Grayland: At the edge of the earth, take a deep and fresh breath

GRAYLAND, Grays Harbor County — It is the same today, in so many ways, as it has been for decades, this strip of Washington coastline from Westport to Tokeland.

Flat, sand-covered, patched with spiky grasses. Nearly all the trees bend inland, stripped of growth on their seaward side — either testament to the power of the wind, steady and relentless as it blows in from the sea, or silent signposts: "I will bend; I will not break."

The residents, too, are steady and relentless. Lots of them operate their own roadside businesses, cafes, small groceries, gift shops, or motels and cabins, beachside, that splay out in strips toward the shore. Nothing fancy — certainly nothing like the condominium comfort of the shore to the north. Nothing fancy in these people either, just folks.

Lots of the locals have been here for years.

Visitors seem the same, in their own steady, relentless effort to get to the ocean, year after year.

It was my family's pursuit, when I was small. It is still mine.

Whenever we talked about "the ocean," it was this stretch we talked about. We rarely went anywhere else. I'm convinced it was the simplicity of the place and the friendships we formed that kept us coming back year after year during my father's spring break. He was a high-school teacher.

Now, as then, however, what brings me back to life is almost, at times, what seems the lack of it.

The feeling of standing at the edge of the earth, where gray meets gray meets gray — the sky, the sea and the sand, all the same color. The muted, constant, dull roar of the surf.

And there's nothing else. There really isn't. There are no distractions like mountainous rocks, towering waves or craggy tidal pools. There is nothing but an enormous stretch of sand and an equally enormous stretch of sea. Flat and endless and unchanging.

I used to try to take as big a breath as I could, it all tasted so good. I'd stand there at the edge of the world all bundled up in boots and wool, completely uninterested in what lay behind me — either a busy world of clam diggers if it was early morning, or nothing at all if it was late in the afternoon.

I used to think my lungs would burst, I wanted so much of that air. I still do.

I would lean my little body into the wind and try to let it rest there.

I would bend, but I would not break.

Copyright © The Seattle Times Company

---