We Were Always Goonies

a memoir

Whenever I tell someone I’m from Astoria, Oregon, I get the same exact response. Doesn't matter if I’m at a bar, in an Uber, or in Finland (yes, it happened there). The second I say "Astoria," their eyes light up and they blurt it out like it’s Tourette’s. “Oh my God, Goonies!”

It’s never, “Oh, Astoria, where the first American settlement on the Pacific Coast was established!” Or, “That’s where Lewis and Clark ended their journey, right?” No. Not once has anyone ever responded with a thoughtful nod about the role my hometown played in early American expansion. It’s always “Goonies!”. Sometimes followed by a botched quote or a bad Sean Astin impression.

Look, I get it. I really do. The Goonies is a great movie. I grew up on it too. It’s got a pirate ship, booby-traps, kids on adventure, a Cyndi Lauper soundtrack, and a deformed man who somehow manages to be the most emotionally grounded character in the entire film. It’s a chaotic, lovable mess, and it captured something very specific about childhood in the 1980s, the sense that you might actually find something magical if you just kept biking past the edge of town.

And yes, it was filmed in Astoria. The jail, the Walsh house, the beach scenes, even that slick downhill chase through town, it’s all real. Still there.Still damp enough to give your lungs mold just by looking at it. And now, here we are. Forty years later. Can you believe it?

Forty years since that gang of misfit kids set off through underground tunnels to save their homes from rich developers. Forty years of people showing up with maps printed off the internet, asking where Mikey stood, or if the bowling alley still has that window where Chunk smashed his milkshake (it does). And every June 7th, they come in droves. People from out of state, out of the country, wearing Goonies shirts and fanny packs like they’re reporting for duty.

It’s sweet, in a way. It really is. I’m glad people love the movie. I’m glad it means something to them.

But let’s get one thing straight.

You can watch The Goonies. You can quote it. You can even cry when Mikey gives his little “our time” speech. But unless you were born in Astoria, unless you grew up climbing those slippery wet hills, unless you know what it smells like when fish rot in the sun or how cold the Columbia River wind gets in January, you are not, and never will be, a real Goonie.

Understand?

Only we are. The ones who were raised here. The ones who sat through damp middle school assemblies in gyms that never fully dried. The ones who watched the film crews in 1984 and didn’t know they were about to live in the shadow of that movie for the rest of their lives. We’re the real Goonies. The original ones. The hometown ones.

And honestly? I’m fine with that now. I used to roll my eyes when people reduced Astoria to a movie set. I’d bring up Captain Robert Gray or John Jacob Astor, or talk about Fort Clatsop like it meant something. But over time, I realized history doesn’t always show up in textbooks. Sometimes it shows up on VHS.

The Goonies didn’t erase our past. It added to it. It made a weird, rainy little town into something legendary. And yeah, maybe it’s a ridiculous movie. Maybe it’s a little over-the-top. But it’s also about holding onto what matters. About not letting the big guys win and about friendship and home and taking one last shot before giving up. And that’s Astoria in a nutshell. So here’s to forty years of truffle-shuffles and treasure maps and kids who never gave up.

And here’s to the ones who never had to pretend to be Goonies. The true Astorians.