Chris took it when we were in Fort Bragg, at one of the glass beaches. The glass beaches are an extraordinary phenomenon in which there is little to no sand and an enormous amount of sea glass — an embarrassment of riches, one could say. The middle beach had been picked clean, but Chris, Daph, and I scampered our way to a little alcove. Behind us grew a rocky hill of wildflowers. Around us, short cliffs. Before us, ocean. Beneath us, smooth and colorful glass. I could have sat there forever, watching the water come in and out.
We had taken a trip to Cleone, nearly four hours north of San Francisco, where the beaches were cold and the trees rose high and thin. We ate Jenny’s Giant Burgers twice because it was one of the only places in town that dogs could go to, but we felt all right about that because Jenny makes good hamburgers. Pick’s Drive-In in Cloverdale had burgers with a special red relish. We ate there on September 4, which was the 11th anniversary of our first kiss, and I went into boutiques filled with hideous clothing, we went to the only botanical garden that reaches the ocean, we saw a million varieties of “fuchsias,” which are a type of flower.
I spent much less time writing/revising than I would have liked.
Every morning, Chris made the same thing: bacon, then eggs fried over easy in the remaining grease, toast, toast with pepper jelly, coffee, water. I loved it every morning.
Every day I wore the same things: a floral bandana around my head because I am growing out my hair and it is horribly unruly, leggings that pretend to be pants, my tweed coat with one loose button and one missing button.
Thank you, Cleone, for being so hospitable. Thank you, Fort Bragg and Mendocino. Thank you, Highway One. Thank you, Pacific Ocean.