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Across the Crying Sands

By Jane Kirkpatrick

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Prologue:
Wave Woman tells the story. Her grandmother told her and that woman’s grandfather had told her and so the story wove through many seasons. Wave Woman shared the story as though she had seen with her own eyes. That is the best way to tell a story, bring the listener inside.
A schooner—the ship was called with a second name, Shark—tried to come into the mouth of the mighty Nch’i-Wána, the Columbia River, where it met the sea. The ship and the river fought. The river won, pushing the ship onto the spit of sand. The captain tossed large guns over the side, hoping to free the Shark. The river broke up more of the ship, and a chunk the size of a whale separated and took three guns with it, dropping them on the sand. The tide pushed and buried one, maybe two. Cannons they were called.
Seasons passed. One cannon was spit up by the sea, miles south on a flat, golden beach. A Crying Sands Beach named for a great sadness. The sea and sand took it back. It left a new name behind, named by the white men who knew of the ship’s great loss. Cannon Beach. And so the search for the cannons began.
 
Part I
 
Chapter 1
Like a clarion call to adventure, Mary Edwards cherished the sound of the swooshing surf on the golden sands beach. She’d kept the window open though it was November, and wind off the Pacific rolled in, brushing the shore as flat as an adze-smoothed table before reaching her primitive room. November 8th, 1888, Mary wrote in her journal with the note, Happiest day ever—so far. Grand adventures lie ahead. She did like excitement. Adventures reminded her that she was alive. And goodness, she was alive this week, her wedding week.
Mary wrapped the journal in a leather pouch, set it on the duck-down pillow beside her, and laid back, pulling her rust-colored braid over her shoulder, hands over her stomach. She savored the peaceful moment in Herbert Logan’s cabin (that would one day be a hotel, he claimed) on Ecola Creek, the Clatsop People’s word for whale. Some people called the area Cannon Beach—and another dozen names. Mary preferred the cannon reference because it came with a good story.
She heard rustling next door where her fiancé, John Gerritse, and Herbert Logan himself had spent the night. Herbert hailed from England and came to the area as a remittance man, sent as the second son and, like English women, therefore not able to inherit. Instead, he received a monthly remittance from his elder brother. The money gave him income but also served as a reminder of his expulsion and that he’d never be welcomed home. Mary felt sorry for him and other remittance men who had found their way to the coast for being banished by family. What did one have if not family, so vitally important to her.
Still, Herbert had made the best of it and planned to build a hotel on this lovely though remote beach. He’d also been a good friend to John and Mary. Knowing Mary liked to read and write poetry, he’d introduced her to an English poet named Edward Lear. One of Mary’s favorite poems now was “The Jumblies,” a whimsical verse with a ballad rhythm. Mary memorized several stanzas and recalled one this morning.
They went to sea in a Sieve they did,
In a Sieve they went to sea.
Sometimes with John so large in her life and with his willingness to try new ways, Mary wondered if they were going to sea in a sieve. They were certainly sailing to places she’d never been before, marriage being one.
Hearing the men next door stirred her own rustling to rise. So much excitement ahead. The wedding, the party, moving to John’s claim—though he’d been secretive about that. A surprise she guessed. Mary liked surprises.
She finished her prayers of confession, gratitude, and requests, then rose in the dark, pinned up her braid, and readied herself to make the last leg of their journey south to her and her parents’ home at Nehalem, on the north Oregon coast. They’d take the upper inland trail, she supposed, as that’s the way they’d gone north nearly the week before to Astoria. In that bustling town, she’d bought a wedding hatpin and had two teeth pulled, the latter giving her even more information about her John. He’d been both practical and tender.
Her tongue kept finding the holes those teeth had departed from, and pain still darted into her mouth. John had held her after the chloroform wore off, and they’d stayed an extra day so Mary could recover. John washed out the rags lodged in her mouth to stop the bleeding. Even without them, she felt like a gopher with chubby cheeks. He caressed her shoulder as he sat beside her, spoke kind words. He was a gentle man despite his size.
Other than the teeth-pulling, it was almost like a honeymoon in that bustling city where the Columbia River met the sea. John knew his way around Astoria, and they walked along Young’s River, climbed to a high point to see just where the Columbia River passed into the ocean. The Bar, it was called, and it put seamen like John into peril crossing it. On certain days, ships broke up or had to wait a day or two until the sea calmed. Mary thought it was a bit like life—surviving suffering times, having to wait.
“Ready?” John asked as he knocked on her door, interrupting her reverie.
“I’ve been waiting on you lazy boys.” She grabbed her knitted cap, stuffed her braid up under it, and opened the door.
“A man needs his beauty sleep.” John leaned in and kissed her cheek. “But you sure don’t.”
“What you see is what you get, gauzy cheeks and all.” She reached up to gentle his sideburns. Soft.
“You look much the better.”
“I’ve been awake just listening to the waves,” Mary said. “They’re a lullaby. I’d love to live here one day.”
“Anything is possible.” He put his arm around her shoulder, and they walked to the porch. Beyond, he’d already saddled the horses. It was nice not to have to do that herself.
In two days, she’d be Mrs. John Gerritse, wedded to this stocky man with arms the size of thighs, light sand-colored hair, and a high forehead he told her meant he had “big brains.” He stood nearly six feet tall. Fortunately, her parents had approved of the match though John was eight years older than her. He’d be twenty-four on their wedding day which was also his birthday. “This way I won’t forget the special event, ja?”
His booming voice appealed to Mary along with his worldly ways. He’d sailed around the globe, leaving from the Netherlands as a boy, landing in America to stay.
They’d marry on Saturday but the party would wait until Monday so their revelry wouldn’t sweep into Sunday. That had been their compromise. That, and no alcohol served. She could only push her dear parents so far. They did indulge her, her parents. Only-children were often as spoiled as rain-soaked cabbage. That’s what her mother said. But they seemed to like John and his dream of great things. Mary dreamed of splendor too: a family and a way to serve those around her, and hopefully a regular dose of adventure.
John pulled a woolen hat over his head and ears. “You follow me, Mary.” Her future husband rechecked the cinch. Some horses liked to hold their breath during saddling to keep the cinch from being tight. But Jake , John’s faithful horse,,wasn’t like that. Mary appreciated John’s sweet gesture and that he knew about horses even though he was a seaman.
Mary stepped into John’s palms, and he lifted her to the saddle. Jake might be owned by John, but the gelding was fast becoming Mary’s. She patted the sorrel’s neck. His ears twitched in happy response. She eyed the dark ocean. “Shouldn’t we wait until dawn?”
“Horses see the ocean well by moonlight.”
They were taking the beachfront trail. The ocean could be tricky in the dark. A large rock called Haystack was ahead of them, and in this light they wouldn’t see it until they were almost upon it, standing like a sentinel of the Pacific and Cannon Beach. They’d barely make out the tide line.
“Aren’t we taking the upper trail?”
“Nee. The beach beckons. You say that in English, ja? Beckons?”
“Yes, that’s the proper word.” It was a shorter path, but only if the tide receded.
The upper trail through the manzanita and spruce wouldn’t be good in the dark either, she supposed. “And the tide? Are you sure it’s going out?”
“Will you question my every decision, woman?” He grinned, but she heard the edge in his voice.
“No. It’s just that—”
“You two are arguing like a married couple and you’ve yet to say ‘I do.’” Herbert laughed. He popped on his derby hat as he stepped up onto his sorrel. He didn’t have to ride south with them, but he planned to attend their wedding after taking care of business in Tillamook, the county seat. He’d spend tonight in Nehalem rather than alone at his cabin.
“Alright. I defer to the man of the house,” Mary said. “This time.” She grinned.
“That’s my girl. I know the ocean. I delivered mail for a time from here to Hoquarton.”
Mary corrected him. “They call it Tillamook now, in honor of the Indians. Hoquarton is its old name.”
John grunted. “Let’s go.”
Mary made a mental note: John didn’t like being corrected, at least not with another man to hear it. Maybe no one liked to be corrected with an audience.
At least he didn’t deny that she knew something too.
She pressed her knees into Jake, and the horse’s hooves spit up sand as he sped Mary forward.
Mary’s russet tendrils escaped from her cap, matted against her face in the morning mist. Like most coastal women, she’d long ago succumbed to the sea air’s sense of style. She lived with caps and hats. Her split skirt let her ride astride with ease. A fawn-colored wool sweater kept her warm and protected her white blouse while riding boots kept her feet dry. She sighed. A beach ride on a good horse was a bit of heaven, even in the half dark.
They passed the imposing Haystack Rock on their right.
They spoke little as the ocean swiped their words and tossed them into the breeze. Mary liked the wind, the feel of it on her face. Gulls stayed quiet, waiting for dawn. The sleepyheads. A white froth highlighted by the gibbous moon etched the waves. The ocean filled the world to their right as Mary reached down to pat Jake’s neck and to check her leather pack.
She didn’t have it! She’d left it on the bed. She had a mind like a sieve sometimes. Hopefully John would share his lunch that Herbert had provided them. And he’d be silent about her forgetting her pack. She’d have to go back one day for the journal, though. Maybe on their real honeymoon they could stay at Herbert’s cabin again and sleep in until the sun was high overhead—if the sun chose to shine that day.
They were long past Haystack, and now, on their left, another large rock outcropping appeared at the end of a wooded promontory. Dawn peeked over the ridge, sending pink shafts of light over the sea. This chunk of granite was called Hug Point. At the base the sand glistened in moonbeam and Mary caught her breath at the stellar scene. She blinked back tears: the vast ocean, in the company of a loved one and a friend, all announced that her life was on the lip of something grand.
John shouted for them to pull up. “Sand looks smooth as silk but . . . Gallop full force till we pass it, ja? You follow me, Mare. Herbert, bring up the rear.” He gave a whooping shout and kneed his horse.
Mary chirped at Jake, who galloped forward just as Herbert passed her like a shot, one hand holding his derby hat tight against his head.
“Whee!” Herbert shouted.
Anything else he’d planned to say was lost when Herbert’s horse jerked as a sleeper wave nearly as high as Hug Point hurtled toward them. The horse reared, his front feet piercing the air, tumbling Herbert into the explosion of surf. Agape, Mary heard John shout as his horse sank into a deep, deep pool, submerging man and mount.
The numbing cold thrashed thoughts from her mind as the wave hit her, knocking her from Jake, plunging them both into surf.
 

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