Salty Air

I love the Oregon coast. Walking along the bluffs hundreds of feet above the Pacific Ocean’s churning power, a wayward wave slams into the rocks below with such force; the resulting “boom” akin to an explosion.

You can taste the brine in the air.

We squeeze through a narrow path under giant trees draped in sage-green old man’s beard, which hangs from their boughs like swampy tinsel. The lush green ferns stand as tall as us.

The coastal towns themselves are somewhat dilapidated. The salty air is relentless, working its way through layers of paint, metal, and wood. Adding a rusty chipped patina and scales of lichen to homes, trailers, and cars left too long.

It’s not a place where tourists in wet swimsuit dotted cover ups gather, their flip-flops snapping along a sunny sidewalk. No salt water taffy stores here.

There are restaurants though, and we decide to fuel up after our hike.

We discover one tucked in the harbor along the bay, near where we’re staying. It’s almost indeterminable from the other long warehouse type buildings where fish get sorted and heavy equipment stored. We pull into the gravel parking lot; a smattering of cars mixed with stacks of rectangular crab traps reaching impressive heights.

We park. Walk up the wheelchair ramp under a low overhang, busy with baskets of flowers that had probably once been vibrant and bright, but cooler temps and fiercer winds did a number on the delicate petals.

Chad holds the door for me, and I step inside. It smells like warm home cooked food. Our waiter – the only one in the restaurant – appears, and I immediately notice his missing eye. The spot where it once had been is smoothed over, as if by putty. Like a sculptor had just worked out the shape of where an eye goes, but got tired, and decided to finish it some other time.

“Two?”

“Yes.”

“I guess sit wherever you’d like,” his arm gestures to the empty restaurant.

Chad and I choose a corner seat, near the window.

The wood table has paper print outs of the menu arranged across it, protected by a glass covering the entire tabletop. Efficient.

We stare down, immersed in the selection elimination process.

We decide to share a plate of fish and chips.

“No chowder?” asks the waiter, seemingly hurt.

“No, but I’ll take a beer, something light.”

“I like this place,” I say, after he disappears across the well-worn carpet of now indeterminable color, and into the kitchen with our order.

The window panes are opaque in places from salt and weather. They’re dressed in lace curtains with lighthouses and other ocean related motifs crocheted into the design. Perhaps sharp and crisp at one time, they now hang heavy, like week-old birthday cake remnants, long after the candles are blown out.

The walls are covered with random ocean related pieces of art. A series of 5 photographs, someone’s personal ones, show a stormy day at sea. All foam and water over a topsy-turvy wooden deck as it crests and falls, riding the massive waves.

I imagine the person who snapped the shots, had them developed and framed, and finally pounded the nails into the wall to hang them must have been pretty terrified (or exhilarated?), excited to share the experience.

The waiter returns with our steaming plate, piled high with fish and chips. He carries another with two silver ramekins of tartar sauce, crisp coleslaw, and thinly sliced lemon wedges.

I squeeze lemon over my glistening slab of fish, and dig in.

Delicious.

Outside, the sun descends, casting yellows, pinks and oranges. Perking up the gray blue skies and drab buildings with the same unexpected freshness and zest a squeeze of lemon does to fish.