Sandy days

Lucy and I stretched our legs for two hours this afternoon, feet and paws crunching on gravelled walks, sinking into soft, spongy grasses, and finally stepping out onto miles of sandy beaches. They say, as my Grandmother would say, that you can walk from Yachats to Waldport along the beaches. Of course, the tide would have to be in your favour, and you'd need to be in decent shape since it is a few miles. Eight miles as the crow flies, or seagull.

As we walked past the Adobe Resort, along the path gravelled with what appears to be crushed rock from the rocky beaches right in that area, I noticed that a flower memorial has been started for the two young high-school seniors that died there last Saturday. They had been playing catch with a football and must have not noticed a sneaker wave come in. The surf was high and the winter ocean rough last Saturday, and there was a small craft advisory out. They got caught by a wave, were pulled out to sea, and both drowned. Both bodies were recovered; one within a half hour and the other early the next morning after a local out for a walk spotted the body. A tragic story that puts me on alert with wee Lucy, and myself. I love being by the ocean and walking the beaches and trails, and I try to keep an eye on the water at all times.

Wikipedia states: A Sneaker wave is a popular term used to describe disproportionately large coastal waves that can often appear in a wave train without warning.
Because they are much larger than preceding waves, sneaker waves can catch unwary swimmers, washing them out to sea. It is not uncommon for people walking or standing on beaches and ocean jetties to also be washed into the sea.

This afternoon I enjoyed a half hour in the local Lions Thrift store, securing 3 family-style videos (no blood, no car chases, no guns), a Colleen McCullough book, The Touch, a coloured oil/water 'toy' that changes shapes between two small sheets of plexiglass, and a fine  brushed cotton shirt in my favourite colour. What's not to like about that? Oh, all of that? Cost me five bucks.

I am living across the street from the local county fire department and ambulance hall, which in and of itself is rather reassuring. I've noticed a pair of goats tied up outside the hall during the day - yes, I wrote goats. In early evening they are in the back of a canopied pick-up, complete with an appropriate cage, hay on the outside of the cage which they tug at, as they should. In the window of the fire-hall door - the small entrance door, not the bay doors - there is a sign posted that reads, Eggs: $3/dozen. As I walked by the hall today after my wee shopping spree at the thrift store, I saw the goats tied up, and a woman was there giving them a bit of hay. I stopped and said I was curious about the goats, and why they were there. The woman looks to be in late fifties, graying hair pulled back away from her face, well worn and clean jeans, a blue checked flannel work shirt, and glasses. She smiles at me and says they are hers and they come to work with her every day. She has other goats on her farm, and they wander about, but these two Pygmy Goats will have nothing to do with her regular goats, and whine all day if they don't come with her. So she packs them up in the truck and along they come. If it's raining in town, she leaves them in the back of the truck, thus the well set-up area where they can eat and rest. I ask her about the eggs. Somehow I know they are going to be hers. Yes, they are hers, and she has some available. It's an honour system. Just tuck myself inside the bay door, turn to the left, and go a few feet down the hall. There's an ice cooler there with eggs and an envelope for my three dollars - make change from the envelope as I need. I confirm, again hardly needing to, that they are free-range eggs. She smiles and nods. I'm sure I've just been pegged as someone from the city, which I am not. Why did I even ask that? She asks if I might return the carton when I'm done with it; of course. She takes up a broom and starts to sweep the cement floors; I figure she is employed as a custodian of the fire-hall.

When I get home I look at the varied sized eggs; white eggs, brown eggs, and what appears to be a few light green eggs. Those ones should be interesting! I did grow up on a farm but I admit I've never seen egg shells that colour.

Later this afternoon as I am looking out the window across the street I see a man seated at the front of one of the two bay doors of the hall, a plastic sheet draped around him, and the Goat Woman, as I am now calling her, is cutting his hair. Somehow it doesn't surprise me that she cuts hair too. Maybe she'll cut mine in a few weeks when I need a trim!