Gooey Duck

Contrary to popular belief, there are lots of things Washington is good at. Trees, for example. Washington knows how to do trees. And crabs. Nothing can compare to a couple of Dungeness crabs. Seattle has some fine fine coffee too.

But despite its automatic status as a coastal state, Washington is about as beach-friendly as Gordon Ramsey is people-friendly. With perennial gray skies, an incessant drizzle and a stinging ocean breeze, it's hardly the climate for a day at the beach. Even if beachgoers are willing to brave the weather conditions, there are still ample obstacles to drive even the most determined vacationer to spend their hard-won sick days somewhere more accommodating.

Ouch.

Instead of pale, soft, warm sandy beaches, Washington beaches are more cobbled than the Olde Town. The  stones, though originally smoothed by the tide, are caked in sharp barnacles. Forget about going barefoot--the barnacle layer is as painful as a beach covered in rogue Lego bits. The sharp kind. Even the brave, Lewis and Clark-esque explorers wearing beach sandals they bought at a San Diego boardwalk can't escape the barnacles. Each step taken on the rocks makes a discomfiting crack as the barnacles' hard shells shatter, reminiscent of what it would probably sound like to walk on a bed of skulls. You can almost hear the barnacles screaming out for their murdered cousins, swearing vengeance on mankind just as soon as the tide comes in and they can come wiggling out of their shells again. Ultimately, though, it was the arthropods' beach spot long before it was yours, and, all things considered, they can keep it.

If you manage to find a swath of sand free from barnacles, you'll be disappointed to discover that the sand is not the setting for a Corona commercial you hoped it would be. Washington beaches, in keeping with the color scheme of gray skies, gray water and gray stones, have appropriately chosen gray sand to cover their beaches. This sand is not your Californian, Floridian, or Mexican sand. Instead, Washington sand has a glutinous texture. When the sand is even slightly wet, it goes all amoebic and tries to devour your feet. Each time you lift up your foot, the sand emits a horrible sucking, sputtering sound as it releases your foot, dreams of being an amoeba cruelly crushed. If you hold still long enough to channel that "sand between your toes" sensation, it's probably too late to escape. I imagine that the beaches have claimed many lives. Perhaps the gray sand has obtained its pigment from digesting human bones.

YUM.

Even the things that sound endearing or desirable about Washington beaches are thoroughly horrible. The geoduck (lovingly pronounced "gooey duck" by locals) is not a duck at all. It's not even a bird. It's infinitely worse than that. The geoduck is a massive clam. When it stays in its shell and keeps to itself, it does no harm. When it does emerge, however, a three-foot, slimy, pale, sentient tongue goes writhing and squirming through the graying Washington sands. I've heard they don't eat much and that you won't ever see them above the sand, but I'm convinced that the missing dogs and cats of Washington wandered down to the beach and were devoured by ravening gooey ducks, pulled howling and mewling down into the squelching muck of the gray Washington sands. Truly these mollusks are Washington's deadliest predator.

There is a grave-like solemnity to the beaches; its dried barnacles, waterlogged timber and monolithic rock islands forming a moribund Arlington. And it is beautiful, similar to the way people pat you on the back during your uncle's funeral and say things like "This was a beautiful service. He would've loved this." And, as with funerals, when you leave a Washington Beach, nobody ever says "Let's do this again real soon."

EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT.

Yet for all these detractors to Washington state tourism, the beach remains an important, profitable, and (incomprehensibly) enjoyable aspect to Washingtonian life. I know. I don't get it either. In Port Orchard, hooded, poncho'd men stand as quiet sentinels on the edge of the beach at all hours of the night, their nets and rods ready to snare unsuspecting squid. I don't know what they do with the squid. But I have it on good authority that they're there for squid. Maybe they eat them. I don't know.


Similarly, the Quileute are happy enough with the rocky, slate-gray shores of La Push. From the hulkish trees, they carve their tribal canoes. From the chowder-colored water, they fish. From the sucking gray shore, they collect sea glass, rare bits of shipwrecked beauty from distant lands.

Incredibly, people even find a use for the repulsive gooey duck. They go tromping around the beaches, digging holes trying to catch them. Yeah, I know. Maybe they eat them too. Or maybe they catch them and train them. Beats me.

It's remarkable to me that some people don't just endure the beaches as an unfortunate aspect of their residency in Washington--they enjoy them. In the end, every Washingtonian decides whether to troop southward to the Oregon or even Californian coast in search of a good time or whether to strap on their nasty boots, throw on their rain poncho, and set out to obliterate sprawling barnacle civilizations and catch some gooey ducks in a bucket.

**Obligatory Returned Missionary religious reference to follow**
In the Book of Mormon, there's a reference to a place called "Sidon." Sidon is noteworthy for two things. The first is as unpleasant as the longest, slimiest geoduck. After a tremendous battle, the winning army decides to use the river Sidon as corpse disposal. Hundreds, maybe thousands of bodies are thrown into this river. The bodies float downstream to the sea. Bones would've littered the floor of that river. There would've been decomposing, bloated corpses lining the shores. It would've stank, it would've been ugly, it would've been unsanitary, it would've been horrible in every conceivable way.

It also would've stuck in the cultural memory of both armies for a long time. Society doesn't forget stuff like that. Think of the way America reverences Gettysburg and Pearl Harbor. People would've talked about how the battle of the century was fought on the banks of Sidon. They would have remembered the battle, remembered the loss, remembered the blood, remembered the bodies. "Sidon" would've been synonymous with "sacrifice" and "slaughter."

You'd think that the war would've driven property values around Sidon to record lows. And who knows?Maybe it did. A few years later, however, we receive the second noteworthy mention of Sidon. According to the text, the locals decided to use Sidon as a ceremonial site for baptism. What was originally a river of death, a literal Styx, became a place of sanctity, ritual cleansing, and holiness.

They didn't forget. They couldn't have. They knew the significance and potential taboo of the site, but performed their baptisms anyway. A national tragedy, a huge detriment, "as bad as it gets" all metamorphosed into something not only functional, but spiritually enjoyable. The place of death had, with determination and will, been turned into a place of rebirth.

Each of us are going to have our sucking sand, our barnacles, our river Sidon. Despite first appearances, though, none of these things are inherently bad. The only things that are certain, unchanging, inherent, are our circumstances. This is not a revolutionary idea, it's not something that hasn't been said before. Ultimately, however, at some point, on some level, we'll have to choose to do as the Western Washingtonians and Sidon do--put on our nasty boots, get our buckets, and set out to stomp some barnacles in epic pursuit of the fearsome gooey duck.

I just can't imagine why you'd ever want to do that. Those things are nasty.

Epilogue

I had a mission dream again last night.

In the dream, I was in that stupid Malibu with the bike rack on it, driving through South Hill. I was talking to one companion or another about cars or Tolkien or the Clementsons or just how happy we might be someday.

And I woke up with a gnawing sorrow, like there's some cruel psychological vitamin deficiency only my subconscious knows about.


It's been 3 months since I got back from Tacoma, and not a day goes by that I don't think about it.


I've done my utmost to get reacquainted with normal life. I've gone on dates, I've gone to movies, I've gone to sporting events and gone on road trips. I have a job. I have a calling. I go to school. I walk my dog.

But there's still this part of me living in the shadow of that lonely mountain, some wayward fraction of my soul that still suits up at five o'clock. It's the part of me that still wants to clip on a tag, the part that unconsciously rubs that one calloused knuckle.

I am home now. My family is here. My friends are here. I know these mountains, this climate, these roads and restaurants and little shops.

But those two years were something more, and now I feel as though I've lost that dear more-ness when I think about it, the world I left behind.

Today those black tags got up and got in their stupid Malibu with the bike rack on it. They hurried about, frantically calling strangers and recent acquaintances. They got yelled at as they walked down a street. They were maligned, discredited, or otherwise patently ignored by the world. And tonight, after they planned, they made grilled cheese sandwiches and laughed at themselves. With devil-may-care bravado, they shrugged off the day's travails and prayed to their invisible God and gave thanks that they are on this adventure.

Gosh I miss it. I miss it with half-Stockholm-Syndrome, half separation anxiety.

I may never understand how such an exhausting, comprehensive, all-encompassing endeavor could so completely endear me to a clump of trees and liberals on the Olympic Peninsula.
But while I don't understand it, I can still love it. And miss it.
I miss the companion. The co-pilot, confidante, co-conspirator, tag-team wrestling partner, mandatory best friend, and everything else besides. The kind who would spot you for Taco Bell, if the occasion called for it and with the guarantee all debts would someday be paid. The kind who was more than willing to stay up talking with you because they were worried about you. That inexorable optimism who shared an apartment with you, the one with the unyielding determination to carry the world alone if need be. The small fights, the large fights, the banter. The fallout. Reading each other's mail. Sharing leftovers.
I miss the camaraderie. The brotherhood. Those nights around the missionary bar, swapping stories. Buying Dairy Queen for the bike Elders because it was out of their area. The miracle phone calls, the pranks, the love. The desperate sense of artifical belonging we frantically wrapped ourselves in, shielding us from fatal loneliness. Giving ourselves funny callings and jobs, crafting an elaborate culture and labyrinth of inside jokes and double entendre.
The way we all practiced our President Weaver impressions when we were alone. The way we all assumed that everything was fine at home. The way we all pretended we were strong and knew what we were doing. The way we would all cry when someone went home. The way we all secretly wanted to impress the Sisters.  The panacea blessings, the omnipresent hope for the new transfer, the vindication at news from an old area.

The mission was the most deeply human thing I have ever experienced, from the bold joy that gushed out of those little victories to the devastating crush of long days driving into long weeks. It was majestic. It was immortal.

There is nothing that has brought me greater joy or fulfillment or satisfaction than that jagged little crop of souls in Northwestern Washington. It is beyond me to express what it has meant to me and continues to mean to me.

For a few months, the greatest challenge of my life was to live within the WATAC. Now, each day, I've found that my greatest challenge may be to live without it.
The most emotion I feel comes from memories or connections to the mission. I can't listen to Amazing Grace anymore. Every item in every grocery store seems to have some connotation attached to it. Every hymn, talk in church, or bit of church gossip was better in Tacoma.

I would go back, if they'd have me. I'd pack up and swear off the soccer and superheroes and video games again, just to get back in that stupid Malibu with the bike rack and drive to some godforsaken apartment complex to meet disgruntled naval electricians.

Home is not where the heart is. Because while this is most certainly home, my heart is somewhere else.

And my heart hurts. As I get ready to sleep at the end of another day further from my mission, I'm half-excited to dream again. If all I can have is the WATAC of my dreams, I'll take it.