Trips to Astoria for salmon fishing meant rising early and driving to the coast to meet up with the boat. This was a family thing for the men. I either stayed home or took the car to the viewing platform on the South Jetty at Fort Stevens State Park. I’d sit inside, watching the boats being tossed around as they crossed the Columbia River Bar, one of the most dangerous bar crossings in the world.

Even from a distance it was exciting to watch. I wanted to be out there, part of that experience. I wanted to catch my own salmon. To me, fishing meant time with the family, a break from our busy lives and an opportunity to be one with nature.

When I was a girl, I fished on the lake with my dad. My first experience fishing in the ocean was out of Depoe Bay on a 17-foot outboard captained by my father-in-law.

Crossing out into the open ocean was a thrill from the beginning. Calm waters in the inlet. The growing turbulence of the water as we passed under the bridge. Then the motor being revved as we hit the waves. There was bouncing, but our captain was safety conscious as we headed out to the horizon.

I made my decision. I would be crossing the Columbia River Bar.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” the skeptics asked.

“Absolutely,” I replied.

“It can be dangerous, you know,” came their warning.

I wasn’t so naive as to think crossing the bar was easy, but at the same time, I must admit that didn’t really get it. I’d read history about capsized boats and drownings. I witnessed, from the jetty, boats being tossed as they crossed the bar.

It was awesome, it was fearsome. I was prepared for an adventure. I wasn’t prepared for terror.

That morning it was still dark when we met up with our captain. Layers of clothing protected us from the chill of the wind. I don’t know the size of the boat, but it was large and certainly bar-worthy. Plus, it was captained by an experienced bar crosser. That, as it turned out, was extremely important.

At daybreak we were in place and waiting our turn to make the run. The coastal audience was out in full force, watching the boats as they waited their turn. This time, instead of being the audience, I was the one in the boat.

My stomach churned. We waited our turn. My throat was dry. I wanted to be here, and it was exciting, but there was also some unbridled fear of the unknown.

And then, it was happening. The throttle opened and off we went. The swells were large and other boats disappeared each time we were at the bottom. I was sure my heart would beat out of my chest.

The sensation of totally losing the horizon was new to me, but given the calm of the rest of the family, I soon relaxed. Suddenly it smoothed out, relatively speaking. Not glass smooth, but tolerable.

Hooks were baited, lines thrown out and minutes later the fish were being pulled in. Mine first, pure joy. The ride out was forgotten as I brought in the glistening salmon. Smiles all around, with mine being probably the broadest.

Jackets were doffed, hats thrown aside. Chatter was constant. The fish just kept coming into the boat, not giving up easily. Snacks were enjoyed as even more fish were brought into the boat. We were close to our limit. The jitters I had experienced prior to the crossing were at bay.

That is until the captain received a notice that all small boats were to come back inside the bar. There were shifting winds and tides. Immediately, the tone changed on the boat.

The captain, still calm but firm, prepared us for a rough ride. The smile and jovial voice were both gone. It was all business, all preparation.

“Pull in the lines,” he ordered.

“Sit down,” he commanded.

“Remain in that spot. Grab those belongings and hold on tight,” was the final directive.

We sped toward the mouth of the river. Having motored out quite a distance, the captain wanted to make good time getting back. We were in a boat, but we were flying.

The towering waves and swells were breathtaking. We no longer appeared and disappeared. We were constantly out of sight. Sure, there were other boats but we rarely saw them. I remember hoping that the captain had a much better view of what was going on than we did.

I clung to my husband as the reality of our situation became apparent. The big hug should have calmed me, but dread set in.

The adage “The Graveyard of the Pacific” flitted across my mind. It seemed as though we had gone for miles and miles with the wind now thrashing around us. It wasn’t raining but water poured over us.

Then, the order was barked out to hold on even more tightly as the captain pushed us through the mouth of the bar. We were drenched. We held our collective breaths. How it was possible, I don’t know, but it felt as though the swell troughs were even deeper. When we did get to the top we would then, just like a roller coaster, drop to the bottom. It seemed we would be swamped any moment.

Time stopped.

And then, just like that, we were on the other side and it was relatively calm again. Big, deep breaths and grateful thanks and cheers to our captain. Thoroughly soaked, our hugs made squishing sounds. But they were big and grateful hugs.

I wanted to go. I wanted to be part of this family experience. I wanted to be one with the family.

All was accomplished. But for me, crossing the bar was magnificent and exhilarating, never to be forgotten, a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Emphasis on the once.