Get out there! (Part 1)

I'm ashamed to admit that after 2+ years of living in Washington, I still know very little of this state. I have not ventured far from my stretch of the I-5 corridor and with no real good reason why.

With this possibly being our last 12 months here, I've decided to make a concerted effort to get out there.

Our first foray took us on a route around the Olympic Peninsula, courtesy of Budget Travel Magazine. I like the mag because it more closely reflects the way we actually travel. I'd love to roll Conde Nast Traveller-style, but who's got the budget for a Greek villa rental? Not me.

I was also interested in seeing how our experience will compare to the author's, how magazine prose will translate to real life.

First stop: Ocean Shores, WA (Photo courtesy of the City of Ocean Shores)

A slow start had us driving to Ocean Shores as fast as we can, speeding past the City of Aberdeen, hometown of the late Kurt Cobain. Try as I might, I completely missed the "Come As You Are" sign that welcomes visitors to the city.

It was a sunny April day but that did little to counter the cold brought on by strong winds in Ocean Shores. It was "blustery," all right. We check in and immediately head to the beach.

To tropical island dwellers like me, going to the beach means chilling with a Mai-Tai (or a cold San Mig Light) while splayed out on warm (to scorching hot) powdery sand. This was far from it.

Imagine a vast, flat, gray expanse bordered on one side by an angry Pacific, a band of sea grass and a row of hotels on the other. In between is a scene that I can only describe as a beachfront parking lot, minus the painted strips.

People don't walk on this beach. They drive on it. Compact and hard, the beach was littered with all sorts of cars and SUVs, as well as about half a dozen horses taking tourists on quick jaunts up and down the shore.

I found it weird and interesting at the same time. I asked V to park as close to the water as he could, curious to see how the sand will hold up under the weight of our Jeep. (And if we sank into the sand and got stuck, what then? I didn't stop to think about that.)

The surf looked as flat as the shore, as the ocean loudly churned white frothy waves at my feet. The water was cold, as expected. And as the wind cut through my supposedly windproof jacket, I kicked myself for not taking the author's fleece-and-base-layer advise.

We intended to follow BT's itinerary to a tee. We went to the Ocean Shores Interpretive Center, which was closed; strolled around Damon Point State Park, but couldn't find the Catala (some boat buried in the sand); and attempted to have dinner at Emily's, only to be turned away for lack of a reservation.

We tooled around the small town for a bit, ogling at rustic beach houses lining this narrow peninsula. With nothing else to do, we headed back to the hotel where we suffered through a 15-minute dip in the chlorine-dense hot tub.

All in all, Ocean Shores was a bit of a bust. But I'll give it another shot if the opportunity arises. For now, it's one check off my list.