Long Beach. Wrong Beach.

Forgive me readers; it has been two weeks since my last blog. I have once again, been out of town and as you’ll learn, out of touch.

Three weeks ago, when my sister asked me what I was doing in Long Beach, Washington, I pondered the question and replied, “I don’t know”.

In my quest, I decided a positive plan of action would be to purchase another property, fix it up and join the flipping market. I love doing the work and I think I have a knack for it. I’ve found this takes a lot of research and a plethora of real estate agents. Since Long Beach seemed to be a great place to invest, I made up my mind. I would certainly find a good deal, rent my Oak Grove house, move south and spend the next year renovating the new property. I came across a listing on Pacific Realty dot com; a house that for Long Beach, California seemed too good to be true - a 1921 pretty little cottage on two acres within walking distance of the beach at a bargain price tag. This should have clued me in, but since I'm not really familiar with Long Beach, I eagerly emailed the listing agent. I didn’t find out until after the email exchange was in full swing that the property was in Long Beach, WASHINGTON. I was two states misplaced. The word “pertinacious” comes to mind as I reminisce on what followed. I googled the area, spent a few minutes watching the live web cam hooked up on Main Street, discussed the property with the realtor several times and decided that my next residence was going to be in the most remote part of the world, truly the edge of the west.

Being a good little consumer, I completely bought into the realtor’s six phone calls letting me know the market was booming and that the house had two families from Los Angeles bidding on it. I consulted a few people who I knew would agree with my irrational reasoning, purchased a last minute deal on Cheap Tickets and found myself driving a white Pontiac Sunbird out past Cape Disappointment onto the historic peninsula, right where Lewis and Clark burst out of the wilderness only to be, well, disappointed. To speed up my travel, I left Burbank on the first flight to Seattle, arrived at 9:AM and made it to Rhonda’s by 12:30 PM. That’s right, we are very far away from major airports.

The house was fantastic, truly my kind of project, however, Rhonda, a former B-Actress, told me quite plainly, “I’m not going to lie to you”. I listened with mixed feelings as she told me of the variety of unattended allergens flying through the air, the most popular being black mold and, believe it or not, ladybug infestations. Other highlights of Rhonda’s tell-all included a shoreline that was at least a mile away due to the protected marshland as well as a “no rent” policy on houses for summer vacationers. At this point, semi-resolute, I answer my sister Siobhan’s query and navigate my way to the Plum Village Inn while avoiding being mowed down by the convoy of 3500 series monster trucks that literally everyone drives. (Yes, of course there were flashbacks to the cowboy/roadie/metrosexual! The signs are everywhere.)

I check into the dubious looking old Sands Motel, which has been bought and renamed “Plum Village Inn.” Fellow travelers, it is very important to read customer feedback when booking rooms off the Internet. Once again, here I am, well-traveled, and I find myself in a scenario resembling “The Shining”. I meet the owner, a silicone valley fallout who has moved his wife to the area where they are now hoteliers. I discover that I am the very first guest. The “inn” consists of one solitary unit painted lime green with plum trim, standing alone while the other former Sands Motel cabins, weathered naturally with chipped blue paint and white shutters, surround it, waiting to become a member of the Plum Village Inn family.

The finished unit has been divided into four separate rooms numbered 6 – 9 and have clearly been furnished from the new Ikea catalogue. The innkeeper lets me inspect each and decide on which one I like. I pick number 7, where I can reach my car in a hurry. There are no phones and cell service is sketchy.

The next morning, I leap out of bed around 8:AM. It is freezing - about 40 degrees. I walk down to the beach and sure enough, it is four miles of beautiful coastline. Almost instantly, the weather turns belligerent. I fend off an attack of angry rain pelting my face like tiny ice picks while being hurled off the beach by the wind. The ocean, aptly named “The Graveyard of the Pacific”, threw its querulous waves at me as if to say “Go Back, Go Away, Get Lost. You Don’t Belong Here”. I struggled to keep track of my footprints in the sand, the only map I had to the little set up I was staying in. As soon as I crawled back through the mile deep marsh, the wind died and the sun spread it's golden warmth.

I took Rhonda the realtor’s advice and drove to the most northern part of the peninsula, sweetly named “Surfside”. It was exactly the oceanfront I was looking for, reminding me of Cape Cod, Cape Hatteras and the Jersey Shore. The houses were perfectly aged, grey from the combination of wind and briny water. Heartened, I drove through Surfside to Oysterville where the year round industry is evident by the eight foot piles of oyster shells left by the sides of the road. An old train depot has been converted into “Bailey’s Bakery” where a cheesy bread aroma mixes harmoniously with the salt air. I find beach access and decide to face the ocean for a second time. The walk is incredible and for the next two miles, my spirits rise and I look to the sand dollars speckled in the shore as a good omen. There is no sound so sweet as the wind in my ears and the waves rolling, rolling in. This, I think, is the place. I note available property and head back to Rhonda’s office.

After looking at some very promising lots, I discuss my building plans with Rhonda. Now I’m a builder. I’m going to build my next house right here on the most western shore of the West Coast! The thought that I might be isolating myself crosses my mind, but I shrug it off. Who wouldn’t want to visit me at my fabulous organically built house at the beach! Property is selling, and Rhonda is certain I can get a permit to build two houses on the acre she shows me. Holy crap - I’m a developer!

Although Rhonda asks that I drive to become more familiar with the island, I don’t think she’s happy with her decision. She sucks in her breath and whispers “oh my” several times. We drive to Cape Disappointment. We drive to the North Head Lighthouse; we drive to Port of Ilwaco where a group of artists have renovated the old pier into galleries and cafes. We’re happily discussing the future of the Long Beach Peninsula, the businesses I could start there, the annual Kite Festival. Just then, just as I’m designing my beautiful beach house in the middle of nowhere while driving through Fort Canby State Park, I ask Rhonda about the ocean. Since the season for vacationers is April – October, I’m curious when the ocean would be warm enough to swim in. What else do people do here? She flatly replies, “I’m not going to lie to you. If you go in, you die”.

I think she’s talking about the temperature, but no, she is serious. I learn that we are at the mouth of the Columbia River and the current is so dangerous that going in over your knees puts you at risk. In fact, she warns me that there are no lifeguards and that if you get carried out, none of the locals will go into save you. She finishes this tale of terror by adding, “Whenever I see parents letting their kids splash around in the water, I say to myself, there goes another one”. I listen quietly, all the while thinking, “WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING HERE?” I drop Rhonda off at the office promising that I will think about the property and speed off to Seattle. In fact, I have a ticket to prove it. At 68 MPH, the infraction totals almost half the airfare and car rental. In hindsight, I probably should have refrained from telling the officer that 68 was hardly speeding.

I check my email at the airport. My mother has sent a quote: “When I do things without any explanation, but just with spontaneity... I can be sure that I am right.” - Federico Fellini

This lifts my spirits and I arrive home, to my beautiful house on Oak Grove, where the poppies are bursting out in reds, oranges and pinks and my animals are crying to greet me.

** Since I haven't had any traffic violations in the State of Washington in the last eighteen months, I will not incur points on my license. This is good news. You can imagine what my insurance is!