Djorin

By Susan Constanse

Sheets of clouds roll in from the ocean as the day's last rays spotlight a beach littered with the detritus of a recent storm. Elbows resting on knees, sitting on a piece of driftwood, Djorin looks out over the infinity of sea, wondering when his awe of its magnitude was replaced by acceptance. Brushing wet sand from his feet, he tosses his worn sneakers into his tote. Barefoot, humming under his breath, Djorin lifts two full buckets of clams and heads back into town.

This is just one town in the string stretching along the Oregon coast between Tillamook and Canon Beach. Industry has long abandoned the area, replaced by seasonal tourist trade. During the long, wet, winter months, the towns are quiet, peopled by those escaping the inexorable pressures of modern life. Djorin finds the pace in this small town very much to his liking; eating clams, bartering for services with an exchange of labors. Stopping at the DeWalt's house, Djorin drops off one of his buckets of clams and picks up a bag of fresh-baked bread.

Djorin lives just five blocks from the beach, behind a small motel that boasts a steam room and a jacuzzi. With two large rooms and a small bath, the cabin has a haphazard look. A small kitchen, tucked against the back wall of the cabin, looks incongruous in a room dominated by Djorin's sewing machines and bolts of bright silk. A wide doorway marks the entrance to a second, larger room, where a bed dominates the space. A covered deck wraps two sides of the house, which Djorin uses as an outdoor workroom during warm weather.

The rafters of the cabin are hung with brightly colored kites, caught in mid-glide on motionless air. Some span six feet, each rib delineated by contrasting colors. In the center of the room is a dragon kite made from fine rice paper, dyed in a thousand shades of flame. Djorin will fly this kite at the festival in June, a month away. In the meantime, he works on assembling kites for the tourists, who will begin their treks to the coast on Memorial Day.

Djorin has been living here for the past three years, making and selling kites. Content, he has no regrets about leaving Portland, sixty hour work weeks or over-priced apartments. Friends that he made in Portland vie for the opportunity to join him on the beach for a weekend and he has new friends among the townspeople up and down the coast.

Leaving his sodden shoes at the door, Djorin takes the clams and bread into the kitchen. He is thinking about a new kite design; a delta wing, with a circle inset in between the outer ribs. He leaves the clams in their bucket, sprinkling them with cornmeal, and sorts through bolts of silk. Holding a glowing red swath up against a deep rusted orange, he smiles in satisfaction.