Full Charleston Moon

Fog enveloped Elmer and me at dawn on a tiny stretch of Coos Bay beach. We were adventuring in Charleston, a fishing village that takes gritty to a new high (low?). Noir lurks there like Double Indemnity, especially when light shines outside and wind shears siding off half-century-old derelict trailers that have seen more than their fair share of occupants dying alone because of lard, booze, pills, handgun, or worse, loneliness, or even far worse, bitterness.

Low tide approached. Visibility: one hundred yards. A flashing yellow sign erected in the dunes read: ROUGH BAR. A fading half moon hung low and crooked in the sky. It looked almost drunk up there.

To our left, two dozen brown pelicans dive bombed shallow waters, splashing down between rotten pilings. They disappeared, then reappeared, then perched themselves on the pilings and squawked away, sounding almost diabolical.

To our right, I saw the faint outline of a row of huge commercial fishing boats with a few deck lights throwing dull beams into the gray. I heard voices on the boats but couldn’t make anything out. Maybe old salts were plotting a murder against a stoner fisherman. Hey, just throw that lazy hippie kid overboard in the Sea of Alaska. He fell. Drunk. An accident.

In front of us, a dredger anchored in the narrow channel. It was dark and silent.

I heard the putter of a small boat heading our direction. Seconds later, two men wearing hoodies appeared and motored slowly toward the bar. I heard the men talking but couldn’t make anything out. Maybe buddies were plotting a murder against a cheating girlfriend. Hey, let’s play William Tell in the clearcut. Bad aim. Drunk. An accident.

Behind us, a massive marine dock and ship repair building stood listing and peeling on pilings.

More light was rising. Moments like these make me wish I could paint dark oils on big canvases because this early morning on the Oregon Coast demanded such a rich seascape. No poem or or film or photograph could capture its breathing, heavy beauty and jagged juxtapositions. Forget a watercolor or pod caster describing it on a phone recorder. Only an oil painting could and most of would be left up to the soul and imagination.

Elmer was racing around the sand and then disappeared over a bank. I followed at a jog.

More light. Fog began its coiling retreat. Gray was fizzling out. I didn’t want it to go. Gray is a lot more interesting than brightness. Same goes for people.

I stood atop the bank and looked down toward Elmer, He was prowling the bay’s edge, sniffing out what the high tide had delivered. Something to my right caught my eye. I turned. It was a corpulent homeless woman bent over, digging for something in the mud. Her pants were almost to her knees. No trace of underwear. She mooned me with a full ass snow white moon!

I had to have that moon shining in this seascape! I demand it!

And yes, I wanted Elmer in the painting, too. howling at the moon. You know the one.