Sandy toes are the best way to start the weekend. Or, since I have to work a bit more, a great preview of the weekend to come. Beachin’ man!
Moonstone Beach is memories. A first kiss, painful goodbyes, a childhood in the surf and sand and river. I have picnicked here, lost my clothes and found warmth and ecstasy in a lover here, discovered in deafening silence the vast distance between you and me. And today I watch the sunset, and two dogs running in surf, barking at waves. Further out, a pair of surfers are paddling to sea. Unfortunately, there is a vast fog bank stretching north and south as far as the eye can see, so really, I have to imagine the sun setting behind pink-tinged fog.
I try not to get my hopes up that you will join me. It would not be a Humboldt County beach without the skunky stench of weed, would it? Still, I would not mind a few hits myelf to dull my hopes. I would make a fool of myself, hacking and gagging, but if it quelled my hope for you and suppressed the eventual dissapointment of no you, it would be worth it. Some day I hope to have the words to express how I feel when you are not with me. As every day ends, I say goodbye, my love.
Monday evening and I feel the outcast. The sun sets over the Pacific, and I am the only one on Moonstone without a dog, camera or climbing equipment. Judging by the preponderance of four-legged friends and ropes, I am in the serious minority not having two, if not all three, of these.
It is warm out and the wind I was afraid would make this a bone-chilling misery, is pleasantly absent. If I weren’t such a stickler about sand in the nether-regions, I’d lie down and make sand angels. Yes, this is the place. Why did I ever leave?
It feels like Spring, which probably explains my grin. Either that, or the images, unbidden, that flit in and out of my mind when I think of cameras, ropes and down on all fours . . . Oh my! Okay, enough of that.