A Whale of A Tale

As a child I shuttled back and forth between my parents rather frequently; from my mother’s home in Portland, OR to my father’s home in Newport, OR. Those trips to my dad’s house were always a bit of an adventure for me. My mother was a PhD candidate and money was always tight whereas my father was a commercial fisherman at the height of the last great era of crab and salmon fishing. So, I always knew that a trip to my dad’s meant at least one meal eaten at a restaurant where the food wouldn’t be organic OR good for you, (boring to my child’s palette, anyway.) We’d go to many places, Mo’s for chowder, Ats-A-Pizza for pizza, Canyon Way for “fancy”, and my absolute favorite, The Whale’s Tale.

The interior of The Whale’s Tale was bedecked with all manner of “seafront” decorations: nets that still faintly smelled of the sea, barnacle be speckled buoys and glass floats that had sailed further and seen more than the oldest, saltiest salt had ever ventured. When I think back and concentrate I can still feel the satin, smoothness of the wooden tables slide under my finger tips. I can smell the sawdust, salt and kitchen spice. I remember feeling as though I was deep in the heart wood of an ancient tree, perched on the cliffs overlooking an ocean vista that stretched out in front of my as far as the eye could see.

I had two favorite tables: the table that was in a section that was up a single step but almost centered in the room next to the railing and the small round table set to the rear right of the restaurant where you could see everyone as they came and went, ebbed and flowed throughout the space with cheerful smiles and the smoothest strides. The table up the step was smooth and slick, cool to the touch no matter how warm the surrounding temperature. The squares and triangles for chess and backgammon were integrated into the table top and to my young mind they signified the darkest, most earth shaking mysteries. I dreamt of giants and gods gambling the fate of realities on a single toss of the dice, of fraught strategic gambits that would decide all of our collective destinies. The other table was small and round. When skootched up to the edge of the table my knees would bump my father’s legs and our heads would hang conspiratorially close as though we were exchanging secret codes or confessing the damnedest of sins. The surface was rippled in that rough cut yet still smooth manner some wood develops after long exposure to the elements. Yes, I can still feel the wood rippling under my hands as I ran my palms across the top of the table, scooping up my napkin and draping it across my lap, (I was taught that to leave your napkin on the table as you ate was a transgression worthy of the direst of punishments.) The table had a single lamp with a lower wattage bulb so that our faces would be lit from below. Halloween caricatures no matter where the year hovered.

One of the intangible inheritances I received from my father was the unspoken need to “know a guy”. The fact that my father’s name was Guy is an irony that is never lost on me every time I’ve uttered the phrase, “I’m not sure but I know a guy!” In this particular instance the guy in question was the owner/chef of The Whale’s Tale. A great mound of a man in well worn chef’s whites with an enormous salt and pepper beard and a voice that seemed to me to be the sound of mountains catching each other up on all the news that’s fit to print. I don’t know if he was the actual owner but to my eyes it seemed as though it would be the height of utter foolishness to assume that anyone else could possibly be the owner. I don’t know that I ever knew his name but he’ll always live on in my memories. He always checked to make sure I was enjoying my breakfast, whether it was poppy seed pancakes with bacon or poppy seed pancakes with sausage. I really liked their poppy seed pancakes. I doubt they’d still taste as good to my adult tongue but to child me they were pure ambrosia. I almost always got one of those little round bottles of Martinelli’s sparkling cider to go with my breakfast because they would match the color and fizziness of my dad’s beer. The bottle even looked a little like a beer bottle if you turned the label towards the wall, which I did at every opportunity. I’d slowly twist it away and then watch to see if anyone noticed and commented to themselves about the two tired fishermen enjoying their quiet breakfast and oh my, Henry! I do believe one of them is a child! Followed by all of the pearl clutching and general genial chaos that was all I could really imagine happening. The chef noticed once and very casually, in that specific to adults fashion that screams to children that SOMETHING is happening way, turned the bottle back around before breathing a quick sigh of relief and asking me if I was enjoying my pancakes.

It was at The Whale’s Tale that my father partook in that ancient tradition of breaking bad news to your child in their favorite place in the hopes that said child is easily distracted away from their hurt by being in one of their favorite places. I knew something was up because we went to the Whale’s Tale for lunch and the Whale’s Tale, as far as I knew, was a place solely for the acquisition and consumption of breakfast foods. Yet for some odd reason, we were there for lunch. We sat at the round table to the rear right of the restaurant and got burgers, (I think?), and Cokes from the era of sugary drinks with real sugar in them. My dad solemnly told me that he needed me to be brave because he had some really bad news for me. It was louder in the afternoon than I remember it ever being in the morning. Happy families hollered at one another in that specific gaiety that defines a summer vacation at the beach. Kids threw fries at one another before being swatted by their embarrassed parents and servers sprinted to and fro in a mad effort to keep up with the orders. Yet my father and I sat in a surprisingly quiet bubble inside the restaurant yet outside of the dizzying busy-ness of it all.

I asked my dad what was happening and he told me that Naomi had run away.

Naomi was my very first dog. She was some sort of golden retriever/yellow lab/Irish setter mix and as far as she was concerned I was her one and only puppy. I can feel her fur in the tips of my fingers the same way I can feel the wood grain from the table top of my favorite table. I remember how her smell changed from when she first came inside cool and crisp from the salty air around my father’s house to the soft, smoky luxuriance after she’d been laying in front of the woodstove for a few hours. She accompanied me on all of my childhood adventures when I went to my dad’s. She would come out on the deck and sit next to me as I caught newts out of the floodwaters that formed around my father’s house every time it rained. She traipsed with me through the forests and beaches, up sand dunes and down rushing creeks. From the Siletz river to Cape Perpetua she was constantly by my side, fearless and madly protective. When people talk of crossing the rainbow bridge and who they might meet on the other side I know that Naomi will be there, first in line to greet me and ready for whatever new adventures we might dream up.

My heart dropped and I absolutely couldn’t believe what he was telling me. He kept talking about how he had come into town to work or get a drink or grab a bite or something unimportant because it was then that Naomi had hopped the proverbial fence and went on French leave to parts unknown and I’d never see her again and how could he be so calm we had to go look for her and I WAS NOT GOING ANYWHERE UNTIL WE FOUND HER AND BROUGHT HER HOME!!

And someone opened the door to the Whale’s Tale,

And

There

She

Was.

Sitting in the sun panting like crazy with that goofy grin and flag of a tail whipping back and forth. She was skinny and filthy from living rough on the streets but there she was. Ready to go home and gambol about in search of new adventures.

I don’t remember what the food tasted like that day. I have no idea if the table top of my favorite table was as smooth and soft to my touch or sticky with spilled syrup. I doubt I ever will remember. These sensory memories pale in the face of my first real taste of loss. My first realization that anything and everything can be snatched away from you at any moment by the tidal motion of life. I think I was six or seven so we would have Naomi in our lives for another three or four years before we would lose her to cancer. Four years before I walked the bridge that hung above the Yaquina Bay, lost myself and looking for my father.

But that, as they say, is a Tale for another time. For it is late, my dear, and long past time for bed.

Goodnight.