Reclamation

Back in November of 2014, I traveled from Seattle to the Oregon coast for my honeymoon. Specifically, the cities of Newport and Lincoln City. We spent a few days in each place, ending our trip in Lincoln City. It's a small coastal city of around 9,000 people. It's basically a retirement and tourist destination. Old people and kitschy shops. Super romantic, right? 

One of the things that draws people to the sleepy town that is Lincoln City is the year round Finders Keepers event, in which hundreds of handmade glass floats are hidden all along the seven miles of beach that borders the city. Every day, the city's "float fairies" are out there hiding these floats for locals and visitors to find. You find it, you keep it (hence the very creative name). You even get a cool little certificate verifying that you specifically found one of the hidden floats, as opposed to buying it in one of the local glass studios like a cheater. 

I remember wanting to find one of those floats so badly. We walked up and down the beach, trekking through tall grass and scouring driftwood for any sign of the little shiny treasures. Despite the fact that there were two of us looking, we never came close to finding one. We even went back to Lincoln City in 2015 for our one-year anniversary. I arrived with a renewed sense of purpose that year. Sure, I was there to celebrate my marriage and whatnot, but my ultimate goal was to find one of those floats. During one of our search missions, it started pouring rain. By the time we got back to our room, we were completely soaked through. With that steady downpour, my excitement for the floats was washed away. I was demoralized. We never went back to look again.

Last week, I took some time between jobs to book another pilgrimage out to the coast. I was going to find one of those damn floats. I planned my entire trip around hunting for them. I would wake up each day and get down to the beach to search. Take a break for brunch/lunch, see some other dumb attraction, then get back to the beach to hunt until sundown. That was it. That was how I planned my vacation. I checked in on a Sunday, and made three separate trips down to the shore that day alone. My final search of the day came well after dark around 10:00 PM. If you were on the beach that night and happened to see a lunatic creeping around in the grass with his phone flashlight while muttering like a deranged madman, then you saw me. At one point a homeless guy walked over to me to see what I was doing, then quickly retreated after I briefly acknowledged him with my flashlight, all the while cursing under my breath in frustration at my own failures. It was a great first day of vacation.

The next day I woke up to completely blue skies. I had rented a condo right next to one of the many beach entrances, where I could watch the waves from the balcony. I remember the rare occasions as a child when I would wake up on a school day to brand new snow. It was always a race to get outside and trash the scene before the weird neighbor kids managed to do so. I got down to the beach that morning with the same kind of excitement. Despite walking three miles up and down the beach, I came back to my condo empty-handed, hungry, and slightly annoyed. No matter, it was only the first full day. I drove 30 minutes out of town after lunch to do a short hike at Drift Creek Falls, which featured a cool suspension bridge spanning a 75-foot basalt gorge and a massive waterfall.

After taking a few terrible selfies and reveling in the clouds of mist emitted by the falls, I decided to head back to the city. At this time of the year, the suns sets around 4:35 PM, so I didn't have much daylight left. I parked in the historic Taft district, which is where the southernmost beach exit is, right by Siletz Bay. I took literally three steps onto the sand and looked to my right. There, not twenty paces away, sat a blue glass float. I stood there in disbelief, thinking that it must have been some sort of joke. It was not even remotely hidden, any idiot could have discovered it. I looked around to see if anyone was filming me. I picked up the coveted orb and carried it back to my car, staring at it like it was a prized fossil or something actually worth money. It was sky-blue, shot through with ocean-like swirls, and ringed by green seaweed patterns. 

It may sound silly, but I was beyond excited to have found one. It was my third visit in four years. I was starting to think that the floats didn't really exist, that it was just some massive troll job played by the old people of Lincoln City to lure morons like me to the coast (which would have been hilarious, to be honest).

And the coolest part? I did it alone.

My wife left me in the first week of July. This blog post is not about her departure. There's too much to tell and I'm only one half of the story. Needless to say, there have been massive changes in my life since then, many of them independent of her leaving. A lot of change. A lot of healing. Much more of both to come. Our divorce will be final in February. 

Yes, I went back to the site of our honeymoon and anniversary alone. Unsurprisingly, most people gave me a funny look when I told them of my travel plans. "Why would you go back to the place that reminds you of the beginning of your marriage? Do you crave punishment? What's wrong with you?" To their credit, these are all valid questions. Until last week, Lincoln City was a place steeped in memories of the early days of my marriage. Before the questions. Before the breakdown in communication. Everything was new then, and we had the rest of our lives in front of us. Now, it's easy to see it as a dreary do-nothing town hundreds of miles from any real source of entertainment (the Tillamook cheese factory doesn't count). And that's fair. There really isn't much to do there. The city would be wholly unremarkable without the Finders Keepers event, and to some extent it still is - even with the dedicated float fairies performing their daily duties. But not to me. I wasn't about to lose the memory of an entire geographical location because of a failed marriage.

So I took it back. Reclaimed it, if you will.

Nothing will ever erase the good memories of my honeymoon or anniversaries. Those things came and went, and there's no changing that. The same can be said of the end of my marriage. It happened. I can't change the past anymore than I can change the way someone feels. But why should I lose something I love because of bad memories? Why should I fear returning to somewhere I actually enjoy because I don't have anyone to enjoy it with? Don't get me wrong, it's natural to feel pain because of the memories you shared with someone you deeply loved, only to lose that person in the end. Maybe that song or that movie quote will stick with you for the rest of your life for reasons you don't care for. I will always retain some sense of fondness for the "glory days." But they don't have to end. Instead, they can begin again. You can make new memories. Not to necessarily replace the old ones, but to establish a sense of importance to them that is entirely separate from whatever came before. That was before, this is now. And I choose to move forward by creating new memories for myself in life after marriage, whatever that may look like.

All in all, it was quite the trip. I only cried once. It happened that first night, as I stood at the shore in the moonless dark watching the waves. And it wasn't because I missed someone. It was because I was lamenting what my life had become as opposed to what I thought it would be. I never thought I would be divorced at 30. The entire vacation was an exercise in new experiences. I kept telling people that I never take trips for myself. And it's true. I don't travel. And while a 5 hour drive to the Oregon coast hardly qualifies as some intense excursion, it still was far out of the ordinary for me. I saw seals, whales (I'm terrified of whales), and a shooting star from the balcony of the condo. I hadn't seen a shooting star in years. I almost forgot they were a thing. Even the hike to the falls was out of my comfort zone. I don't go on hikes. But I'm sick of saying things like that. Why can't I be someone who goes on hikes? Who's to say I don't like traveling? In the past 6 months, I've completely changed careers, moved into a new apartment with wonderful new roommates, and watched my marriage fall apart. I turned 30 in April. This is the time for change. This is the time for me to stop thinking of who I was and to focus on who I am going to be moving forward. And that terrifies me.

It sounds silly, but finding that float meant a lot to me. It strikes me as odd that my wife and I were never able to find one together, but years later I stumble upon one in the open, right across the street from the inn where we spent our first anniversary. Just sitting there, waiting for me to take it. That's how I want to treat this new journey. There are memories and experiences just waiting to be discovered. That float will forever symbolize a new beginning. A fresh start. And while I never envisioned having to start over at age 30, I'm no longer afraid or unwilling to do so. If anything, I welcome the wealth of opportunities that await me. I have reclaimed something that I lost.

I have a long ways to go yet, but this trip was a good start. A great start. It's time to make new memories. I say that to anyone that is hurting. It's never too late to begin again, or to simply keep going with a new purpose.

And who knows? Maybe now I'll start hiking and traveling. I might even start to like whales.

Ok, the whale thing is a lie. But the other stuff? That's coming.

JDS