WHERE THE HELL AM I

Funky Beach Town vs. Intentional Paradise

Saved by the Wacky Warehouse

What I needed was a road trip to the Washington coast.

I was stressed out from an ever-increasing workload and an unsupportive administration in the psych hospital where I worked.

On the way to the coast, I got stuck in a long line of cars halted when a fully loaded logging truck jackknifed. Road crews spent hours clearing the road.

When I finally arrived at Ocean Shores at 5:00 p.m., I realized my mistake. I had intended to vacation in a different resort, much further south.

I was too exhausted and irritable to get back on the road, and maybe this twist of fate would turn out well. Wandering around an unfamiliar place would at least provide 3-days of distraction. Ocean Shores seemed like the rural version of a beach resort.

I made new reservations at a motel, steps from the beach. When I opened the door to my room, I was surprised to find a massive mural of a pirate ship covering one wall. The captain had a substantial mustache and a black eye patch. His sword was extended, poised for plundering.

Across the street from the motel was a novelty shop — closed for the evening — full of beach kitsch. The entrance and exit doors were framed by a giant shark’s mouth. Visitors walked through the mouth when they shopped and left the store.

I already liked the quirkiness of my temporary neighborhood.

The nearby beach stretched out in two seemingly endless directions. It was the kind of beach vehicles could drive on. The shoreline was empty that first evening, except for crab shells and seaweed. Walking for miles while the sun slowly set through an orange and purple clouded sky was relaxing.

I took another beach walk the following morning. Then I drove around on country roads, landing at a new housing development in the middle of nowhere There were boxy modern homes, newly paved streets, a few stores, and a coffee shop/restaurant. I had brought my computer, hoping to find somewhere to write. The restaurant seemed promising. I was the only customer.

I ordered coffee from the waiter who warned that lunch would be late today — maybe an hour or so. The chef had overslept. He would be arriving asap. I translated that to mean the chef was hungover.

I figured I could get coffee refills and something to eat when the chef showed up. If I was stealthy I could stretch out my writing time to 3 hours.

This oasis village appeared to be mainly filled with retirees. The overall vibe of the place was controlled, homogenous, and dull — the perfect place to revise a manuscript. Why anyone would want to live there baffled me.

On my way out of the village, I noticed a sign promising A New Life Near the Coast and Buy Your Dreamhouse Today.

I drove back to my motel, playing around with the concept of dream houses.

When I walked down to the beach on my second evening in Ocean Shores, l noticed a collection of furry anime characters gathered in a circle. The costumes consisted of giant animal heads, accompanied by what looked like loose onesie pajamas. I asked someone wearing a smiling horsehead what was happening.

The Furfest Convention, he said with pride. He went on to describe some of the featured upcoming events costume competitions, dance events, and bonfires on the beach, as well as numerous anthropomorphic fundraising events. It wasn’t clear what they did with the money they raised.

I wondered if the fur folks wore their masks when they hooked up. I didn’t ask — afraid the horse might answer.

The next day I went exploring north along the coast. I stopped at another neighborhood. This one was called Seabrook. It was much more upscale with cookie-cutter Victorian houses on a bluff above the sea. There was a platform down below, closer to the road, at bayside, where a wedding was in progress.

I drove up the winding entrance road into the fancy village. I parked and walked around There was a bakery, a general store, a bookstore, clothing stores, athletic equipment shops, restaurants, an ice cream parlor, and a candy shop.

I read later in a magazine article that 450 homes had already been built, There were 17 parks and a town hall that looked like an old-fashioned Protestant church. A Montessori school had recently been launched, and there were miles of hiking and mountain bike trails, a community pea patch, and a pickleball court.

There were panoramic views of the ocean, where residents could watch, and experience each night’s sunset from a fantasy perch. Children could play in the green streets, which were arbored sections of the constructed village, with frog habitats and secret hiding places. Children could be pre-technology innocent again.

The developers had thought of everything. No reason to ever stray outside of the paradise of Seabrook.

The place alternately creeped me out and made me laugh. I wished I had a friend with me to witness this strange place.

There was something about the contrivance and the homogeneous nature of Seabrook that was disturbing. It reminded me of the 1975 horror film, The Stepford Wives in which women were abducted — by their husbands — to be remade into robotic, obedient housewives focused on pleasing their mates, keeping their homes tidy, and being perfect mothers for their kids.

After visiting Seabrook, I craved disorder chaos and quirkiness. I kept driving north and ended up at another small beach town called Pacific Beach. It was more human scale with broken-down cars in driveways, and another of those long beaches with sea debris and dogs running in and out of waves, barking.

What was even better was stumbling upon the Wacky Warehouse, which was a combination thrift shop, music performance space, and a radio station that broadcast daily from an attached building? Mr. Wacky, the owner, performed on his piano from time to time. He had gathered some cool merchandise, including movie posters, photographs signed by movie stars, politicians, and rock stars. Wacky World also featured furniture, housewares, books, and albums.

Everything in the store was in such beautiful disarray, but Wacky knew where to find any item visitors desired. I struck up a conversation with Mr. Wacky about his impressions of Seabrook.

That place is a trip, he said. Tourists who come here, often compare it to that film, Stepford Wives. Are you old enough to remember that film? I was old enough to have watched it numerous times once it became a cult film

I laughed, as I thought about that film, and kept exploring the Wacky Warehouse, feeling relaxed and grounded in the amazing imperfect world, where I felt most at home.