MORE TRAVEL STORIES
Saturday June 12:
Driving from the mountains, through wine country, across San Francisco Bay and to Point Reyes National Seashore, it again struck me what a physically beautiful land California is. The geography beckons me; I can almost observe the landscape evolving through the eons, as if I could see time. The people and cities are blips on a larger radar. Wherever I go here, I feel at home.
Point Reyes is a peninsula that broke off from the mainland about 1000 years ago in a huge earthquake. Flora and fauna have evolved into species that exist nowhere else. I feel like I'm entering another world. I last visited three years ago, when my husband sulked and refused to speak to me for one day of our 2-day vacation. This time, I'm staying by myself for three days. His past behavior strikes me as an affront to the land itself, and I'm determined to create new memories that honor the spirit of this magical place.
June 13:
I pack a knapsack for a full day at the beach: sunscreen, hat, writing supplies, water and the ubiquitous trail mix. Wind gusts from the north, swirling sand through mid-air. I want to traverse the length of Limantour Beach, to the far end where I'll be alone with the sand, sky, Pacific Ocean and my writing materials. If I choose south the wind will be at my back but I'll be walking straight into it on my return, when I'll be more tired.
I head north. The wind is so strong, I can barely walk. I pull my sweatshirt hood over most of my head, and am thankful for large sunglasses which keep the sand out of my eyes. After an hour, I stop under a scraggly tree on a sand hill to write a poem that's been forming since I embarked.
There is sand in my pockets, in my knapsack, even a little in the trail mix. I click the pen and sand clogs the ball point. I write anyways. In the course of the poem, I swat swarms of annoying beach flies, two of which splatter on the paper. I think: if I ever get famous, this original manuscript with dead fly blood will be worth a lot of money. Collectors always love the macabre.
I continue northwards. Every dozen steps I turn around 180, to rest and breathe deeply with the wind at my back. Several times I contemplate turning around but I'm determined to reach the sand spit crowning the beach. Why am I here, if not to walk and write and be at one with nature? If I wanted comfort, I could've stayed in my car.
Two hours later I stumble up to the estuary at the end of the peninsula. I haven't seen another person for over an hour. The beach is filled with what appears to be 60-70 sand bags, I assume to keep the tide from washing away precious land.
I'm wrong! A school (herd? pride?) of harbor seals basks in the sun at the shoreline, where the ocean turns around and flows into the estuary. They're mink brown in the water, so I didn't recognize the close-knit clumps of beige until I walked closer. The new pups (about four of them) are silver-black. When they see (smell?) me, the entire group waddles ungracefully into the water, where they evolve into sylph-like creatures. They swim out to a safe distance, eyes constantly watching and smiling at me.
Around the corner is a smaller herd, maybe 30, which reacts identically to their cousins.
For all my years of walking miles at the beach, I have never been blessed with the sight of 100 harbor seals sunning themselves and shielding the pups in the middle of the group. If I had turned back -- as I was tempted dozens of times when I could barely place one foot in front of the other in the blowing sand -- I would never have experienced this.
As I skirted the estuary and headed south, the grit in my trail mix didn't seem nearly as bad.
Previous Topic
Index
