The day after a big storm is the moment every beachcomber waits for. The sea has churned through its layers, pulled back its blankets of sand, and rolled its treasures to the surface. It’s a game of timing, luck, and persistence.

“One of the great things about making up lists of obscure objectives to pass the time in the rainy season is that the crowds will be elsewhere.”

…There’s a piece of this ecosystem, and of this coastline’s identity, that has been missing for generations. For more than a century, Oregon’s nearshore waters have been without a creature so vital to the coastal web of life that scientists call it a “keystone species”: the sea otter.

Fall is also the time of the humble surf perch, of empty beaches and breaking waves, of hit and miss coastal excursions where casting a fly line into the mighty Pacific brings me as much joy as a forty pounder if only for the absolute absurdity of the endeavor.

Shortly after leaving our campsite, “Wide Open Spaces” by The Chicks playing on the stereo, I caught my first-ever glimpses of the Oregon coast.

Located between the towns of Florence and Coos Bay, it is the largest expanse of coastal dunes in North America. Towering sand dunes stretch for miles here, making it a hidden paradise for an adrenaline-fueled sport you may not even know exists: sandboarding.

The South Coast of Oregon is proposed to be the home of a new industrial container shipping port facility and rail line, and this could mean big changes for the rural coast—with impacts starting in Coos Bay, reaching Eugene and beyond.

The passage of time, itself, is a great forgiver.

Low tide was about an hour ago, and the path around the rocks is clear. I take a deep breath, put on my rubber boots, and head down the embankment to the shore. It’s a beautiful day for rockhounding.

“Here the beginnings of the Coast Range back right to town, and yet the foothills rarely see a snow event capable of even a sled run. So I started asking, ‘What about up there, at Marys Peak?’”