Rum & Coke on the Oregon Coast

Driving my Lincoln along the North Coast of Oregon, there was no shortage of breathtaking vistas. I had traveled extensively along the Eastern Seaboard and found this particular stretch of highway 101 more wild and undeveloped than the right coast. I pulled off and found myself in a speck of a town called Wheeler. Options were limited as I sought out a place to have a libation. A sign with a rusty anchor hanging off one corner and a beer advertisement below read Sam’s Dry Dock. I had found my spot.

Sam’s and the entire town for that matter smelled; the fresh ocean air mixed with must. If you had ever been caught in a rainstorm, it’s as your sneaker smelled the next day. I walked up to the wooden bar; it was buckled because of the moist climate. It looked like an antique but it wasn’t old. No doubt, fishing was the name of the game in Wheeler. Nets hung on the walls, with cracked buoys and fishhooks hanging from them. Overhead, fish and nautical doodads dangled from the ceiling. I pulled out a stool, like many I had sat on before. A pudgy hand slammed the bar surface.

“Something to drink.” The bartender had a lot in common with the bar itself. He was weatherworn. His smile was welcoming and he put me at ease.

“I’m suspecting it’s not just Coke that man at the end of the bar is drinking?”

“Good guess. It’s rum mixed with a little Coke. I’m CJ can I get you one of those?”

“Sure but make mine Coke mixed with a shot of rum. It looks like he can hold his liquor better than I can. Cecil,” I offered my hand. “Nice to meet you CJ.” I threw down $20 but he left it there to deal with later.

CJ grabbed a scratched but clean heavy glass and threw in a scoop of ice. He didn’t jam ice up to the rim like most bartenders. More often than not, the bartenders maximized the ice usage to save a buck. The bottom line is the dollar sign, I had been told. The rum was nondescript and he let it flow until it filled ½ the glass. He didn’t have a soda gun so he grabbed a bottle of Coke from the cooler and opened it with a quick tap against the bar. He filled it to the rim and popped in a plastic drink stirrer. “Lime?” he called out.

“No thank you.” I had read that bar fruit was loaded with germs.

“I haven’t seen you before. Are you driving up the coast?”

“I am and I like to stop in small towns like this. I wouldn’t say I’m a typical tourist.”

“Wheeler’s the type of place folks drive through; it’s not a destination but we like it that way.”

“The old salt down at the end of the bar has been abandoned by his drinking buddies. I’m thinking they got tired of listening to his fish tales. Looks as if he has many to tell. He has creases on his face as deep as canyons. The sun and salt water take their toll on one’s complexion.”

“He comes in here quite a bit; mostly when the fish aren’t running. Most folks don’t rely on fancy forecasting gizmos to tell when the fish are running. If old John isn’t at the bar he’s probably in his boat or dead.”

“Old John must remember a time when the salmon were hopping into his boat before the Nehalem Bay was over fished. A time when warm water didn’t prevent them from making in from the Ocean. He was probably able to make a good living as a fisherman back in the day.”

“Yup. Feel sorry for men like Old John.”

I corrected CJ. “No. John does pretty well for himself. His boots are new and that big truck outside is his I bet. It’s not even four years old and the poles in back look expensive. I can’t say for sure but at least their new. The hitch on the back of his vehicle looks sturdy so I’m guessing his boat is as well. Old John has built himself into a brand through the years.”

“What is it Old John’s selling?” CJ’s interest was piqued. He was perhaps jealous because Old John had things he could never afford working at the bar.

“Old John makes his money being a fishing guide. He probably claims to have caught some of those enormous trophy fish on the wall. His persona is such that people believe John knows the bay more than any angler out there does. He has cultivated a following of men and women who spread the word. They tell their friends about a man with stories to tell and secrets as to where and when to catch the biggest fish. Anglers love secrets and they’ll pay to get em. Whom would you believe CJ? A craggy old man who grew up in Wheeler or some city slicker with a new boat.”

“I never noticed but people come in here looking for Old John as if they’ve heard this is the place to find him.”

“Every time he probably seems resistant to having people join him for a drink, which is part of his appeal. Playing hard to get is best played by the ladies but it looks like our friend has figured it out as well.”

“Can I get you another?”

“Why not. I’m done driving for the day and I saw an inn not far from here. I stopped by and the woman at the desk informed me that they have plenty of rooms.”

CJ went through the same routine of making my rum & Coke. He used a clean glass, which impressed me. Many people knew using a glass meant washing a glass, thus adding another step to their end of shift chores. He left a credit card slip in front of me in error because I was paying cash.

“Sorry Cecil. Our discussion distracted me.”

He whisked it away and gave it to Old John but I had time to read it and the name said Samuel Johnathan Bradley.

“No problem. Just wondering CJ; who owns this place?”

“Not sure but he’s named Sam. I’ve only been here 6 months and to my knowledge, he’s never been here. Some wealthy guy I guess because he owns this building and several other’s in town.”

After I finished my drink, I left with a little buzz and a great tale. Samuel Johnathan Bradley was a wealthy man who slipped into his Old John persona comfortably each day. Not a bad way to earn a buck!