“Wonderful,” I mumbled, my mouth
full of ice cream and cranberry scone. He leſt , and I leaned forward to whisper
to John. “He called me ‘Hon’. A Canadian granny would slap a waiter for being that familiar.” “T at’s because Canada got all the
Scotsmen,” John said promptly. “T is is good sausage.” “We do have the odd dour Calvinist
echo in our personalities,” I said. I knew what I was talking about because I’d watched T e History of Scotland. “Speak for yourself,” John
said. “I’m English.” “No presents we can buy
here,” I said regretfully. We leſt with a brown paper bag full of scones and drove south past bead shops, antique stores, candy stores, and real estate storefronts. T e view was rugged and
magnifi cent – all jagged cliff s and pounding surf and the massive swell of the Pacifi c and the lowering sky pouring rain upon all of it. We stared and stared and then around a corner we came upon a sign reading ‘Sea-Lion Caves.’ Sea Lion Caves? John and I looked
at each other, then John pulled off the highway into the parking lot and parked between a car and a truck. Fearless Sue who had said that they were one of the highlights of her Oregon
trip had told us about the sea-lion caves back in Cowichan Bay. Once again we were given a senior rate. “Americans are such good salespeople,” I said in an aside to John. I was astonished at the American willingness to give a deal to strangers. We walked a little distance, then
traveled down 200 feet by elevator to a dark viewing cavern overlooking a large light cave full of Steller Sea Lions. What a wonderful sight they were! Hundreds
brothers sat on the rocks and barked for all they were worth. Such a magnifi cent symphony of sound and sight! And now and then you’d catch a great fi shy whiff of them, as though even the ocean could not sweep away the essence of the sea lions that had made this cave their home for thousands of years. We reentered the elevator in a daze and
South of Waldport on Highway 101
of them. T ey sunned and slept and leaped into the ocean and all the while the Pacifi c waters swelled and thundered into the cave, making a terrifi c roar. T e din from the sea lions was almost as loud. Even though the surging water looked cold and dark, the sea lions jumped into it with every sign of enjoyment, while their
Looking for a place to hitch-up?
wandered through the giſt shop, but none of the shiny jewelry or knick-knacks there was equal to the impressive scene we had just witnessed. We walked arm in arm back to the van. T e Whole State of Oregon fi lled with giſt shops and souvenirs and antique stores surrounded us, and we’d been driving through the rain for a week and not one suitable giſt had we found. Oh, Paul would be happy with postcards, but what of the other four? T ey’d given us such wonderful presents over the years. Absent-mindedly I swallowed the last of the last scone. Poppyseed and lemon. Delicious. T en it struck me like
lightening. As soon as we got home, I would experiment in my galley until I had perfected all three scone recipes, and send them to my daughters. Rupert got a WW II English army
regular issue bayonet point, but that’s another story. k
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RVT 148 • JULY/AUGUST 2012 23
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