How strange it is (come to think of it) to find myself walking on the beach nearly every day, and not just any beach, but a beach on a tropical island in the South Pacific. It will still seem vaguely unreal to me, even after seven years here. As an old friend used to say, from his chilly hovel in Portland, "You're living the dream, dude."
But the thing is, this was never my dream. I had no youthful imaginations of tropic shores or swaying palm trees or crimson island sunsets or even girls in grass skirts. I was accustomed to Oregon, my love was of the Oregon forests, and I pretty much figured that I would always be in Oregon. If I fantasized at all of utopia, I would have pictured a log cabin by the side of a brook or a lake, the smoke of a wood fire curling from the chimney. a fishing basket hanging from a nail on the porch beam and a ready fishing rod leaning nearby. And if there were a girl, she would be a pink-cheeked, vigorous sort, more likely to be bundled in wool than in grass.
Good Lord, I've mistakenly received someone else's dream!
I have no great affection for the ocean as some have. For some, it is like the open arms of a lover, an inexhaustible invitation, a long, restful sigh. And there is that. I do feel that. I was drawn also, at least once a year, to the Oregon beach. It is like a giant, lung-swelling breath, ominous and magnificent, something that fills and empties at the same time. I had gotten into the habit with my first wife of going there in September for our anniversary. Her parents owned a beach cabin in those days, right on the oceanfront, just south of Lincoln City. September was the best time, it seemed, as the weather was still warm, and yet the inland heat of full summer, which often ends up in clouds and drizzle on the coast, had departed and left milder conditions in its wake. Those were good times, mostly. The last September trip of our marriage was not.
Still, the Oregon coast bears little in common with the tropics. The water of the Pacific in Oregon is like ice. One had to force himself in and force himself to stay and grow numb so that he could enjoy a brief frolic in the breaking waves before shivering and chattering back to his blanket on the sand. Here in Bali, the ocean is like bath water, and, on the Sanur beaches anyway (those closest to my home). one merely wades in waist deep and lies back as if in a hammock, as the water is so heavy with salt that sinking would require a personal effort. In Oregon, one cannot stay too very long on the beach, as the chill of either morning of evening will chase him away; and here in the South Pacific, one cannot stay too very long at midday lest the glowering sun shrivel him like a slice of bacon and drown him in his own grease.
So, I am a bit of an alien in a foreign paradise. It is not where I planned to be, it is not where I dreamed of being. Nonetheless, seeing that I'm here, I don't mind getting used to it. It's no trouble at all. And it is interesting, and always entertaining, to see what fate itself has had in mind all along!
But the thing is, this was never my dream. I had no youthful imaginations of tropic shores or swaying palm trees or crimson island sunsets or even girls in grass skirts. I was accustomed to Oregon, my love was of the Oregon forests, and I pretty much figured that I would always be in Oregon. If I fantasized at all of utopia, I would have pictured a log cabin by the side of a brook or a lake, the smoke of a wood fire curling from the chimney. a fishing basket hanging from a nail on the porch beam and a ready fishing rod leaning nearby. And if there were a girl, she would be a pink-cheeked, vigorous sort, more likely to be bundled in wool than in grass.
Good Lord, I've mistakenly received someone else's dream!
I have no great affection for the ocean as some have. For some, it is like the open arms of a lover, an inexhaustible invitation, a long, restful sigh. And there is that. I do feel that. I was drawn also, at least once a year, to the Oregon beach. It is like a giant, lung-swelling breath, ominous and magnificent, something that fills and empties at the same time. I had gotten into the habit with my first wife of going there in September for our anniversary. Her parents owned a beach cabin in those days, right on the oceanfront, just south of Lincoln City. September was the best time, it seemed, as the weather was still warm, and yet the inland heat of full summer, which often ends up in clouds and drizzle on the coast, had departed and left milder conditions in its wake. Those were good times, mostly. The last September trip of our marriage was not.
Still, the Oregon coast bears little in common with the tropics. The water of the Pacific in Oregon is like ice. One had to force himself in and force himself to stay and grow numb so that he could enjoy a brief frolic in the breaking waves before shivering and chattering back to his blanket on the sand. Here in Bali, the ocean is like bath water, and, on the Sanur beaches anyway (those closest to my home). one merely wades in waist deep and lies back as if in a hammock, as the water is so heavy with salt that sinking would require a personal effort. In Oregon, one cannot stay too very long on the beach, as the chill of either morning of evening will chase him away; and here in the South Pacific, one cannot stay too very long at midday lest the glowering sun shrivel him like a slice of bacon and drown him in his own grease.
So, I am a bit of an alien in a foreign paradise. It is not where I planned to be, it is not where I dreamed of being. Nonetheless, seeing that I'm here, I don't mind getting used to it. It's no trouble at all. And it is interesting, and always entertaining, to see what fate itself has had in mind all along!
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