Oregon Beach Cult-ture by Kay Limbird
The novelty of living within walking distance of the Oregon beach, or any beach, was still fresh and exciting to Art and me that memorable December evening fifteen years ago. We had moved into our new home that month and were still unpacking and getting acquainted with our ocean-side community location. Living in proximity to the ocean was a totally new experience for both of us. Within an easy fifteen-minute walk from our new home we could follow a path over the dunes, take in a sunset, and descend to the beach for a stroll on the mostly deserted expanse of sand below. Although vehicles were allowed on this particular stretch of beach, our community’s pedestrian-only pathways were miles from public pedestrian and vehicle access points. Only infrequently, in the two weeks since our arrival, had we seen people and vehicles on the stretch of the beach we had visited almost daily.
And, that is why, in the twilight of a misty December evening, fifteen years ago, we were not prepared for the scene below us as we crested the final dune on our favorite path to the beach. About a dozen cars and trucks were parked just below us, their headlights ineffectively penetrating the twilight mist throwing dim streaks of yellow haze across the sand. About thirty people moved about on “our beach” many more than we had ever seen there before. Silently and reverently they paced in a seemingly ceremonial trance through the mist and the dismal lights emanating from the vehicles. Like specters from another world, the solitary figures carried lanterns, their pale glow moving eerily through the gloom. Most were “armed” with sticks or staffs, we assumed as primitive walking aids or perhaps for self-defense.
The shadowy figures paced in random patterns with heads bowed in absurdly silent, trance-like focus. Through the mist we could see that a few had fallen to their knees and were flinging sand in what we imagined to be a sudden emotional outburst of maniacal fervor. We knew we unwittingly had stumbled upon a cult, or wiccan, or possible moon-phased Druid ceremony.
Why had no one warned us? Were some of our new neighbors a part of this secret society ? How would we know who to trust? Feeling vulnerable and perhaps visible to the “walking dead” below us, we began to back away from the dune’s crest, our minds racing. “Have we been noticed here on the dune-top? Would the specters below surround us and force us into their fiendish society? Require us to bite the head off a chicken, or kiss a snake? What unspeakable acts will they be doing here on the beach? Our beach!!! Why had we moved here???!!!”
Cautiously, eyes fixed upon the ghostly figures below, we backed more swiftly away from the dune’s crest, turned and hastened back to the safety of our home. Hurriedly, we locked our doors against the uncertainties of our new surroundings and community. Weeks would pass before we would trust anyone with our concerns and questions about that twilight encounter with “the undead.”
Of course, we learned we unwittingly had observed an extra low-tide phenomenon and the promise of excellent clamming conditions. The clam-loving and otherwise quite normal good citizens of our new community were enjoying the hunt for the elusive razor clam, nothing more. Fishing/clamming opportunities were completely new to us and in this case a lesson painfully learned…much to the amusement of our confidants. However, even now, when we walk to the crest of that last dune where the beach spreads out below us…I can’t help remembering our dune-top fright that memorable December evening fifteen years ago.
