Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

For nearly three decades, the Oregon Coast Aquarium in Newport has remained a popular attraction, an educational institution and a place for unbridled childlike wonder.



That sense of wonder is often lost in the world of adulthood. But when responsibility and stress overwhelm us, it's important to find places that bring it back. That's a lesson I learned as I revisited the aquarium for the first time as an adult, on a dreary rainy day in January when the tanks and exhibits beckoned, calling to me like they did when I was a boy.



My childhood memories of the Oregon Coast Aquarium are foggy. I vaguely remember walking through its towering halls, and past the outdoor pools and exhibits. They let us poke sea stars and anemone, I know, and I'm sure I did so with glee.



I was 4 when the aquarium first opened in May 1992, and though my family went that first season, I don't think we ever returned. We missed the days when the famous orca Keiko was there, and left the Northwest before the aquarium opened the beloved Passages of the Deep exhibit.



When I came back to Oregon as an adult, the aquarium felt like an attraction for kids, a part of my past. I carried that grown-up awkwardness with me when I first walked in. After paying the $23 adult admission, an employee corralled me to a green screen to take my picture.



"What is this for?" I asked.



"It's for fun!" she said.



I tried to make a "fun" smile at the camera, but my cynical adult brain was still in charge, and all I could think about was when they were going to try to sell me copies later in the day.

Don't Edit

Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

Don't Edit

Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

Don't Edit

But as soon I entered the first exhibit hall, I was transfixed by the big glass tanks on the walls. Small fish swam in circles in one tank, in another live sand dollars stood on end. I'd only ever seen sand dollars after they'd died, usually in pieces on the beach. It was amazing to see the little creatures in action.



Another tank recreated an Oregon tide pool, with rock walls covered in live purple urchins and bright green anemone, orange and pink fish drifting dreamily around. I've spent a lot of time at tide pools, both as a kid and an adult, balancing on rocks and peering down through shallow water. But this gave a look into their mysterious depths – it felt like such a treat.



A young boy ran up beside me and pressed his hands to the glass, then began to emit a high-pitched squeal. His mom chased after and flashed an apologetic look, but how could I be mad? His squeal was saying something that I felt, too – I was just too grown-up to express it.



In the next room were tanks full of jellies, their alien bodies floating ethereally through the water. It's easy to get lost in their hypnotic dance, and so I did, standing there for what felt like ages, falling deeper into their strange world.



A squeaky voice shook me out of the trance – the same boy from before had come up behind me. His gaze stuck fiercely on the moon jellies, he rapidly began ticking off names and facts about the creatures, much to the amazement of all the grownups around him. I was impressed. Was I so precocious when I was his age? I don't think so. I think I just liked poking sea stars.

Don't Edit

Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

Don't Edit

Don't Edit

Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

Don't Edit

The hall ended and led outside, where I could hear sea lions barking in the distance. I bundled up against the rain and walked the crunchy gravel path, wandering until I arrived at an observation window looking into a tank of cerulean water. It seemed strangely empty, until suddenly an angelic figure soared past. Another one followed, then another: harbor seals and California sea lions, their fins spread out like wings, flying around the curves of the tank.



I stood and watched as they circled the tank, jumping out and onto the rocks, then diving back into their natural element, racing each other in circles. If I didn't know any better, I would have sworn they were showing off just for me. One of the sea lions seemed to look me in the eye when it swam past.



The gravel paths eventually led to Passages of the Deep, the centerpiece of the aquarium, built in what used to be Keiko's tank. Two employees stopped me at the entrance of the exhibit and asked if I wanted to see the picture they had taken earlier. Here it is, I thought, the sales pitch. In the picture I looked just as stiff and awkward as I had felt. If they had taken a candid shot, captured in one of those moments of awe, maybe I would have bought one. But this awkward portrait felt wrong.



I joined a few other people in the underwater glass tunnels, slowly walking through as leopard sharks and bat rays glided above. Schools of small fish glimmered in the light as they flitted around in circles. It felt like a fantastical dream. Instead of reminding myself that it wasn't, I stepped deeper in. I became an underwater creature, too. I joined their world as I journeyed through it.



The small, squealing boy from before wasn't there. He might still be enamored with the jellies, or off spouting off facts about seals. Instead my own inner child had arrived, walking through the aquarium alongside me. He looked at this dreamy world with eyes open and full of wonder.



The aquarium was no longer just an interesting attraction, it was a place where my inner child could play. Suddenly that seemed as important as any other adult responsibility. As I thought about it, I realized he had never really left my side – I just never gave him the chance to be free.



The Oregon Coast Aquarium is open 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. daily in winter, and 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. daily in summer; 2820 S.E. Ferry Slip Road, Newport, Oregon; find more information by calling 541-867-3474, or visiting aquarium.org.



--Jamie Hale | jhale@oregonian.com | @HaleJamesB



SEE MORE PHOTOS BELOW

Don't Edit

Don't Edit

Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

Don't Edit

Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

Don't Edit

Don't Edit

Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

Don't Edit

Jamie Hale/The Oregonian

Don't Edit

Jamie Hale/The Oregonian