We had two days to kill after leaving Bellingham and before picking up the camper van. We spent two nights at Loge in Westport, WA, the site of our first night in the camper van from our trip two years ago down the Oregon coast.
Loge is an old roadside motel cum surf camp. The old roadside motel has been painted over in Pacific ocean greys with aquamarine trim. There is a coffee bar and communal firepit surrounded by covered berths for campers and tents. A stage under white backyard lights was empty this go-around where it played host to a bluegrass band two summers ago, pre-Covid.
We walked the docks of the marina downtown, had fish and chips for dinner.
We drove down to the beach one day, a wide stretch of grey, grey sand, grey water, and grey sky. The lack of contrast played tricks on your eyes. I had no depth perception and felt a little like the small girl in Poltergeist, sitting in front of the snow on the television set. A piece of driftwood or a dog running down the never-ending swath of grayness stood out in stark relief, an object to consume all your attention in a sea of negative space and white visual noise.
We watched the surfers bounce in the knee-high swells. The boys were a little envious, despite the bone chilling sea temps. Two dozen black wetsuits wrestled with shortboards in the grey foam, yet we only saw one or two surfers actually catch a small wave, a far cry from the surfing we have become accustomed to in Sri Lanka. (On the other side of the jetty, massive mounds of deep blue water swelled, but never broke.)
After some time, Sam could contain himself no longer, stripped down to his swim trubks, and threw himself at Neptune's feet, the crash of the icy Pacific slamming him in the chest as he gave himself over wholly to the call of the briny deep. The ocean in the Pacific Northwest is a frigid partner, yet the cleansing properties of cold saltwater still can purify and, for that, still can tempt. For lack of sunlight, it would take Sam a long time to warm up from that swim.
The kids explored makeshift driftwood shelters for hours, and I was reminded we had no camper van to retreat to. Last time we were here, we had peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the van after the beach, fine sand like talcum powder in between our toes.
We made our way back to Seattle the next day. We traded in our rental car for the keys to "Hanna Hanna", our homestead, our covered wagon, our trusty steed for the week. She previously went by "Hamma Hamma", but was recently purchased by a young woman named Hanna. In anticipation of our borrowing her for the week, the fine folks at Peace Vans redubbed her "Hanna Hanna" just for us.
We pulled out of Peace Vans and headed north, Elise at the wheel (Elise was kind enough to chauffeur the entire trip; my driver's license had expired during the last year stuck overseas).
Our first campsite was at Fort Casey State Park on Whidbey Island. We had to take the ferry from Mukilteo to get there.
The campground was next to the ferry terminal taking travelers further west to Port Townsend. We were woken the next morning by a low, deep moan carrying over Puget Sound. Yet, we could see nothing through the thick mist that had enveloped the campground. A foghorn? The guttural howl of some creature from the bottom? The intermittent groan persisted. We had no idea what it was until the fog gradually lifted and we could see just see the dull outline of the ferry moving offshore, a giant kraken pulling itself through the water.
Elise and I were both astounded (and, honestly, a little shocked and embarrassed) by the size of some people's motorized homes. One of the things I love most about the camper van is everything I love most in life fits inside it. It is a VW Eurovan, not large, but big enough to my wife, my kids, a cooler, my running shoes, and a few duffels of clothes. And that's it. If the world crumbled away beneath us and we lost everything else, we would still have everything we need.
The owners of the Montana Monstrosity parked in the campsite next to us likely felt the same way. I just don't feel the need to bring a big screen TV and leather recliner camping with me. Yes, it would be nice to treat ourselves to a hot shower at the end of a long day, but there is also something to he said for bathing in a cold spigot.
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