The run down: Nap until 9 PM, wake up and drink 2 French presses of coffee by midnight whilst listening to King Midas Sound (“Waiting for You”) and The Walkmen (“Bows and Arrows”) with a little bit of Marc Maron WTFing some poor comedian. At midnight-thirty I pop two Percasets, get picked up and we gather people and supplies (Brendan and his girlfriend/ ice, beer, energy drinks) and get on the freeway by 1:30. It’s a hot summer night so the windows are down which makes it impossible to talk, so I lean my head against the window sill and enjoy the velocity. The satellite radio alternates twixt Bob Seeger and Bing Crosby, which is kind of like freebasing Gummi Bears then skin popping a few grains of Yoo-Hoo to take the edge off. Stop to piss off of a cliff onto the rocks below and take another Perc.
We get to the beach by 3:30, drink some Bud Light with Lime, a shot of tequila that retails for more than my monthly electric bill, times three (Thanks, Mel!). Three of us split up a pot cookie and I chase it with some Bud Light and a fourth Perc. Tonight shall be Float.
We spend a bit of time trying to figure out who would be cast in a live action version of the Blondie comic strip (I vote for Alan Thicke as Blondie, Paul Rudd as Dagwood) until I remember that the already did that in the B & W days and they used to play on Saturdays when I’d be hoping for Abbot and Costello or Laurel and Hardy. Granted, it existing already won’t stop Hollywood, but it stopped us.
Brendan and his lady, who were hammered when we picked them up, pass out face first in the sand pretty quick. The remaining three of us ascertain that the tide is going out so we should be OK sleeping up at the high water mark, barring any early-morning tsunamis.
Our talk peters out and I turn to find that the boy/girl couple that was left has wandered off with their bags to hunker down for three or so hours of sleep. Perpetually that odd man out, due mainly to my own idiocy, I lay my bag down as all of my atoms resonate with the vibrations of the ocean… and the drugs. The feeling of pain killers and pot cookies is unmatched. It doesn’t make for the best social experience, but at times like this, it’s perfect.
I crawl into my bag and look up at the sky, the low fog that lingers perpetually on the coast. I listen to the roar of the ocean as it holds forth over all of this, the occasional screech of an insomniatic seagull. I offer a silent prayer that I don’t get run over and maimed by a dune buggy. The caffeine still has a hold on me and it blends well with the downers and hallucinogens. I fade in and out in twenty minute intervals, not realizing it. Only taking notice as every time I open my eyes for a second there is a little more light gaining on us.
I finally open my eyes feeling about as relaxed as a person can feel without being dead and it’s six in the A.M. early morning joggers are here and there with their dogs. It’s a lonely beach even when it’s busy. In fact, I believe it’s a private beach, so traffic is sparse and luckily no one that has seen us has been such a shit as to say something or alert the authorities.
We all come to slowly, stretching, wiping sand out of moist spots, three of us still kinda high. It’s a great morning, and a great way to wake up. I realize the futility of working as opposed to just relaxing on the beach until the Finger of Death points out the end, but I also know that because I can’t seem to save money, I’ll have to go back to it because I also like to eat.
We finally gather ourselves, brush teeth, get in the car and decide to follow through with a legitimate yet terrible idea to rustle up some food. And then, we find ourselves in the worst place in the world: Cannon Beach. A rich, white tourist enclave that has about as much personality as a disposable plastic cup. We find the one restaurant that isn’t promising a three-hour wait for a table (it’s Sunday, in August), get some surprisingly good food, hit the road, and end up back in the bosom of home by nine A.M.
