A driftwood fort reeks. That’s a first for me in a thousand driftwood forts. Someone or multiple persons decorated the fort’s exterior and interior with crab shells and crab legs, probably 30 pieces of crab altogether. Someone even staked up a crab shell like the pig’s head in Lord of the Flies. There’s a gathering of feathers and rocks, too. I dub this structure Fort Crab and adorn it with a chunk of crab buoy discovered ten minutes ago at the wrack line near the South Jetty.
The ocean is a uniform gray with bleach-white breakers. I am the only one here for miles around.
My dearly departed husky enters my mind. She’s still visiting me in my dreams. I have some newcomers to my dreams as well, dead people from my former life.
An assembly of gulls on the wet sand point south into the wind. They almost seem like a phalanx.
Why do I sit here on this driftlog and write this rumination? I wonder who will read it? Are my driftwood and jetty thoughts merely circumlocutions? Saying it too slant? Can they reach landfall? Are they merely clouds that never get to rain?
Can I go the distance? The 15th round? A draw? Can I make it into the fifth set? Can I rally on the back nine into the gale? Can I kick at the end of the distance race and dive across the tape? There is no pinch hit scenario in fashioning a sports metaphor for my current predicament.
I’ve seen the spout from a whale’s blowhole three times in 20 years of rambling Oregon Coast beaches. The third time is happening right now.
Whales practice democracy and some sing mysterious songs. Perhaps they are singing the song of democracy. We can’t hear it. We’re oblivious to its clarion call; we’re underwater with rage and superstition.
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