Evening at Pigeon Point

I spent the day driving to see what lies south of here.  En route north again, I detoured off Highway 1 to visit the artists’ market in its silver Air-Stream at Davenport.  There I bought several gifts to take home, and a sterling silver ring for myself.  I stood in the parking lot twisting it around my thumb, thinking that it seems to express the focus of my trip, my impending birthday, perhaps my very existence.

Back at the hostel, I meet a woman from Santa Cruz who’s just checking into my building.  We sit on the back walk drinking coffee, sharing a pastry which I bought at the Pie Store down on the highway, and telling our stories.   The ocean keeps vigil over us, sending its waves crashing against a cluster of rocks.  Sea gulls call to one another.  The sun hides behind billowing clouds and a lingering bank of fog.

Later, a man from Spain who has lived forty years in this country rushes into the kitchen.  He’s nicked his bald scalp with the edge of the trunk of his car.  I run for my first-aid kit and the little packet of wound sealant that I carry everywhere.  My ministrations earn me a dinner companion, some Basque cheese, and an invitation to see his garden in San Francisco when I visit there next weekend.

Now a gaggle of German girls happily putter in the kitchen while I sit nearby, thinking of what I might do tomorrow.  If the weather holds, I will walk to the ocean and look for whales — nothing more, nothing less.  I might buy some bread in Pescadero; I have enjoyed sharing my first loaf so much.  There will be another sunset to watch; and a book to read; and eggs to cook.  There could be more people to meet.  I’ve become sort of an ambassador.  I am the only one who remembered to buy coffee.  A good cup of Java brings people together like nothing else on earth, except, perhaps, a glass of wine.

It’s the third day of the thirty-third month of My [Never-Ending] Year Without Complaining.  From Pigeon Point LIghthouse, I send joyful greetings.  Life continues.



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