Greetings from Brookings, Oregon

Not to be confused with the city in South Dakota, wall high crashing waves ever desperate to reach the streets of this small town prove exactly the opposite of that similarly named high desert truck stop way back in the plains.

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Not to be confused with the city in South Dakota, wall high crashing waves ever desperate to reach the streets of this small town prove exactly the opposite of that similarly named high desert truck stop way back in the plains.

A homeless man, or rather a man who’s chosen to live on any given beach here so close to the California state line, ties his dog–some part wolf breed–to a bench and finds his way into the public showers. The beast just stands, waiting and watching for his only friend in the world to return a bit cleaner.

We burn wood afternoon and night to stay warm outside of the Airstream. Twenty minutes south, the Redwoods loom, ancient gods from a pantheon no longer worshipped, relics of a time when this land was host to raw natural power.

We’ll wander through those trees, each one of us, down to our youngest baby, still reverent. We’ll dip in and out of bars for desserts and IPAs after the boys are all tucked in safely, warmly with Nanny. We’ll climb stacks on the beaches and walk as far as we can before the threat of high tide motions us to return or be stranded in some cove.

It will never rain, but coastal mist will cancel out the sun, a marine later of wet ever present.