I spent last 4th of July on the coast of the Pacific Ocean in Washington. It was the first time in my life that I'd spent that holiday anywhere but New Jersey or New York, two states where consumer fireworks are heavily restricted. Not the case in Ocean Shores. This quiet beach town, neighboring the post-industrialist Hoqiuam, and an hour west of Olympia, converts on Independence Day to nothing less than a war-zone (no casual metaphor). All of Ocean Shores and its neighbors up and down the coast buy up as many consumer-grade fireworks as they can, drive out onto the beach, and when the clock strikes 9, unleash havoc upon the wind-whipped night.
This is America in chaos: the ocean winds, open bonfires, and millions of dollars of fireworks being casually set off into the darkness. I stumbled frantically through the sand with my camera, trying to capture the feelings of closeness, danger, boyish ecstasy, the endless strobe-flash and crackle, the shrill bombardment of the senses. This was, by far, the most exciting 4th of July in my life.
This is how we celebrate. This is how our country does its thing. On this holiday we look backwards and gaze on our fond, founding rebels- Washington, Jefferson, etc... And in the same backwards-turning, we ourselves revert to adolescence, by setting off bottle rockets and mortars. We recreate the hanging smell of gunpowder and smoke, and the sonic clapping of distant bombshells. Independence Day rituals, like the one on Ocean Shores, are no casual metaphor.
