Incinerator Rock at Long Beach
The long narrow parking lot is nearly full with vehicles. You slowly inch forward while your eyes scan your surroundings. You pass a camper van with all the doors open. The smell of Bavarian smokies fills your nose and makes your stomach growl. A man with dreadlocks emerges from the side door with his wetsuit half peeled off revealing his hairy torso, clutching a hotdog in his left hand. You smile and drive on. After passing a few more occupied stalls, a silver BMW, a series of Harley Davidson bikes, and a beat up Toyota Tercel, you find a vacant space.
After parking and walking the length of the lot, only a massive pile of weather-beaten logs stands in the way of you and the vast expanse of sand and water. As you awkwardly employ each of your limbs to clamber over the sandy wooden tombstones a massive gust of wind assaults you from the right. Nearly tumbling over, you instinctively grab a hold of the closest thing you can find: a wiry middle aged woman standing atop the logs taking in the view.
As apologies abound from your mouth in a steady stream, the woman giggles youthfully and offers a hand while you compose yourself on the elevated vantage point.
"Breathtaking, isn’t it?" She says starring at the scene spread out before you. Her voice is warm and comforting. For someone you assess to be roughly 55-60 years of age, the woman appears fit and nimble standing confidently on the uneven, slippery footing. Her short sun-bleached hair blows wildly in the wind. Before you can respond the woman begins again, “First visit? Nice time of year to come. You know when I first came here back in 1977 the weather was just as beautiful and seemed to last weeks. One week without rain on Long Beach is hard to imagine, never mind two, but that’s how I remember it.”
"The good weather must follow you," you reply in a playful tone.
“Yeah well, I first came here with a boyfriend during a summer in university, his dad lived in Ucluelet and worked in forestry. We spent weeks on this beach. Back then you could drive your vehicles right out onto the sand, as if was an open freeway.” The woman does an exaggerated sweeping motion with her extended arm as if to demonstrate the empty space she is speaking of.
You switch your focus from the woman’s animated face to the stretch of what seems to be endless sand to the southeast. The beach is scattered with bodies; some walking hand in hand into the hazy horizon, some small bodies digging with great concentration as deep as their shovels will allow, and some emerging from the depths of the sea glistening in their form fitting rubber suits. Cars are somehow hard to picture in this relaxed, leisurely setting.
“We stayed in our Beetle,” she continues. “Not a Van, but a Beetle! The seats didn’t extend back very far and it made for a pretty uncomfortable sleep. It wasn’t your typical camper I know, but we made it work. We spent one whole day scouring the beach for the ideal pieces of driftwood planks to place over the seats to give us a flat surface to sleep on.” The woman’s smile extends farther across her face as she replays the memory in her mind, even giving a brief chuckle at the thought. “The difficulty was finding just the right size. By the time the driftwood was laid across the seats and we got in with our sleeping bags, our noses squished against the roof of the car!”
You picture the woman in her youth, long flowing golden hair and sparkling eyes strolling the beach bare foot in rolled up bell-bottoms.
“It sounds like you and this place have quite the history. It must be pretty special if you are still coming back,” you comment.
“You bet. I’ll never stop coming back, I feel as if part of me resides here. Of course it’s changed over the years, but look at this,” she motions once again to the view, “you can’t visit a place like this and not be deeply moved in some way.”
She was right. You felt it: a wild unbounded feeling of freedom.
BACK ON THE ROAD
After parking and walking the length of the lot, only a massive pile of weather-beaten logs stands in the way of you and the vast expanse of sand and water. As you awkwardly employ each of your limbs to clamber over the sandy wooden tombstones a massive gust of wind assaults you from the right. Nearly tumbling over, you instinctively grab a hold of the closest thing you can find: a wiry middle aged woman standing atop the logs taking in the view.
As apologies abound from your mouth in a steady stream, the woman giggles youthfully and offers a hand while you compose yourself on the elevated vantage point.
"Breathtaking, isn’t it?" She says starring at the scene spread out before you. Her voice is warm and comforting. For someone you assess to be roughly 55-60 years of age, the woman appears fit and nimble standing confidently on the uneven, slippery footing. Her short sun-bleached hair blows wildly in the wind. Before you can respond the woman begins again, “First visit? Nice time of year to come. You know when I first came here back in 1977 the weather was just as beautiful and seemed to last weeks. One week without rain on Long Beach is hard to imagine, never mind two, but that’s how I remember it.”
"The good weather must follow you," you reply in a playful tone.
“Yeah well, I first came here with a boyfriend during a summer in university, his dad lived in Ucluelet and worked in forestry. We spent weeks on this beach. Back then you could drive your vehicles right out onto the sand, as if was an open freeway.” The woman does an exaggerated sweeping motion with her extended arm as if to demonstrate the empty space she is speaking of.
You switch your focus from the woman’s animated face to the stretch of what seems to be endless sand to the southeast. The beach is scattered with bodies; some walking hand in hand into the hazy horizon, some small bodies digging with great concentration as deep as their shovels will allow, and some emerging from the depths of the sea glistening in their form fitting rubber suits. Cars are somehow hard to picture in this relaxed, leisurely setting.
“We stayed in our Beetle,” she continues. “Not a Van, but a Beetle! The seats didn’t extend back very far and it made for a pretty uncomfortable sleep. It wasn’t your typical camper I know, but we made it work. We spent one whole day scouring the beach for the ideal pieces of driftwood planks to place over the seats to give us a flat surface to sleep on.” The woman’s smile extends farther across her face as she replays the memory in her mind, even giving a brief chuckle at the thought. “The difficulty was finding just the right size. By the time the driftwood was laid across the seats and we got in with our sleeping bags, our noses squished against the roof of the car!”
You picture the woman in her youth, long flowing golden hair and sparkling eyes strolling the beach bare foot in rolled up bell-bottoms.
“It sounds like you and this place have quite the history. It must be pretty special if you are still coming back,” you comment.
“You bet. I’ll never stop coming back, I feel as if part of me resides here. Of course it’s changed over the years, but look at this,” she motions once again to the view, “you can’t visit a place like this and not be deeply moved in some way.”
She was right. You felt it: a wild unbounded feeling of freedom.
BACK ON THE ROAD