Decades ago now, a friend visiting with us became impatient with talk of high tide and low tide. “What does that even mean?” She was genuinely irritated, as if I’d made it up talk of tides to annoy her.

So I took her to a window and pointed at the Cape: “See where the waves are hitting the headland? Remember that.” And then I literally waited six hours before taking her back to the same window and pointing again at the Cape. “See how the surf is barely breaking on the seastack second out from the headland? What you saw before was high tide; this is low.”

My husband and I pay attention to high and low tides, to warnings about sneaker waves, and especially to whether the tide is pushing onshore [incoming tide] or pulling out [outgoing]. When the tide is going out, and you are standing in ankle-deep water, you can feel the water pulling sand out from under your feet. You’ll catch yourself shifting position every few seconds. We’ve known people who drowned—people we liked—which is why we don’t like watching people playing in the surf during an outgoing tide, not even in late March. In November, when I saw a father watching two adolescent boys knee deep, I went out and told him to get them out of the water and why. He thanked me.

More often, people ignore warnings. I have learned the hard way to turn away from the window. I’ve been yelled at, threatened, dismissed, and most often ignored. People don’t like being told they’re doing something illegal or dangerous. They resent you for it even when they might suspect you know because I’ve been on this beach since I was born.

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It’s beautiful here and even though most of my neighbors have died and their homes are now owned by LLCs, this beach still feels like home to me. This morning, I’m in Portland, attending the AWP Conference in Los Angles virtually, and planning to write more after my run.

If we were on the coast, the sun would rise just after 7am, the tide would be fully out, I would run three miles, mostly on sand, and by the time I got home it would still be out but on its way in. No one is staying in the house south of us, but there is a houseful north and probably east of ours. If the morning sunshine hits the garage door, it won’t close properly because years ago our then-neighbor propped his camper up on a precarious stack of scrap lumber and it fell onto our garage. Then the guy who came to pick it back up used our building to lever onto the pickup truck. The garage door is ever-so-slightly out of square, and heat from direct sunlight expands the door enough that it struggles to close.

This is what I’m thinking about at six o’clock in the morning as I wait for enough daylight in Portland to go for my run. The sun rises 5 minutes earlier here, just before 7. On my run I will pass tents and blanket-wrapped bodies sleeping in doorways. I will watch for shit on the sidewalks and mostly run in the middle of streets until traffic picks up with people on their way to work. I smell meth sometimes, and I say “Good morning” to homeless men and dog-walkers and to nurses and construction-workers on their way to their jobs. I fell once and three men immediately came to offer assistance. If I run only two miles and meet Gary at a prearranged spot, we might stop at New Seasons on the way home. Their organic seeded loaf is as good as anything I bake. On other days we walk to the Farmers’ Market on the Oregon State campus or the Rose and Japanese Gardens.

For the past forty-five years we have driven from the coast to Portland once or twice each month. There are no shops in walking distance of our coast home. [It’s true I used to run six miles and even now I could easily walk five to get to the closest grocery; I couldn’t carry groceries home another five miles. I mean, I could, but it wouldn’t be wise.] The sole convenience store within five miles was sold and sold again and it’s been closed for years now. The entire property is littered with construction materials and no progress. It’s owned by a part-time millionaire who seems to be using it purely as a tax write-off. I’m not confident it will ever reopen. And we have no bus or taxi service, no mail delivery to our home, no restaurants deliver. FedEx gets lost; UPS too. So, on the coast, we drive to everything.

It’s why we found our tiny home in NW Portland. Driving to and from Portland in one day is already too much. Someday driving of any sort will be impractical (unwise). We love our urban community, our immediate neighbors, and the ease of walking to parks, grocery stores, bookstores, a charity shop, the dentist, and theaters. We enjoy the massive gathering of crows in the late afternoons. Most dogs here are leashed. (They are rarely leashed or under control at the beach.) The sunrise is pretty here. Our sons live here with their families. I can safely run without caring about the tide.

We miss the shore, bald eagles, oystercatchers, the garden, and a few neighbors. We miss the sky and the constant motion of water. The sky. The sky, The sky.