The North Spit
Even as a very young boy I can remember being gripped by the compelling desire to explore mysterious, far away places. by age seven I was reading adventure novles by Edgar Rice Burroughs, novels with titles like "Tarzan of the apes" "John Carter Warlord of Mars" "The land that time forgot" etc. Filled with colorful imaginings I would play in the forest behind my parent's house. In this quiet green realm I became the heros of those stories, fighting giant four armed green soldiers with my stick sword and rescuing lovely alien princesses from the dungeons of ancient cities on the dead sea bottoms of Mars.
During the gusty Coos Bay summer I would stand on the edge of the bay and picture myself as captain Cook or Columbus, preparing to board my ship and depart for places unknown.
Across that mile wide bay was a seven mile long penninsula of sandy, scrubby land called the North Spit. Surrounded by water on three sides, this spit was about a mile wide and separated the bay from the ocean. At it's southern end was the north jetty. It's northern end became the Oregon Dunes national Recreation area at Horsfall beach. This deserted neck of land looked mysterious and inviting to me and I longed to explore it.
One day my two older brothers Jerry and Steve came home from a fishing trip. Steve handed me a glass jar. "What do you think of these?" he asked. The jar was filled with dozens of baby toads, tiny little things no bigger than a quarter of an inch.
"Where did you get them?" I asked. I had never seen toads in Coos Bay before.
"Out on the north spit." He replied as he helped Jerry unload fish and crabs from the boat. "They were everywhere."
My imagination was stimulated. So there were things over there that did not live on this side of the bay. My curiosity grew. When I was about twelve or thirteen Dad built a ten foot rowboat. It was blue green with the name Myacht painted on the bow. he built it specifically so that my brother David and I could use it to fish in the lakes. An idea rapidly formed in my head.
One summer morning I stood at the top of the hill looking out across the bay with my childhood friends Chris Akerson and Fat Eddie. The three of us were bored and they were looking to me to come up with something to do. "We're going over there." I said.
"Huh?" The two boys replied in unison. "Over where?"
I pointed to the north spit. "Over there. Let's go."
The whole time that we were packing the heavy boat down to the bay, Chris and Fat Eddie were both grumbling that I was nuts and that we were going to get drowned or washed out to sea. I laughed and told them to hurry up. We only had so much daylight and it was going to be a long row.
As we slipped the boat into the water I took first turn at the oars as Chris and Eddie sat uncomfortably, their eyes rolling fearfully at the green water. "Stop worrying!" I said. "It will be fun. Maybe we will find something neet."
"Is there sharks in here?" Fat Eddie asked nervously.
"Probably." I grinned, enjoying his discomfort.
"we are going to end up getting washed out to Gilligan's island." Chris said grimly.
"If so, I get first whack at Ginger." I replied.
"No way!" said Fat Eddie. "Everyone knows that the professor is boffin her."
"You underestimate Gilligan." I shot back. "He may be stupid, but he's not that stupid. He's probably getting both the girls on the sly."
As it was, we encountered a frighteningly strong current in mid-channel right after Chris took over the oars. "We're gonna die." He cried fearfully.
"Shut up and row idiot!" I said. "Aim for that beach to the south. If you don't keep the bow pointed into the waves we'll get swamped."
The color had drained from Fat Eddie's face and he sat stiff with terror. I took over the oars again and in about twenty minutes the boat grounded on the beach. We hopped out and pulled the good ship Myacht up onto higher ground. I turned and looked at the north spit up close for the first time. Standing there in the sand with my hands on my hips, I felt every inch like Ferdinand Magellan.
"Whaddya think guys?" I asked.
"Looks awfully brushy." Said Chris. Indeed the entire shoreline where we landed was an impenetrable thicket of yellow blooming Scotchbroom. I was overcome by a powerful desire to fight my way through the stuff to see what was inland. It was hopless though. A woodrat would have had difficulty getting through that thicket. We searched up and down the beach for hundreds of feet but found no way in.
Finally, about a hundred yards from where we beached the boat, I found a narrow trail leading inwards. We walked inland several hundred feet until we came to a wonderland of wild stawberries at the base of an immense sand dune. Here and there were clumps of dwarf willows, shorepines, and salal. I was entranced as Eddie and Chris crawled about on their hands and knees munching strawberries. It was a beautiful and enchanted looking place. It felt as remote as some south sea island.
"We better get back." Said Chris. "It's getting late."
I hated to go, but Chris was right. I had no wish to row back across the bay in the dark.
The trip back was a nightmare. The wind had risen. At mid-channel we were not only fighting monster waves, but we narrowly missed getting run over by a japanese lumber ship. By this time the boat was half filled with water and some people in a fishing boat threw us a line. "Here! We'll pull you in." I was humiliated. I was pretty sure that Captain Cook had never had to be towed in.
By the time the laughing fishermen got us back to the bay side, the only thing that kep the water filled boat afloat was the speed with which they had towed us. Chris, Fat Eddie, and I were al thoroughly soaked, sitting up to our groins in water. With mumbled thanks, we shamefacedly picked up the boat and headed homewards. Nonetheless, I was thrilled by the fact that we had actually done it. We had made it to the North Spit. I turned and looked into the sunset at the shadowy outline of the spit. I knew that I would be back. I would walk that shore again and I would find out what secrets were hidden inland of that deserted beach.
Not long after the first trip, I set out to row to the North Spit again. This time in the company of my childhood friend Frank.
It was smooth sailing this time on a warm summer day. However, we did not make it all the way to the spit. Instead we landed on a sandy island covered with beach grass. The island was about a half mile in circumference with a duck blind built on one side near the beach. As we entered the duck blind Frank found a huge stack of moldy old Playboy magazines. With his newly awakened puberty urges shining from his glassy eyes he sat down to leaf through the magazi
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