My log, I named her Lola. She is shapely, pale-skinned, with really lovely knobby bits. Battered to a particular smoothness, steadfast, sturdy. I watched the jade green curls of surf surrender to their end with my back against her, chill turned to warm. I finally stood and brushed the sand from my ankles and headed east. 
Rockaway Beach held really fat and friendly chipmunks,
the town of Garibaldi passed me by to the soundtrack of dueling accordions ("There Will Never Be Another You") on satellite radio, which made me cackle aloud.
I have found that, given the right station, I do love surprising music for surprising terrain. Satellite is not a part of my reality driving the vehicle I drive at home, but this has spoiled me, terribly so. Jazz has brought me thus far, sprinkled with a little bluegrass and some classical.
And now I sit with a pint of a local IPA and a little cup of house-made chowder at The Schooner, Netarts Bay. Beauty. I would love it if I could beam down my family right now. I'd be most happy to see them, unusually cheerful to share a spoonful of chowder with dad...
