I crested the hill at Route 1 just as the sun set. With ten miles left until I got to Pigeon Point, I traveled in the glow of the western horizon. Then I had arrived, and the manager carried my bags and tendered me to Joe at the counter. Michael appeared, ready to greet me and be sure of my safe passage to my usual bottom bunk in Dolphin 3.
Later, I shared my potatoes and peppers with a young man biking to San Louis Opisbo. We convened in the kitchen to talk of the journey here with Caroline, a teacher whom I’ve met on other visits; and Jaan (with two As) who had escaped the election returns in favor of the ocean.
That’s how we roll here at this hostel. No one who enters a stranger leaves quite the same. People talk of where they have been, why they came to this place, and what they might do when they leave. They arrive on bikes, in cars, and by means that no one understands. A few of them teletransport on the wings of angels.
Tonight I will sleep with the sound of my Pacific drifting through the window. Shortly after sunrise, I will fix a simple breakfast and drink my coffee outside. When the time comes, I will say goodbye to the sea and journey north, then east, then back to my home in the Delta. But I intend to retain the sweetness of this place as long as humanly possible.
It’s the seventh day of the fifty-ninth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.