ROGUE WANDERER: Shenanigans at Schooner Landing

Published 6:00 am Thursday, March 30, 2023

Peggy Dover

I’m sitting here looking out two wall-sized windows at an undulating ocean with gentle, frothy waves building, rolling and folding in on themselves. I’m eating my heart out for all you suckers stuck in the Valley of Interminable Winter.

How’s that for a snarky hook?

I’m too far away for any of your rotten egg lobs to land near. I have wandered afar to Newport for a week of gazing at the big water, chatting with seagulls about the price of crab legs, and watching glorious sunsets. The Pacific Ocean never ceases to bring tears of pure joy when it comes into view.

Binocs are at the ready should I spy a tell-tale water spout indicating a whale passerby. I know patience will be the challenge until I downshift into coastal speed. I could go sea-blind before one cruises past.

My friend Denise joined me for a couple of days, and Lynn will soon. It may not be the best plan to go on vacation with gal pals right before an annual check-up. First thing they’ll do is hoist me up to the scale like a prize tuna. It won’t be pretty.

Denise made me drink beer. Harp Lager it were, while a Celtic, sea shanty, faith and begorrah jig played. I wished I’d packed my step-dancing skirt and shoes.

We found ourselves seated at a table in Nana’s Irish Pub at Nye Beach. It is the kind of place that tempts with hearty shepherd’s pie and something I succumbed to called Taigue’s Delight — a rich dish of Irish-style sausage (yum) baked with seasoned apples and onions, sautéed in hard cider and served with mashed potatoes, peas, a side of mushroom gravy and soda bread. I can’t believe I admitted to that, but a second go-round awaits for tonight’s supper.

After the beer and mashers, I felt like rising and shouting forth, “Is there a sea captain in the house?” in hope of interviewing one, but I didn’t. There were no diners of promise.

I’m staying at Schooner Landing in a lovely two-bedroom condo with windows full of ocean and sky. Everywhere I look, I’m being waved to.

We even enjoyed a few brief moments of intrigue — always a plus when away. Do I have any fellow J.B. Fletcher fans? Remember “Murder She Wrote?” It’s among my guilty pleasures. I’ve often wished I was as smart as she at deductive reasoning, but I sometimes want to smack her when she sighs and moans about doing “another book tour” and wants to hide from yet “another television interview.” She’s a famous mystery writer on the show in case you were born too late. Murder follows her like gulls behind a trawler.

Anyway, I went to the resort office to report an issue in the condo only to discover that a drunk and insane guest had been threatening the staff and another guest. I eagerly accepted the post of lookout, as we could see the perp and his car from the office window. They’d even locked him out of the office, but as I watched, he came toward us and began banging on the door. Another woman and I had to leave by a side door, so I missed all the action.

Fortunately, his car was gone when we returned from the pub and thrifting. Otherwise, I would have had to tell him what’s what and shake my head in utter disappointment like Jessica.

Thrifting is a shopping experience where you buy used gewgaws you don’t need, eventually offer them in your yard sale for a 10th of what you paid, and discover them later in a collectibles mall where you say, “Hey, I used to have one of those.” I bought two such objects yesterday. But I bought them on vacation at the coast with Denise, so they’re special by association.

Tonight, I watched the sea swallow the sun again. I assume the locals take the daily wonderment for granted. I concluded that there are no ordinary days.

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