Monday Morning Bonfire at the Jetty

I parked my car in the potholed parking lot of a BLM Bastendorff beach access at the south jetty of Coos Bay. Another vehicle had beat us here. It was a somewhat battered SUV and exuded the vibe of a mobile domicile for a homeless man, woman or family.

Elmer and I bounded out into a light rain. I looked for the renegade Ogden Nash poem affixed to a fence post I'd seen a week before.

Gone. The Government took it down. Must be a new Trump cultural initiative.

It was seven in the morning on a Monday.

Near the jetty I saw a man hauling cardboard.

What? Maybe he would use it to pad his ass while fishing on the jetty. I'd seen that before on the Oregon Coast.

He stopped short of the jetty and placed the cardboard on the sand. He folded it over. He then started gathering driftwood.

A jetty bonfire in rain on a Monday morning to warm a homeless man. Sounds like a damn good subject for a country song.

I detoured his way to get a better look. He lit the cardboard with a lighter (no gas for assistance) and the fire caught right away. He clearly knew what he was doing.

He saw me and Elmer and I beheld him. Young, thick red hair, thick red beard. Heavy duty clothing. Decent boots. The face was somewhere in between housed and homeless.

“You got it going,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. He looked exhausted.

“You'll get warm.”

“Yeah.”

“Have a great morning.”

“You too.”

Elmer and I continued westward to the ocean and did our beach thing. Up on the dunes I spotted a little pile of split firewood leftover from some daytrippers.

I went to the pile and picked out a choice hunk of Doug fir. It was somehow dry as a bone. I lifted it to my left shoulder and headed toward the smoke of the fire.

Why not? One good hunk of dry firewood can ignite a great bonfire. I think there's an excellent metaphor in that and yes, another twangy country song.

Elmer and I approached the fire. It was roaring. I saw the man dragging more wood toward it and said, “Hey, I found the nice piece of Doug fir and I thought I'd bring it over.”

“Thanks,” he said.

“Are you on the road?”

“I'm from Charleston” (a fishing village two miles away). “I just had to start this morning with a bonfire at the beach.” (Now that's another helluva an idea for a country song!)

Why the need?

Bad breakup?

Fired?

Penance for partying too hard?

I wanted to ask but didn't. I'd speculate in the song when I write it.

It was then I saw a teal and white shrimp boat fishing in the bay. It's lights beamed.

I pointed out the boat to the man.

“I used to fish on the boat.” He named it but the wind snagged his answer.

“Have a great day,” I said.

“You too. Thanks for the wood.”

Homeless? It sure felt like it. But something in that bonfire at the jetty in the morning as it rained, augured well for him. Or so I want to believe. I may be naive in these thoughts. On the other hand, this is no campfire under an Interstate Highway bridge in Portland.