“Landlubber’s Ho!”

September 1, 2007 at 11:50 am (Sweet sticky things, Waxing Nostalgic)

It’s a glorious Labor Day weekend here in Portland, Oregon. A few scattered clouds and temperatures near eighty. So why am I cranky? Envy. Pure green-eyed envy…

I haven’t been to the beach this millennium. It’s been ten years and twenty-seven days, to be exact. My first date with Mizelle was a day-trip to Spirit Mountain, where we each gambled $20. She lost hers in record time, and at the last moment I won $31 on a nickel bet. It paid for gas, lunch and just enough alcohol to keep me from DTing. (Thank you St Ides, for making wine coolers that look like Fanta red…) It was a fun trip, and was the foundation for a friendship that will last a lifetime.

Being a native, a beach trip used to be a yearly event. (If not more often.) Any excuse would do. Spring break? One of my community college buddies’ family had a beach house outside of Tillamook, and spring break 1979 was one for the ages. For three days, we lived on Mickey’s malt liquor, tequila and pancakes. The only music was Dino’s dad’s 101 Strings collection and two cassette tapes: Pink Floyd’s Meddle and Wish You Were Here.

One day, just for kicks, Freewheelin’ and I took a motorcycle ride to Seaside. (I was ridin’ pussy, with a pint of Cuervo to keep us from getting too friendly.) We rode down, drank a quart of beer on the beach while watching the sunset, then rode home. Later that night his chopper was stolen from outside my window.

A couple of weeks before my last trip down, I went camping with Phineas. We pitched tents on the beach (go ahead, snicker) and got stupid drunk. Later a gunfight broke out up the way, so I packed up my tent and prepared to go. Since he was still sobering up, he wanted to wait a little while. His only complaint?

“Dude. There’s only one tent up. We look like queers!”

You know I couldn’t leave that one alone.

And these memories barely scratch the surface. I’ve dropped acid, chased girls, caught girls, fished, survived an earthquake. (February 13, 1981. It was a Friday, I believe…) If I didn’t go at least once a year, things didn’t seem right in my world.

So why am I so pissy about it right now?

Because… a certain young lady I know who had a Saturday night date with yours truly bailed on me to go to Rockaway all by herself! Oh the humanity! I pined, wheedled and generally gave her the Puss and Boots sad eyes, all to no avail.

I understand though. It’s a perfect place to go, adjust your attitude, reflect. The ocean is a powerful place, and just reminiscing has made me feel better. I’m guessing she’ll come back, refreshed and probably better company.

She’s not off the hook totally though.

Since we only have two kid-free weekends a month, certain activities had to be put on the back burner. (Which might explain why I’m so goddamned cranky.) Will she make it up to me? I’m cautiously optimistic.

So, Ms English Major, if you’d be so kind as to come home and help me adjust my apostrophe, so to speak, we can turn the title of this piece into a salutation, and not a noun…

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