Twenty one years ago, Marika, our eleven-year old lab mix, Zasu, and I were on our longest RV trip in our 24 foot motorhome – six weeks along the Oregon coast. We had come for a birding festival in Charleston, near Coos Bay, at the beginning of September, and then we spent the next five weeks inching our way up the map. We spent time in Florence and Newport, then hopped and skipped up to Astoria, over the long, long bridge into Washington, then back down the coast as far as Bandon, before finally heading home to Phoenix. It was so fun to stay in a place for a few days, do laundry in small towns, and drive no more than a hundred miles in a day, if we drove at all. It was the first time we talked about someday, living in an RV full-time.
According to the Oregon campgrounds book that we were using back then to find campsites, Tillicum Campground had ocean view sites. They didn’t take reservations, so we decided to put up a prayer to the universe, and drive through on the chance that a spot would be available. We turned in and drove past the sites tucked into the dark trees, down to the ocean loop. Just as we turned the corner, an RV pulled out of spot 18, right on the bluff, overlooking the waves. There was a patch of grass with a picnic table and fire pit, and a fence of wooden posts running along the edge of the bluff. We parallel parked and leveled, and settled in just as it began to rain.
It was late September, and very windy most of the time, but we walked on the beach every day. This is where Marika took that ultimate photo of me, standing on the beach with a wide-leg stance and my arms outstretched, my head tilted back into the big wind. It is my go-to photo of pure joy, inside and out.
And now, twenty one years later, we again, spent some time in Coos Bay, and are slowing making our way up the Oregon coast. And I wanted to camp at Tillicum again.
We knew ahead of time, via their website, that most of the spaces that are big enough for our 32 foot RV and the car, were already reserved. But there was one 38 foot spot that we could fit in, if we could park the car in day use. And so we agreed to check it out.
We left a little after ten, to get there a little after noon, that perfect time between people departing and arriving, and put up a prayer for an open, overview spot. It was an easy drive north, but when we drove through the campground, that one spot mentioned online was not open. We considered looking for two smaller spots next to each other, since it was only thirteen dollars a night with Marika’s National Parks Senior Pass. Marika said she’d even be willing to stay in a shaded spot up on the hill.
On our drive through the loops again, we stopped at the entrance and talked with the camp host, who was just coming out of his trailer. He pointed to the bulletin board, noting which spots were open for the next few nights, and handed me a map that also listed the length of each site. None of the available sites was oceanfront. And then he pointed to a second column on the board that I hadn’t noticed, listing spaces that were available for the next 14 days, and not listed on the reservation system. And one of them, space 44, was 40 feet, long enough for us to be able to parallel park the RV. And he said, yes, we could park the car in the day use lot.
We unhooked the car, then easily parallel parked the RV since there was no one yet in the smaller reserved spaces in front or behind. It took a few tries to get far enough into the space so that the driver’s side slide would be within the lines, and still leave enough room next to the bushes on the passenger side for the opposite slide to open. And we had to adjust a few more times, leveling up and down, so that Cody’s ramp over the steps wasn’t at too sharp an angle.
In the process of the maneuvering, Marika forgot to raise the leveling jacks before backing up, and they flipped forward, in the opposite direction that they are intended to flip. I screamed and she stopped moving. We both looked under the rig and the jacks looked like bird legs, angled backwards into the asphalt. She wanted to try knocking them back into place. I thought she should roll forward a little and see if they would go into place on their own. And they did. Thank God. Because it is hard to find folks who work on these jacks. And it is never cheap.
Finally, we were settled in. I opened all of the windows to let the ocean in, and unpacked the insides while Marika took Cody to park the car in day use and pay for three nights. It was after one and I was hungry, so I had lunch, enjoyed a smoke, and, after they returned with some good check-in stories, I changed into my sneakers and took myself for a walk to find the steps to the beach.
It was glorious. Blue sky. Big ocean. The tide rolling in. And behind me, the rocks and the cliffs and the campground. Many of the fence posts along the cliffs were now exposed, some were hanging in mid-air, the soil and sand that they used to stand in just gone. The bushes were thicker and taller, obscuring the view of the trailers and vans parked in their campsites.
I walked south until I saw the white roof vents on top of our RV. And I thought back to that first time we were here, how we rode our bikes up the road on the other side of the 101 and found the hatchery, flew our kite on the beach in the wind, and sat around the campfire until after the sun went down. All kinds of things that we never do anymore.
A few weeks ago when we were still camped at our plover campsite, I had a huge meltdown, where I was seriously considering leaving Marika and this lifestyle. I was only focusing on what wasn’t working, how Marika wasn’t helping plan our next route, how little we have in common, and how alone I felt. I was drowning in self-pity and envy, anger and blame.
I screamed. I cried. I considered all kinds of exit options. And in that space of feeling that I do have a way out, I realized that, once again, this is not about Marika, or RVing, or trip planning. It’s about me being my own best friend.
It’s my life lesson, it seems. To fill the hole left by the death of my brother and best friend when I was six years old.
That I am responsible for my own happiness. That I can’t expect another person to fulfill my needs. That I need to connect more with others. And that I do love Marika. And this lifestyle. And I’m going to have to work with these issues, no matter where I am.
I looked at all of the goodness of this life, and who Marika is, and I claimed responsibility for my actions and inactions. I started listening to music again. And dancing. And encouraging myself to walk further than the days before. And I called some friends, which always lightens my heart.
Marika and I have found our way back to talking and being kind and grateful. Together, we planned this next leg of our journey. And together, we put the prayer up to the universe for this oceanfront spot in the campground.
Yes, we are absolute opposites in many ways. But there is so much power in that, like magnets, if we are bringing the best of our differences together for the bigger One Love.
Last night, we invited our camping neighbor to join us for dinner at the local Chinese restaurant. She’s 70, lives in Yachats, but is between living situations, so she’s camping in a tent and driving a rental car. She is looking for a room to rent, and also trying to sell her car that’s not working. Marika thought it would be nice for her to get out of the cold, enjoy some good food, and we like to hear people’s stories.
We had a nice time, the food was delicious, and I was glad she joined us. This morning, she thanked us again, and said she woke up feeling really good for the first time in a long time, even though she had locked her keys in the car for the third time. And later, she left a note on our windshield, wishing us safe travels, and asking for a photo of Cody so she could do a painting for us.
Yesterday afternoon, I asked Marika to bring her camera down to the beach to take a photo like the one from twenty years ago. We studied the original and argued over how my feet were positioned. Then, on the beach, I stood facing the water with the cliffs and the campground behind me, and we took several shots at various angles to recreate the original. But the sun casted shadows in each one.
“You know what?” I said. “It doesn’t have to be the same. That was then. This is now. How about if I have the ocean behind me?” You’ll be all in shadow,” she said. “That’s OK. Let’s try it.” I spread my arms and smiled.
