Bolinas
Here we go...our favourite adventure..
Done with school, spent a day or so at the beach. Bolinas, the little beach town north of San Francisco that's still stuck in 1969. The locals took down the signs saying how to get there. It's the place I go for closure. Brought along an old friend, a last hurrah before he progresses forward. The rain came down as we wandered on the beach, cold, shivering, soaked, wet sand between my toes. Took cover in the Coast Cafe and warmed with clam chowder and black tea, the sugar settling on the bottom. Retreating from the cold and rain we found an afternoon nap at the Grand Hotel, not really a hotel, but an old dilapidated beach house with a thrift store in the living room and two attic rooms for guests...I watched through the window at the Cypress trees dancing in the wind and the sheets of rain moving across. Early evening found us trekking across the mesa and down onto a hidden beach, the tide moving quickly in, taunting our courage. The sand littered with hundreds of purple and clear jellies I scream in surprise as I accidentally squish one between my toes. The sun falls down and we're in the kitchen making thai stir fry, something so satisfying about putting effort into a meal with someone else...the meal fades into wine upstairs in the two stuffed chairs talking, remembering, sharing. Wine fades into sleep and morning. One last walk on the beach before returning. Anemones, sensitive to the touch, in clusters on rocks, the tide washing over them. I perch precariously on rock trying to examine life so oblivious to ours. Responsibility urges us on and we pile back in the car, heading out. The smell lingers, dill. It haunts me as I climb twisting turning up Highway 1. Deja vu. Closure.
Done with school, spent a day or so at the beach. Bolinas, the little beach town north of San Francisco that's still stuck in 1969. The locals took down the signs saying how to get there. It's the place I go for closure. Brought along an old friend, a last hurrah before he progresses forward. The rain came down as we wandered on the beach, cold, shivering, soaked, wet sand between my toes. Took cover in the Coast Cafe and warmed with clam chowder and black tea, the sugar settling on the bottom. Retreating from the cold and rain we found an afternoon nap at the Grand Hotel, not really a hotel, but an old dilapidated beach house with a thrift store in the living room and two attic rooms for guests...I watched through the window at the Cypress trees dancing in the wind and the sheets of rain moving across. Early evening found us trekking across the mesa and down onto a hidden beach, the tide moving quickly in, taunting our courage. The sand littered with hundreds of purple and clear jellies I scream in surprise as I accidentally squish one between my toes. The sun falls down and we're in the kitchen making thai stir fry, something so satisfying about putting effort into a meal with someone else...the meal fades into wine upstairs in the two stuffed chairs talking, remembering, sharing. Wine fades into sleep and morning. One last walk on the beach before returning. Anemones, sensitive to the touch, in clusters on rocks, the tide washing over them. I perch precariously on rock trying to examine life so oblivious to ours. Responsibility urges us on and we pile back in the car, heading out. The smell lingers, dill. It haunts me as I climb twisting turning up Highway 1. Deja vu. Closure.