp, clam chowder on the wharf, solitary, reflective beaches, wind swept coastal bluffs, snowy mountains, raging rivers, lizards scurrying on trails, perfect sandy coves, kayaking between storm tossed sea stacks, Carmel art galleries, carving stone along side the road, capturing some fleeting bit of beauty on canvas, kicking through layers of fallen forest leaves, tracing lines of eroded cliffs, sharing a beer with strangers, wading through cool rivers, sleeping under brilliant stars, deep silences of the heart, singing in the shower, dancing naked in waterfalls, looking down on cities, looking up at the universe, looking out for eternity. I will hold all these things in my heart, but I will not take them for granted.
With the waves of La Push, a summer closes, a book ends. And as winter fades into spring, I sense the promise of another summer, another chance to get close to something elusive and wondrous, to follow my own path deep into the mystery of it all, to spit in the faces of the morbid and rabid gods that plague and pain us, to transform the self with every shaft of light, to dance through the fields of pure chance, to bend the spectrum of knowledge with the prism of imagination.
I've never slept so well or dreamed so richly as I did that night. I drifted off with the knowledge that a pearl of perfection was at the core of every day, that the trials and tribulations of my life were simply games designed to add drama to existence, to life in its richness, its complexity, its perfection, its incredibly rich paradox: mortality and eternity locked in an embrace that is simply this moment, this moment that echoes down the corridors of space and time, this moment that is heaven, earth, matter, energy, god, you, me, and everything.