The man in the photo is not looking at the camera. He may not even be the focus of the photographer. Jump-Off Joe, the huge sandstone sea stack that’s shaped like a wooden shoe form, dominates the frame. Its heel rests on Nye Beach in the town of Newport, Oregon, and its toe sticks out into the surf. The man is standing on the sand toward the right edge of the photograph, almost disappearing against the background. Smaller rocks sit on the sand, but they too are dwarfed by the massive boulder. The tide might be going out as the sand appears wet but is no longer covered by the surf. Four lines traverse the photograph from the bottom left to the center right. One pair of tracks was probably left by an automobile, the narrower ones maybe by a hand-drawn cart.
The photo is not dated, but we know the arch of Jump-Off Joe collapsed in 1916. Therefore the photograph predates that event. The formal appearance of the man—he’s wearing a suit, a white shirt and a hat— suggests that he did not clamber down the rocky ravine created by Nye Creek. The boardwalk to the beach has already been built. That means the photo was taken after 1891. Beyond that fixing a date is more difficult. The fact that Jump-Off Joe is being photographed indicates that Newport has already become a summer destination for travelers. There must be accommodations for those travelers. Cabins have been built, the Cliff House Hotel is open for business. That would put the date of the photo after 1913.
The hazy sky gives no indication as to the season, but the man’s suit is dark, not light as a summer suit would be. There aren’t any other people in the shot, another indication that summer is over. It’s autumn. The climate is a little nippier. Hence the suit.
Let’s assume the man is unaware of the photographer, of his being used as a scale to demonstrate the vastness of the rock behind him. He holds a stick in his right hand, his left is buried in his trouser pocket. The stick is not a cane. It’s too thick for a walking aid. It’s a piece of driftwood. There’s a line in the sand that ends at the tip of the stick. He must’ve drawn it, the way one draws a line under a column of numbers before adding them up. The line is the object of his attention, his neck is bent forward, he’s examining his handiwork.
Let’s also assume he came to the beach for the same reason other people visit the beach. To clear his head in the fresh breeze skimming over the outgoing tide. Unlike those folks, he’s not looking at the ocean. He’s pensive, preoccupied, ignoring the grandeur of Jump-Off Joe or the awe of the ocean. All of his attention focuses on the spot by his feet. But there’s nothing at the end of the stick, no tide pool, no object at all. Only the line he drew in the sand. He’s engrossed in the line. It is more than a simple line. It is an imaginary tally. He’s made mistakes and he needs time to sort it out. What better place to do that than at Nye Beach in the fall.
He sank his life savings and a sizable loan into a big tract of land. Not at Nye Beach. Those lots were already taken by investors who saw what was coming, the steady stream of summer tourists. His land is further north, on the other side of Jump-Off Joe. Not accessible from Nye Beach and by road much farther from the amenities travelers need. He’s not sold one lot. Now that summer is over, the travelers will go back inland, not to return until next summer.
His wife warned him. “You don’t know about real estate. Stick with what you know.”
What does he know? Staring at the sand, he has to admit that he doesn’t know much. He’s not skilled at handicrafts. Saws, hammers or awls are not his metier. For a while he operated a small haulage operation, one horse and a cart. That did alright until his horse died. Rather than buy a new horse, he invested in a small shop, a few groceries, a little hardware and sundry items locals and tourists in cabins might need. When a larger store opened up in Newport his commercial ambitions came to an end. So he took all his money and a bank loan to buy the land.
He told his wife, “It’s a simple question of time. The lots near town are expensive. Ours are not. I can sell lots at half their prices and that will attract ordinary folks.” She shook her head and left it at that. That was a four months ago.
The number of people who have the means to visit the coast has not grown as fast as he anticipated. Especially the number of visitors he would categorize as ordinary folks. Yes, automobiles are more common, but only for those who can afford to take a room at the Cliff House Hotel. Those who occupy the cabins come by bus and they aren’t buying, they are renting.
That’s why he stares at the line in the sand. There’s nothing below the line. No profit, no income. What can he do? The fresh breeze coming off the ocean doesn’t clear his head, it doesn’t generate new ideas to lead him out of this morass. The plain fact is he’s out of cash. He could ask his banker for another week. But what would that do? He won’t sell a lot in the next seven days. It took a lot of talking to persuade the banker that loaning him the money was a solid business proposition. His good name made the difference. Now the bank is threatening to foreclose unless he at least catches up on the interest he owes. His wife has remained silent since that comment a four months ago, but her accusing eyes tell him what she’s really thinking.
His son is no help either. He’s seventeen years old, but his head is in the clouds. Instead of getting a job and earning some money, he’s dreaming of making it big. Who can blame him? Like father, like son?
At least he’s taken an interest in his father’s real estate business. He’s forever coming up with ideas to promote the affordable lots. All require money upfront, which the man doesn’t have. After explaining this repeatedly, his son has reverted to his usual sullen mood, disappearing in his room.
That morning was different. His son came down the stairs, looking more tired than he usually does, but a big smile appeared on his face when he saw his father.
“I’ve had an idea to promote your lots and it doesn’t cost any money. It’s free advertising.”
The man examined his son’s face. “What is it?”
“It’s hard to explain. You have to see it. Go to the beach.”
Now we know why the man came to the beach. He is suspicious. He wants to see what mischief his son has wrought.
We also know why he looks at the line in the sand. He isn’t pensive. He is appalled, even ashamed by what he has just seen. He stares at the sand so as to not see what he can’t unsee.
At the tip of Jump-Off Joe, large white letters spell out his eternal embarrassment.
Smith Sr. And Son. Easy Terms. Buy A Few Lots At The Ally House.
It’s a sloppy paint job. It isn’t any kind of advertising he’d be proud of. It looks like the result of drunken seniors celebrating their graduation.
On his way over he was pessimistic but hopeful. Instead, he finds his name painted on the rock, adding insult to injury. Not only is he facing the private shame of bankruptcy, but his name is smeared on Jump-Off Joe for all to see. His private shame has become a public spectacle, a permanent reminder of his failure.
The line in the sand makes sense now. The reason there is nothing above the line is because he hasn’t achieved anything so far. There’s nothing below it because he won’t achieve anything in the future. Not him. Not in this town. He has tried and he has failed.
This is no longer a place where he can stay.
He has reached the end of the line.
We don’t know what happened to Smith or his family. However, he was mistaken in one regard. The shameful graffiti on Jump-Off Joe did not last forever. The merciless ocean took back the rock formation quickly. After the collapse of the arch in 1916, the forces of nature ground the rock into nothing. By the 1930s, maybe still in Smith’s lifetime, there was little left of the formation and the words that caused Smith’s shame were long gone.
* * *
