For the last four days, I consumed food that I know, for certain, that my body despises.  At the end of the weekend, I paid the price.  Everything that I should have avoided, I embraced with glee; and everything that I should have sought, I disdained.  I know the forfeit; I suffered it; and I began my work week with no small measure of trepidation.

Otherwise, the launch of my birthday week held joy.  My son landed in California on Thursday.  After a day at the shop, we headed north by northwest to an Airbnb in Duncans’ Mills.  As with many encounters between geographically distant adult children and their parental units, the first few hours lapsed into that delicate dance. 

Will she accept my life-choices? 

Will he begrudge mine? 

Will four days in a studio override any progress made during the three-hour drive?  

Inquiring minds wish to know.

We saw the sunset from ten miles inland.  The vehicle crested the Pacific Coast Highway as dusk rose around us.  We turned north, passing Goat Rock State Park and the defunct Russian Club, the erstwhile location of which boasted a “Coming Soon” banner announcing the impending arrival of a restaurant planning to serve what it modestly described as “real food”.  This provided some amusement and the attempt at a long-winded retelling of my experience at the Russian Club.

I interrupted the narrative to provide verbal navigation three miles inland on 116 to the rental unit.  Night had claimed the Russian River so marveling over its splendor had to be delayed until morning.  We stowed the food, selected our sleeping corners, and wished each other refreshing sleep.  Good night, John Boy.

After breakfast and a couple hours of scene appreciation, we tried for elevenses at Cafe Aquitica in Jenner but one glance at the long lines sent us continuing northward, towards Ocean Cove Bar and Grill where my friend Randy Carey would be idling at the counter with his beautiful wife Kimi awaiting our arrival.   I think he half-expected that I would actually come.   Cell reception eluded us, so only my promise of two or three days’ prior stood to assure him.  When we walked into the restaurant, the hostess asked if she could help.  I sang out, “I’m looking for RANNNNNDYYYYYYY CARRREYYYYYYYYYYYYYY,” and the man himself turned toward the door.  We hugged.  We named names all around.  My boy greeted them; and we all sat for food.  A few hours later, we had been honored to hear the man sing, chatted with his wife, made a few memories, and gazed at the ocean in the distance. 

On Sunday, Patrick and I headed to Goat Rock State Park and the rock that I call the Eyeball.  We walked on the beach.  We talked about driftwood.  I found a sea anemone shell and slipped it into my pocket.  We ate sunflower seed sandwiches, chopped yellow peppers, and fruit sitting on a rock watching small birds glide above the waves.  When we had had our fill, we drove to our little rented studio on the river and enjoyed a dinner that I threw together.

We filled Monday morning with labor — breakfast dishes, cleaning out the refrigerator, straightening the house, and packing.  My son indulged me in a slight detour to check on the sticker which I had placed on a pillar at the River’s End Restaurant.  The wind had claimed it, but I’ve messaged the mother of the young man whom it honors, asking her to send more of the X-in-a-heart that symbolizes her murdered son and Eric, another mourned lost child.  She sends them out into the world so their dead boys can see in spirit all the places that their bodies will never journey.  I explained all this to Patrick as he helped me search the fence posts.

Afterwards, we contemplated our route.  As we drove down Route 1, we gazed at the sea, we stopped for coffee, we admired homes with fabulous views.  Then our mood shifted, and we craved one more grand adventure to lift our spirits.  I told him about the Point Reyes Lighthouse and we hungrily committed to the detour.

I’ve always wanted to walk the half-mile from the parking lot to the Point above the historic lighthouse.  The building itself crouches in the sea.  Visitors cannot climb down and enter, but they can gawk.  On a windy day four years ago, I tried to make the trek but couldn’t bring myself to go alone.  I’ve waited for this day.  Never mind that halfway there yesterday, a car made its way towards us.  The window rolled down.  A rumbly voice spoke: You know you can drive up there if you’re disabled, right?  Every state park, yes, ma’am.

I had not known.  We persisted, though; and my wild heart acclaimed the glory.  We even walked the entire way back, though I struggled.  With pounding heart, dancing tachycardia, and screaming muscles, I made it.  Exhausted, victorious, and grateful, we turned eastward for home.

It’s the third day of the one-hundred and twenty-ninth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.