Coos Bay, Oregon

The last two-dozen sunsets at Charleston Harbor have looked the same, but not this one.

My temporary home, a basement apartment, has a million-dollar view of the harbor and the Coos River. As I walk across the front patio, I hear two frustrated Harbor Seals barking at each other from under South Slough Bridge. It’s mating season, so the aging bulls and young ones just coming into their own, face off and joust for a mate. On the way to my car, the age-old battle between haves and have-nots plays out in the distance.

Turning on the stereo, a CD Pete burned for me starts up, and Harry Chapin’s “Corey’s Coming” drifts through the speakers.

‘Corey’s coming, no more sad story’s coming.

A midnight, moonlight, morning glory’s, coming aren’t you girl…

And like I told you, when she holds you, she unfolds you in her world…’

Pete and I worked together years ago back in Flint, and there’s something about facing hell and high water together that forged an unbreakable bond. Pete knows me really, really well; right down to the songs that stop me in my tracks.

With the car door open, I pull my Canon T6 out of my backpack and look it over. The UV filter, spattered with salt spray, is a mess. So, I put the business end of the camera to my mouth and fog the lens with my breath. I met a purist once who believed filters spoiled his shots, but I always order one whenever I buy a new lens and install it immediately. With a micro cloth, I wipe off the fog and sea spray and inspect the expensive Canon glass below. Pristine. Not a scratch, smudge, or fleck of dust.

“Why not use a filter? It’s cheap insurance.” I said out loud. “Could he be right, or it’s just another, self-defeating ‘belief’ someone’s hooked on?”

I hear something and look up to see my landlord coming out his side door.

“Heading out?” He said.

“You met my friend Caroline the other night. We’re going to Coquille Point to photograph the sunset.”

He glanced down to see what I was doing.

“Nice Camera,” then he continued. “You're leaving for Indiana in the morning, right? When you take off, don’t lock the door; just leave the keys on the bar table near the window, okay?”

I nod as he tilts the trashcan back on its hard plastic wheels and rumbles down the driveway.

I love the feel of the T6 in my hands, it’s solid, just the right size and weight. Flipping the camera over, the rear display is a jumble of smudges and fingerprints, so I wipe it clean, too. As I put the lens cloth away, my iPhone vibrates. It’s a message from Caroline.

“Sorry, can’t make it tonight, just puked. A client musta passed me a bug. Occupational hazard! Safe flight tomorrow:(“

I stared at the phone, then off into nothingness.

“You, okay?” My landlord said on his way back to the house. “Find something wrong with your camera?”

“No, the camera’s fine, just a hiccup.” I said, as he shrugged and walked into his house.

The Canon feels almost weightless in my hands. My stomach churned, and my brain started swirling with thoughts. Caroline must be really sick. Is she okay? Is something wrong? If I don’t see her tonight, when will I see her again?

It was like a demon-possessed Irish Setter was in my head, chasing its tail.

“Why should I even go?” I muttered to myself.

The dog spun faster.

“What’s the point?” I said out loud.

The setter spins around, smirks, and speaks to me.

“So, Tom, were you going to photograph the sunset, or was it just an excuse to see Caroline one last time?”

Satisfied, the dog stopped chasing her tail, made one last slow circle, and nestled down in the soft grass of my mind.

“Would I be disappointed if Pete sent that message? Caroline and I are just friends, right?” I thought.

I put my camera away, started the car, and headed out the driveway.

At Seven Devils Road, I veer left and head south. As my car climbs out of the valley, I can see a yellow glow through the clouds just below the treetops.

“I’m I going to miss the sunset too?”

I try to speed up, but Seven Devils is one of the twistiest, hilliest, blind corner filled roads in Oregon, and I’m risking life and limb driving much faster than the speed limit. As I approach a hairpin turn, Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run,” pops up on the playlist.

“If I can’t go fast, I can at least go loud.”

I crank up the volume and the car drifts a bit as I exit the curve.

At the only stop sign on Seven Devils Road, I make a right turn onto Coastal Highway 101. Mile after mile as I speed south, I watch the yellow splotch of sun slip farther down the tree trunks.

The parking lot for Coquille Point sits high on a bluff, a good three-hundred feet above Bandon Beach and the Pacific Ocean. The sun’s dropped below a band of clouds and hovers like a yellow orb above the Pacific.

“What was I rushing for? With no trees in the way, it’s at least an hour until sunset.”

Halfway down a long stairway, I stop on a landing. Straight ahead, jutting out of the ocean, is Elephant Rock. To the south, a blanket of white foam surrounds Cat and Kittens Rock, and still farther down the beach, rising from the surf, is a massive outcrop someone named Wizard’s Hat. I see the resemblance, but I call it Barking Seal.

At the bottom of the stairs, the surf is rough and pounding. I expect a stiff wind, but the shoreline breeze is gentle, almost calm. Strange, must be a storm somewhere out to sea.

A half dozen seals rest on an outcrop skirting Elephant Rock. It's a safe place for the cows to rest and show off their new pups. Just as I frame up a shot, a big wave breaks over them, and all six disappear into the foaming surf. With high tide coming, they don’t climb back up. So, I turn my attention to some gulls flying past.

It’s challenging tracking birds across the sky and composing a shot at the same time. It’s a wait and see game too, because the gulls, oblivious to my intentions, have their own agenda. Flocks of four or five fly by, then, for a long stretch of time, there are no birds in the sky at all.

Ready, camera at my cheek, breathing slowly, waiting patiently for the next flock. I wait and wait and wait. When my cheek starts feeling dented, I look around for something else to photograph.

On the bluff behind me, about fifteen people walk single file down the stairs. Some carry tripods, others cameras, almost all have backpacks. It’s the most people I’ve seen at one time on the beach this month. For weeks, Caroline and I visited almost every beach and hiking trail in this part of Oregon. April's still early for tourists, so it’s been like having our own private playground.

Caroline and I hiked to Silver Falls, and there was only one other car in the parking lot. They must have taken the high trail, because we never saw them.

We stood side by side near the base of the falls, grinning at each other. A river of water fell from high above and we could feel the thundering power through our boots. We watched in awe as the water crashed over boulders and a jumble of trees that had taken the plunge years ago. And when we left, we were both frosted from head to toe with the waterfall’s magical, silvery mist.

On a crisp Saturday afternoon, we shared a magnificent view of the Pacific after cresting a hill on the Port Orford trail.

At Seals Cave, we were the only ones there when afternoon light filled the cavern, and for a moment, silenced the groaning seals.

On the drive home, Pete surprised me. I'm not a Sinatra fan, but Pete is, and he’d included one of his favorites on the CD, a duet by Frank and Nancy called “Something Stupid.” It played over the stereo as Caroline and I drove south on 101, back to Coos Bay.

Caroline and I have seen each other almost every day for the last few weeks, and I really enjoy her company. But when Frank sang:

‘And then I go and spoil it all by saying somethin’ stupid like, “I love you.’

I turned several shades of red.

That’s the thing about having a friend of the opposite sex. You’re never quite sure where it’s going. We all hide our feelings, but sometimes they just slip out.

“Enough of the daydreaming.” I tell myself. “Let’s get back to the sunset. Okay?”

I turn my attention back to the line of photographers; they’re close to the water, some standing right in the surf. Getting close to the edge as high tide comes in, is a little risky. You never know when a sneaker wave will leave you standing in knee deep water, or worse. Sneaker waves can arrive anytime and sweep you off your feet. Sometimes, before you can recover, you’re sucked out to sea, never to be seen again. The first time Caroline took me to this beach, I wandered too close. With concerned eyes, she gently tugged my sleeve.

From this spot on the beach, Seal Rock looks more like a wizard’s hat. As I look through the viewfinder and set up my composition, and some photographers walk into the frame, fan out, and spoil my plan.

“Sugar Jets!”

The knot in my gut gets a little tighter.

“Why are you feeling this way, Tom? Move on, just photograph something else.”

It’s like Hubbard said, ‘When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.’

Swinging my camera west, several photographers stand between me and the sunset.

“Relax, just breathe.” I coach myself.

Then I realize what they’re doing.

“The sun’s not the only subject on the beach today, my friend.” I tell myself.

I take a few shots as they photograph each other and check my preview.

“Nice!"

With the sun hugging the horizon, I close my eyes and fall into an old meditation technique I learned from Paramhansa Yogananda. He taught to stretch out my senses and notice the little things around me. The smell of the sea air, the sound of the waves, two pieces of driftwood clunking together in the surf.

My ears are cold, yet the sun is warming my face. With eyes closed, I can tell the direction of the sunset just by swiveling my head from side to side. A breeze tosses my hair, and the constant sound of waves crashing into Seal Rock has a strange rhythmic beat. Overhead, a gull’s call grows louder, then fades as she passes by.

Opening my eyes, the photographers are gone. They’ve wandered off as people often do, searching, always searching, for something better.

The last rays of light bend past the horizon as I click off a few more pictures and walk back up the beach.

It’s cooling off fast as I climb the stairs back to my car. Inside, from the driver’s seat, I take in the entire panorama. I can see up and down the coast, and far out into the Pacific. A slight orange glow lingers on the horizon, surrounded by moody shades of blue-grey.

It’s getting dark as I head north on 101 towards Coos Bay. A light rain is falling and headlights from oncoming traffic shine in long silver streaks down the black asphalt. A new song starts on the CD.

It’s Harry again, this time singing Sequel.

“Boy, was I lucky to see him in concert, to have been there when someone yelled, ‘Hey Harry!’ from the cheap seats. He’s gone, but his songs live on.” I think to myself as Harry sings.

‘So we talked all through that afternoon

Talking about where we'd been

We talked of the tiny difference

Between ending and starting to begin

We talked 'cause talking tells you things

Like what you really are thinking about

But sometimes you can't find what you're feeling

'Til all the words run out.’