"Not Quite"

“The Beast”: A cantankerous curmudgeon if there ever was one, he didn’t seem to appreciate the ogre insinuation, so we recently swapped the beastly moniker for a more literary one: Rocinante.* Hoping to sweeten the ‘ole sourpuss with a new handle, “Rocinante” seemed a shoo-in for a geriatric Ford Club Wagon that moves with the lightning speed of a three-toed sloth on his “good” days, and on his ever-increasing “bad” days? Well. Let’s not go there. (Rocinante wouldn’t even if he could.) Tilted windmills notwithstanding, Rocinante lumbered down the road recently to a seaside destination that almost put a spring in his prehistoric transmission and a bounce in his antique axles. Almost. But not quite.

Located on a peninsula on the south side of the entrance to Grays Harbor, scenic Westport is the seaside home of just over 2,100 residents. Roughly 25 miles from us, the jaunty coastal community is reminiscent of a downscaled version of California’s Monterey and Cannery Row. Officially incorporated in 1914, Westport once called itself "The Salmon Capital of the World.” It still hosts the largest marina on the outer coast of the Pacific Northwest and is home to a large commercial fishing fleet and several recreational charter fishing vessels.

The driving impetus for our day trip to the ocean/beach aboard Rocinante was to see sand and surf again before monsoon season settles in to stay. Born and raised within spitting distance of superlative beaches, however, we forget that “beach” means one thing in Californian and “not quite” the same in Washingtonian. (You’d think we’d learn, huh?) In fact, it was rather a shock the first time we saddled up Rocinante and rumbled west.

You see, in southern California lingo, “beach” = tons of fine, sugar-white sand that can burn the soles right off your feet during summer. “Beach” = world-class surfing, swimming, wading, sand castle building, warm water, a mild, Mediterranean climate, sand volleyball, $6.00 a day and/or metered parking (if you can find an empty space), sun bronzed skin (on the locals; tourists are often mistaken for lobsters), and sun by the truckload.

In the Evergreen State, “beach” = well, uh, um… suffice it to say that we have yet to see a single surfer ride Washington waves. Locals claim they exist, but we suspect they haul surfers in early for afternoon rust removal. Tip: (we’ll throw this in for free): don’t ever use the word “swim” in conjunction with “beach” in western Washington. You’ll draw stares like you’ve just flown in from Pluto. Ditto the water. Natives insist that the ocean hugging Washington's coast is the same one tickling shores further south. We have our doubts. After all, this is the only “beach” we’ve ever visited where ski sweaters and snow suits are standard issue (we keep forgetting this too, and usually wind up as blue as peacocks after every “beach” trip). And that old “sun”? Are you kidding?!

Speaking of “old,” someone asked us about Rocinante’s age the other day. “Just how old is Rocinante?” The curmudgeon isn’t quite saying. However, his coughing, sputtering, wheezing roadside-isms generally register just below the threshold of audible pain, if that’s any clue. Near as we can tell, Rocinante rolled off the Ford assembly line roughly the same time Henry perfected his autograph. One thing about Rocinante that hasn’t quite gone the way of all flesh, for which we are eternally grateful after every joyous outing to western Washington’s “sand and surf:” the heater!

* With profound apologies to Miguel de Cervantes

Story ID:	1420
Written by:	Kristine L. (bio, link, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Only Here
Location:	-- USA
Year:	2006