Lost Coast, Humboldt County, California
August 8, 1989
Lost Coast, Humboldt County, California
August 8, 1989
Feet in the sand, backs to stone, we trudged that hour
together— alone to watch the sea fold back. Beige
shapes undulated— inlets of the beach laid out—
brown, tender under the watchful gaze of harbor seal.
Sauntering, holding hands with her dad, our eldest
led the advance— sauntering towards the grey of the
pelicans’ roosting place. Resting against rock,
hunching over my steno pad and pencil outwards
Between bleary blue lines fading details of the vacation,
knowing rosy contours of the shame my girls felt of me—
some vague descendent. I rained on my mom, who wrote
so cautiously in blue ink— her books bound in red leather—
the most fastidious travel prose.
The first day, we spent the morning packing the Ford,
left at noon, stopped at Howard Johnson’s—paid 70
cents for ice cream. Our youngest squatted nearer—
pencil thick, studded with rhinestones. She used it
to cover her fluorescent memo pad with the story
She was submitting for publication. Billowy waves
broke— we entertained possibility of rejection.
Sandpipers darted in and out in circles. Regretted
having mentioned it, she whispered, asked me—
“What do you call books that are part true part not?
I want to write about something that actually happened
then didn’t. I was going to write a true story, then I thought
of more.” Sea, then fog lifted up their cloudy skirts—left
the lonely roosting place revealed. Pelicans—simple,
mundane flapping, feeding, skimming water,
Lowering their landing gear— splashing— hit water
before they took off in lines of flight So, we witnessed
the beach expanding, terns diving—the history of
lost coast opened up. We spoke of 8,000 years— full
of elk, salmon, beaver, fox, spruce, virgin redwood—
The Sinkyone people, who are no more. Geoff threw
an orange rubber ball. Our middle daughter cried,
“Funny, funny, funny, funny,” like a flock of gulls
slithered next to the green yellow water snake—
shimmering in lagoon light where creek meets sea.
I was left to sort the story out— this beach—once
a harbor. This verse is written over mom’s spurned
red travel journals. Before the massacre, Sinkyone
roamed this place, then survivors vowed revenge.
We’re left on this exquisite bleeding earth,
embracing a land with veins of pain so deep—
no circumference to her screams. To stand up,
speak out, reclaim my own lost coast— one—long ago
deserted, cursed with awe and power like the Sinkyone.
I cannot tell our young ones what to call these books—
only we must write them— for our legacy is the story—
our lineage bears the curse.