One

He’s become known locally as the beach cowboy. Every morning, he wakes up in his little house right on the cusp of the sand dunes of Silver Beach, where he’s one of only six residents. You can find postcards with photos of the idyllic area in every tourist shop in town. In fact, it was voted the third most popular spot for photographers visiting Camassia Cove last year. And no one can blame them. The six little houses look like pastel dreams that sit right on the edge between the forest in the background and the white dunes and the ocean before them. Framed by the immense black cliffs that encase Silver Beach. There he lives, Sebastian Wilder, our beach cowboy.

The first time I heard about him was a couple years ago when I took my niece to the beach. All of a sudden, I noticed several children running toward the six beach houses. Sebastian Wilder was coming down from his private walkway with a basket of something. My niece bolted over to him too. Parents around me glanced up at the commotion, only to smile fondly or chuckle when they saw the reason their kids had taken off.

It turns out that Mr. Wilder comes by most mornings in the summer to give the children fruit from his grandfather’s orchard.

My niece returned with a big smile and two plums, and she rambled excitedly about the beach cowboy.

I was intrigued.

After reaching out four times about writing a piece on him here in the Camassia Courier—and his declining each time—imagine my surprise when he called me this June. He was finally agreeing to be the next Profile. So I grabbed my things and drove over to him before he could change his mind again, and I was fortunate to spend the day with him.

I asked what he thought about his nickname, and he laughed a little. He said he didn’t really understand it; he doesn’t even own a cowboy hat. But after spending some time with him, it certainly became clear to me. Silver Beach is his. It may be public domain, but boy, he runs it. He takes responsibility and cares for it. He picks up trash, looks out for the kids who have their bonfires on the beach at night, and he stands at the ready with first aid if a lifeguard isn’t on duty.

You’ve probably seen him there. If not when he takes his early morning swim before the world is up, then perhaps when he drives his four-wheeler along the beach while picking up garbage and inspecting the grounds, or when he hands out fruit to children.

So what does he do when he’s not at Silver Beach? As it turns out, Mr. Wilder is a jack-of-all-trades. On the weekends, you can sometimes find him behind the bar at Quinn’s Fish Camp in the Downtown marina. Other times, you might find him at a construction site. He also works part-time as a driver for special needs children, and three nights a week, he volunteers at the Camas Quad. The latter is a passion project for him, and it was actually founded by his grandmother. The Quad is a youth center near Camas High, where children of all ages are welcome every day of the year, even during summer break and on holidays.

He sounds like the whole package, doesn’t he? I haven’t even begun to talk about his two adorable rescue dogs and the cat he looks after. Add an incredibly charming smile, his hair pulled back in a messy bun, and arms that could—

“Jeez Louise, Sebastian, I don’t think I can read another word of this drivel.”

Don’t get me started.

I carried the last crate of apples to Pops’s truck, then closed the gate and wiped sweat off my forehead. “I specifically told her I only agreed to the article if she promised to push for donations to the Quad for me.” And what had she done? She’d mentioned it briefly and added a website address at the end of the piece. That was it.

“This looks more like a very long personal ad.”

“Exactly.” That’s what I had thought too, when I first read it this morning. It was fucking nuts.

Pops side-eyed the paper with an amused twist of his lips as he filled his pipe. “‘Green eyes that can hold you prisoner’? Hoo, boy. A whole paragraph about how tall you are.”

I cringed and shook my head, walking back to him. My work was done here for today, but I’d be back later to return his truck. “Anyway. You need any help before I head out?”

Sixty years running this orchard had left its mark, and he’d been forced to abandon the upstairs of his house because he couldn’t climb stairs anymore. But he insisted, year after year, on keeping production running as usual—with only eight part-time workers. Otherwise, it was just him up here. Him and the river, as he liked to say. It ran alongside his property and cut this part of our town in two. Wilder Westslope Orchard, the first mailbox after the bridge. A ten-acre haven of the best apples, plums, and cherries the state of Washington had to offer. Pops was full of shit when he claimed that the forest around us and the river made the apples so good, but it was certainly something.

Tags: Cara Dee Enemies M-M Romance
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