Four weeks ago while the East Coast began shivering in earnest, Alice and I fulfilled the realization of her mind’s dream: a visit to the Coast.  If this is a dream, it’s the sweetest kind of reverie I’ve known.

First of all, let’s get some jargon straight.  Whereas East Coasters call a trip to their ocean beaches “the Shore,” out West it’s called “the Coast.”  The difference in mindset is expansive.

Westerners drive on sections of road built by highway pioneers whose imaginations engineered scenic drives.  These auto explorations showcase dramatic cliffs and dazzling sun-drenched views interspersed with dreamy forest incursions draped in an ever-changing fog.  This is how a stimulant is supposed to work.

The world around me affects how I connect the dots on my adventures and put them in written form.  For Alice, the surroundings cause her to hoist up her trusty camera and take more photos.  Her accomplishments become self-evident as I splash them between the paragraphs of the posts you read.

You bet I love her, and it thrills me to see Alice receive long-overdue professional recognition.  And I’ll tell you a little secret.  I married the woman whose skills were denigrated by no less a living legend than Renaissance’s own Annie Haslam, dissolving whatever admiration I once had for her considerable musical skills.

Alice embraced my heart and watched me levitate my honor by defending Alice’s artistic vision against Annie’s insults, and today I realize I’m better for having championed Alice.  But enough of Haslam, please!

This story commemorates Sunday, Jan. 25th as the outrageous pinnacle to Alice’s and my West Coast journey.  Viewing the ocean for the first time here compares with my hippie years in Southern California.  Furthermore, watching a wave wash across Alice’s feet was way beyond expectation.  And it was 63 degrees (the air temperature, not the water)!

What a joy to witness Alice’s love of the art of photography feed itself as she captured first impressions while strolling onto the sandy beach.  One particular photograph exudes the sheer brightness of a sun ablaze shining onto the misty Pacific Ocean.

This is Seaside, Oregon, and as long as you’re away from the touristy crowds, an impression of isolation and stark beauty allows a body to breathe.  To comprehend the moment is to realize the partnership of sun and Pacific Ocean.

We quickly found the crush of eager beachgoers too raucous for our taste, so we soon drove north and an hour later emerged into Astoria, where the Columbia River empties into the Pacific Ocean.  A quick trip to a picturesque restaurant called Bridgewater led to a chance meeting with Ron Craig, a Shakespearean-looking bon de vivant who serves as executive director for Astoria’s international film festival.

What a wonderful end to our first day on the Coast.  (There’s more to tell, specifically how a living, breathing mist that morphed into thick fog caused a white-knuckle drive home.)

Looking back at our introduction to northern Oregon’s coast, I can’t help but reflect back to our journey’s beginning on Sept. 12, 2014.  Yes, I anticipated there would be adventure as Alice and I began our trek west, and there were the usual suspects.  But I didn’t reckon on a car named Betsy, or a neighbor called Lou, or a disabling fear that all our worldly possessions would wind up in limbo.

But in the end, Alice and I both did what had to be done, and we made it, although Alice refuses to call it “the hair of our chimney-chin-chins.”  We’re thankful to be here because members of both our families gave some necessary support that allowed us to make a soft landing in Hillsboro, Oregon, about 15 miles west of Portland.

And as I reflect on the photos adorning this post, I’m grateful that I wound up with an Amazon, who seems to be reaching the apex of her retiring years.  Oregon is the place of Alice’s dreams, and I’m glad to be the person she chose to accompany her as she explores this fairytale land.

Yet she says we came out here so that I can write.  Glory be.