Ships at anchor in Astoria

We left Portland in pouring rain that turned to sleet with occasional snowflakes, but as we reached Astoria the sun came blaring out. A battalion of seals barked furiously at fleeting rainbows. Ships sat at anchor. We turned west in Washington, away from Dismal Nitch, and at Cape Disappointment one ship was powering into the Columbia River, out of the Pacific Ocean.

All the way north our phones were bleeping notifications: Covid19 closes public schools. All Churches Closed. Public Libraries Closed. Donna Hayes’s play is once again postponed. Theatres Closed. Museums Closed. Checking into the motel, Sue asked if anyone here has been diagnosed with it. 

“Not here, but there’s a case in Warrenton and a case in Astoria, so we know it’s coming.”

Before bringing food and suitcases into our room with kitchen and bath, we donned rubber gloves and wiped down every surface with disinfectant, feeling like characters in some absurdist play about germaphobes. 

“What about the dishes?” 
“Maybe OK?” 
“Handles on the windows?” Check.
“Got all the doorknobs?” Check.
“Sink fixtures and toilet flusher?” Check.
“Shower?” Check.

We brought food for the duration, so we won’t have to eat out or enter a grocery store and risk exposure. 


We could hardly have found anywhere more remote. A few lone people are out walking their dogs, but we see no tourists, no families having picnics, nobody buying taffy or shell art. There are a couple of people fishing in the ocean surf, a quarter of a mile apart. An Australian Shepherd is trying to herd seagulls. Sue spotted one sandpiper. Icy wind chilled us to the bone. The sand was pitted by raindrops. It feels like we’re in a post-apocalyptic movie.