Homeless in the Dunes (Part 2)
Fifth Street dead ended at the beach. A barricade blocked vehicles from driving on the sand. Someone had spray painted ALOHA on the barricade.
The encampment amounted to five tents pitched at angles in the dunes. It had a million-dollar view of the ocean and it was rolling white, slate and loud on a dry and bright morning when I stood in front of the site. The airport runway was to my back. The high school football field was a hundred yards away.
I saw the remains of a few campfires. Garbage was strewn about. There were no dumpsters or portable toilets. No water. No power. No pallets to pitch tents on. All of these amenities I had seen at the sanctioned site in Sweet Home two years ago. That site is gone now and I have no idea why. I thought it one of the best ideas to address the crisis on an emergency level.
This place was an official site? I surmised the City simply made this piece of public property available with the understanding that the cops wouldn't hassle the residents and they wouldn't be squatting on private property. But the City apparently wasn't going to provide anything more, because, as the conventional wisdom goes, that enables and attracts more homeless people. I really don't know if that is true or not. I do know if you don't provide a few basic necessities, there is still homelessness and its squalor is intensified.
No one was stirring in the encampment. I felt a little strange doing so, but I took out my phone and snapped a few photographs.
I wanted to talk to someone but it's not like you can go up and knock on someone's tent and introduce yourself as a writer about Oregon's crisis of homelessness.
Sure, I could have done exactly that, but I didn't. I wasn't feeling it. I want my interactions to be spontaneous and not an editorial errand.
What would these residents do when they awakened? Two inches of rain was forecast for the evening. Do homeless people take walks on Oregon's socialist ocean beaches? Sure they do. I've seen it for years. They collect agates, limpets and party in driftwood forts. They run their dogs and play ball and stick with them. They also fish for perch and crab off docks and jetties.
I didn't stay long. True, it wasn't much of site, but the Pacific was right there as a neighbor and perhaps a counselor. It seemed much better to me than living under an off ramp to an Interstate Highway in Portland.
A half an hour later, I was walking through the dunes of another beach, Bailey Beach, across the Rogue River. I was killing time before a coffee date with a good friend.
I saw a vehicle parked in the dunes, 20 feet from the beach and approached it: a Ford Bronco 2000s, battered, rusted, duct taped, bald tires, Washington plates, expired tags. A mobile domicile for sure. They all have that look.
Nothing stirred around it. I peered inside the driver side window. The passenger seat was crammed with stuff.
I hit the beach and saw a man playing stick with a dog and assumed they were the inhabitants of the Bronco.
After a 15-minute walk, I returned to my car via a path through the dunes. The Bronco was blocking the way, but I kept heading that direction. The man materialized with his dog. His back was to me. The dog was a pitbull mix and wore a coat. The dog saw me and bolted my way. He didn't seem angry and I greeted him like an old friend. The man called out to the dog. I met the dog and he was an old softy. Then I met the man near his rig and a woman who was in the back seat. She called out a hello from a half open back door and I caught a glimpse of her wrapped in a blanket.
They were in their 30s/40s and evinced a post meth look. His cheeks were sallow. Her face was riddled with scars. They didn't seem high at all. They looked totally exhausted.
I asked how it was going. I said I couldn't imagine how they survived. They said it was hard. I got their story, at least part of it:
The couple had been homeless for about a year and were from the general area. They were broke and the Bronco had run out of gas. Tomorrow, they had an appointment to meet some homeless advocate in Gold Beach who might be able to help them find housing. Was there such housing in Gold Beach? They didn't know.
I asked if they got into housing were they going to look for work. I don't know why I asked that—it just popped out because I had seen Help Wanted signs all over Gold Beach. They kind of nodded to that question. I didn't press. There was no way they could live out of the Bronco and work a minimum wage job. They needed somewhere to clean up, rally and get their bearings.
“My heart breaks for you and others,” I said. It felt weird and corny saying that, but it's what came out.
“It's tough,” the man said.
I fished out seven bucks and handed it over to the man.
“Thank you,” he said. The woman thanked me, too.
Then I dug out a $20 and gave it to him. “Get some gas and make the appointment, “I said. “Get something for the dog, too.”
The man thanked me again.
We shook hands. I wished them good luck.
I returned the next morning intending to give them some power bars and dog food. They were gone.