Cat Comes Back to the Beach

By Cathleen (Cat) Freshwater-Du Bois

I moved from Manzanita to Portland in February, 2001 to pursue getting my songs published. I joined the Portland Songwriters Association, networked with other performers and writers, and started learning about the local music scene: singing at various venues and open mics; and feeling almost okay about having abandoned the coast. I won the PSA’s Best Performance award one month, and I’m embarrassed to admit that I felt mostly disappointed that my award had not been for Best Song.

When Susan, the director of a sanctioned event of the Portland Rose Festival invited me to perform in Rockaway Beach at their First Annual Wine, Cheese and All That Jazz Festival in June, 2001, I gladly accepted. She offered me $300 and a motel room for two short sets on Saturday. Perfect, but I needed an accompanist and Lyle Ford, another PSA member, offered to help when I offered him $250 for learning my songs and accompanying me on stage. I could stay the night at my mother’s in Nehalem so I offered the motel room to Lyle and his wife (and two kids). After paying him, I’d still net $50 for getting to sing my songs at the beach!

Rockaway Beach was glorious when we got there: a cloudless blue canopy, brilliant sky-hued water, barely a breeze. After the early-afternoon set of mostly children’s music, the guitarist and I went back to the motel to rehearse for our second set that evening.
With the sun hanging low over the horizon, we finished the second set to rousing applause. I bowed my way off stage and found Susan waiting in the wings. She handed me an envelope with my name on it and said, “Here’s your check.” I thanked her and told her I was going to check out the crafts. She said, “Good. There’s someone I think you should meet.”
She led me behind the music tent to the back of the parking lot. There, hanging from a naked display of fiberglass tent poles, and backlit by the sun setting over the ocean, glittered a glorious display of dewily magical spheres. I’m sure my mouth dropped open. And there, amid the blissful sparkle, stood a silver-bearded matinee idol in a knitted cap. Susan said, “Cat, I want you to meet James Stephen Du Bois. Du Bois, this is Cat Freshwater. She’s the voice you’ve been listening to this afternoon and evening.”
I asked him, “What are these?”
Du Bois told me, “They’re Oregon Du Drops: recycled light bulbs filled with Oregon rain from different dates…” I don’t remember where Susan went or when, and I don’t remember what Du Bois and I talked about, but I did remember that I had a dinner date with Pat, my fishing buddy, at 8:00, and needed to leave. I pointed to a 32-ounce rain ball filled with Valentine’s Day rain from earlier that year (while I was living in Portland) and said, I want that one. I can’t afford it right now, but can I give you $20 to hold it for me?”
“I don’t usually do that.”
“You can hold it for me until I get it all paid.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“I”ll need your name and address so I can send you the money.”
He sat down on his little camp stool to write in his notebook, tore the slip out, handed it to me, and added, “Here’s my phone number, too. How can I get in touch with you?”
I recited my address and phone number and watched him write them down. He then slid the notebook into his shirt pocket and just looked at me. I had never seen celadon eyes before; they’re beautiful. He was beautiful. I could not just walk away. We both extended our hands to shake on our deal, and I found I could not let go of his hand.

He looked up at me as I looked down at him and I couldn’t help myself. I just leaned in and kissed his lips. Then I floated away and left for my mom’s house in Nehalem.

“Want to try Sharky’s for dinner?” Pat asked when he picked me up.

“Sure,” I said. Then he asked me how the gig had gone. I told him it had gone better than I had anticipated; the audience response to my music had been totally rewarding. It had been a perfect day.
As we drove south, I admitted that I might have done something foolish by kissing a fellow I had just met. Pat just smiled and shook his head.

In 2001, Sharky’s sat right beside the wayside in Rockaway Beach where the Festival was still in full swing. The music was louder now, the streets and sidewalks were crowded, and the parking lots were filled; we had to park a couple blocks away. The crafters were closing up and stowing their displays, and as we crossed the railroad tracks we ran into Du Bois. We smiled and said hello to each other and went on our ways. I told Pat that that was the man I had kissed earlier, and Pat said, “I think you can do better than that.” How wrong he was.

You are invited to pick up with me and Du Bois, and our adventures in Hawaii in Du Bois’ next installment of our story, History of Oregon Du Drops Part IV: April Fools?.