Gearhart is where we go to get things right again. To reboot. To clear the gunk out of our emotional carburetors. There's not too much to do in this seaside village—and we wouldn't have it any other way. Run, read, write, walk the dog on the beach, watch the rain fall on the deck, watch the light turn golden at the end of the day.
Very fortunate are we to have friends who own a home with a guest cottage here. It's a few blocks from Gin Ridge, the row of cedar-shingled houses on Ocean Avenue that look out over a wide swath of dune grass and then the breakers of the Pacific. Development here is kept a distance from the shore. Gives the place a feel like the east coast shore towns I've only seen in movies. It's hard to believe that the tourist hubbub of Seaside—whack-a-moles, bumper boats and curly fries—lies but a couple of miles south.
We get up and put on the coffee. I trudge half-asleep to the Pacific Way Bakery a couple of blocks away to purchase a pecan sticky bun for Megan, an almond croissant for me. We read and lazily break fast. We'll go for a run, winding around the golf course and onto the beach, then skirting the estuary of Neacoxie Creek to return on dune trails and quiet town streets. Maybe we have a burger for lunch at The Pacific Way Cafe, maybe we'll pop down to Cannon Beach for lunch at The Cannon Beach Hardware & Public House (Screw & Brew, as it's affectionately known—"Where else can you get your hardware supplies and have a beer?"). Later in the day, I shake up some vespers to welcome in the evening, and we dine on pasta or open-faced dungeness crab sandwiches, a fire crackling in the little red wood stove (if my lame fire starting talents permit.) Pretty simple life for the week. Pretty wonderful.