Diary of a Birthday

Arriving far later than intended at the rustic coastal yurt, rented on yesterday’s impulse, I discover that while the ocean is nearby, it is not as close as it looked in the crystal ball of Google Maps. The V-shaped lake which drew me to this location opens to the east, promising a prime place for paddling tomorrow, but no luck for catching a solar show before dinner.    

So I hop back in the car and head south on Pacific Coast Highway 101. I love this road, it reminds me of childhood travels between our then home in Santa Rosa, California, and my grandparent’s house on the McKenzie River in Oregon. The 101 was the scenic route, the road we took when we had the time. I have precariously little time now, as the sky begins to dim, and I realize that heading south is only taking me further inland. I cut my losses, flip around, and head back north towards a promising viewpoint sign I had hastily clocked on my way to the campground.  

As I gratefully pull into a long strip of western-facing gravel, the sun is putting on its vibrant closing act in front of me, while rotating high beams begin a dazzling dance behind me. The Umpqua State Lighthouse is partial to pink, every third beam is a light crimson. 

There is an official viewing deck at the far end of the parking area, housing several big, public binoculars, a sign about whale watching, and a lone figure subtly smoking a cannabis vape pen. I approach the far side of the deck, meeting his eyes and nodding an amiable acknowledgement of shared presence, attempting to convey that I do not intend to disturb his peace, but I’m open to chatting if he’s interested. We chat. 

I am solicitous, asking pointed questions which hopefully skirt the edges of too-personal, while speedily pushing past the boring boundaries of small talk. In the time it takes for our vista to grow uniformly dark, I learn that this stranger and I are of a similar age, and live in similar locations. He’s come over to the coast for a day of work. I learn what he does for a living, and that for the most part, he genuinely enjoys doing it. I learn how many kids he has, how old they are, what schools they go to, and that his kids seem to easily excel in their scholastics in a way that he never did as a student. I learn that he and his partner have been together since college. When I ask him what he thinks the secret to his happily long-lasting relationship is, he pauses a good while, and then replies: “Patience.”

For each bit of information I gather about him, I exchange something reasonably equivalent about myself. This is important. One-way generosity is not a path to camaraderie. 

Our conversation makes clear that while our life locales may be similar, we are walking very different roads. He appears to be succeeding heartily at meeting many milestones, and I congratulate him on the achievement. He grins, and acknowledges that while it doesn’t always feel like he knows what he’s doing, he is adulting quite well. I catch the whiff of pride, of security, of the certainty that he is needed and valued by a beloved family unit.  

I wonder what it would feel like to wear his shoes in my size. What would it be like to not feel so far behind, miles away from where I once assumed I would be standing by this point in my life. What would it be like to still be a wife, to be a mom, to own a practical business which served a practical need, to have an adult income, a retirement fund, a confidence about my place in the world. 

I wonder. Into the dark. Into the last hours of my 42nd year. 

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And then head back to the little, green yurt to eat cold chicken, and crawl into the old, tan sleeping bag that envelopes my exhaustion in familiar fluff. 

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I’m not quite sure when it started happening, but these days, campgrounds make me feel cash-poor. Everywhere I look as I saunter around the paved loop of asphalt in Tugman State Park, I see an RV, camper, or trailer that costs oodles more than I make in a year. Sleek, and modern, and generator-fed, tiny private islands of comfort. 

Perhaps with judgment, perhaps with jealously, I am pondering this trend away from tents, when I pass a friendly-faced fella sitting alone at a barren picnic table next to a recreational vehicle bearing the funky fonts and once-beloved browns of many decades past. It’s a big ‘ol beast of a beater. He looks like a Santa in the off season. Not a shopping mall Santa, more country magic and north pole dreams, but maybe not the Santa. Maybe Santa’s brother who makes moonshine in a shack behind the workshop. I bet the elves secretly like him better. I like him instantly. 

Having just enjoyed a long trickle of a campground shower, I am fully swathed in a fluffy maroon bathrobe that’s too big for me, and my hair is still wrapped up in a scruffy towel. My flip flops are in no hurry. Unlike the other folks I’ve passed on this stroll, who kept themselves to themselves, he calls out a pink-cheeked greeting full of neighborly warmth. 

“Nice vintage rig you got there,” I reply. 

“Vintage?” he chuckles. “Yeah, that’s one word for it. I’m gonna fix ‘er up, that’s what I do. I paid $500 for it!” 

“That’s the right price!” I say jovially, intending to compliment him on the bargain, not insult the value of the vehicle. 

He gets it. 

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When I’ve finally muscled up the motivation to make the one minute drive over to Eel Lake, the spacious body of water adjacent to this tightly packed campground, the nice gal in the parking lot asks me if I’ll be paddling alone, and suggests that I stick close to shore. She tells me I’ve missed the window for windless cruising, and laments that the lake is now choppy with light gales. It is late afternoon, and once again, I have arrived later than intended.

I try to avoid self-flagellation for my habitual tardiness, and comfort her fears with the assertion that I’m used to taking my paddleboard out in a variety of conditions, and that I will wear my life jacket. I find her instinctive concern for my safety touching, but mostly unwarranted, it’s not that windy and the water isn’t frigid. 

“Gotta do it anyway, it’s my birthday,” I explain.

“Ohhh!” she smiles, “What is the special number?” 

“Four. Three.” I smile back. 

Taking into consideration her apparent ‘special number’ plus the gaggle of preschool-aged children that are clustered around her, I would wager that she is on grandmother duty. 

“And what is your first name?” she asks in a pointed tone, school-teacher-esque, kindly demanding.

“Jorah.”

With no further conversation, instruction, or preamble, she begins singing the birthday song with the loudness of a leader, staring at the children until they are stirred into the participation that’s clearly being expected of them. It’s a delightful gesture, and I try to convey how sincerely I appreciate it. I’m here alone, and there will be no cake and candles. 

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Before I can finish prepping to get out on the water, another car pulls up alongside me, the person in the passenger seat staring at me unabashedly with an inquiring grin. He hops out and asks a question so obvious, it translates easily into what is really being said – hello, I want to talk to you. 

“Taking the paddleboard out?”

I am dressed in dry neoprene, assembling a paddle, with my inflated board resting against my Subaru. I toy briefly with the idea of answering creatively, but decide that no deflection is warranted. The focused curiosity doesn’t seem salacious. 

“Yup!” 

I take a quick scan of this new trio of folks as they begin pulling fishing gear from their trunk. Older vehicle, no luggage, relaxed pace. Locals?

“Y’all from around here?” I ask enthusiastically. I adore meeting locals in tiny towns of constant tourism. 

They confirm my surmise, and I begin a brief barrage of questions about the area. What’s their favorite lake, favorite hike, favorite thing to do in their homeplace. In response to my data collection, they want to know what I’m doing here. Birthday trip, I explain again. They too want to know how old I am. When I tell them, my ego is gifted with multiple expressions of genuine surprise. They are in their mid-thirties, they assumed I was too. 

“I would have guessed 34!” 

Truth be told, I really think I look my age. But, the glow of youthful irresponsibility may soften the fine lines around my eyes better than any of the creams I’ve begun buying. Maybe Peter-Panning projects a bit of fairy glamor. 

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The water sparkles like a dusty obsidian, opaque enough to appear black beneath early evening rays. Nature detritus floats alongside me as I switch between standing and sitting on this wonderfully simple craft that keeps me ever-raised, five inches above the surface. I am determined to reach the end of the southern arm of the lake, 2.2 miles away from the boat ramp according to the map. Normally, this would not present any great challenge, but this morning my body awoke feeling mildly feverish with the deep tiredness that comes after finally resting, when rest has been in too short supply for too long. I’m not sick, I’m sick-adjacent, possibly pre-sick, hoping to avoid stepping the wrong way off the balance beam. I am moving more slowly than usual, and still enjoying the movement. 

I contemplate how many times I’ve been on, or in, the water this season. By Pacific Northwest standards, I’m far from hardcore as a boater, swimmer, or hiker, but I’m constant in my cravings. Not drawn to extremity, I hunger for daily doses of outdoor adventure, especially those involving rivers, creeks, reservoirs, lakes, waterfalls, and waves. Probably somewhere between thirty and fifty times since the spring I decide. I worked as little as possible this summer, choosing to be freedom-rich and income-deficient during the few glorious months when all our waterways become playgrounds. 

Early fall has stayed unseasonably warm this year, which has meant a longer season for forest fires and harsh skies. I’ve come to the coast in part because it’s the only place I could be sure of clean air. I didn’t want to spend my birthday breathing smoke. Or smoking marijuana, or drinking booze, or watching a screen. It feels particularly important to stay sober today. To move, however slowly, towards a clearer version of myself.

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Throughout the day, kind people text me, message me, write on my Facebook wall. I am solo, but connected, through the grace of a strong-enough cell signal. I’ve run away, not away from anyone, or with anyone. It’s a state of both-and-neither fitting for a Libra in the midst of Libra season. 

I find it overwhelming to receive so much thoughtfulness at once. It feels undeserved and precious. 

Sometimes I wonder how it is that I, who am so covetous of my solitude, have been able to create so many connections. Sometimes I wonder how it is that I am so often without desired company. 

I am a seesaw of wanting to be alone, and not wanting to be alone. A full spectrum ambivert. It’s exhausting. And funny.

Maybe if I gaze at my navel with enough intensity, I will be able to see beyond myself.

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Looking at the month of October on the calendar, my celebratory square is marked with the number 13. A number so powerful that there is a word, triskaidekaphobia, to describe people’s fear of it. Thirteen still gets superstitiously left off of hotel floors. Thirteen is the Death card in the Tarot. Thirteen has always been my Dad’s favorite number. Thirteen is special.

I was born late at night, only an hour and nine minutes before midnight. Imagine if I hadn’t arrived in time to be a thirteen. Perish the thought.

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Like most mortals, I don’t know what age I will be when my hour glass runs out. Here, near an unknown shore, I can feel the sand slipping, watch ticking. It is my personal new year. It is lucky thirteen. It is the day for dice rolls, and fresh prayers. Where will I be standing when my sun sets, what do I want to be able to say, that I cannot conclusively say already?

That I loved intimately, and allowed myself to be loved intimately. Through mutual long-term investment. That I made enough money to be secure and generous. While being of service and making a positive contribution to future generations. That I adventured widely in the world. In balance with maintaining a committed homebase. That I answered the call to write. And gave the words away.

At the makeshift writing desk I’ve set up inside the yurt, with an electric candle placed on each side of my laptop, I lay these deathbed thoughts out in front of me, and search for a common key, a value, a word, a touchstone I can carry forth into the coming year. I find: Bravery. Which makes me cringe a bit. But, I’ll take it. Conscientious, courageous bravado might be the perfect antidote to relentless self-doubt. 

As though blowing out candles while wishing, I close my eyes and vow to be braver, and more decisive. To change course quickly when I realize I’m heading in the wrong direction. To chase a wild glory, even when the hour seems too late. 

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