I do not enjoy saying goodbye.

The lovely human being whom you see in this photograph standing beside me has never uttered an unkind word to me, or in my hearing.  Instead, he speaks in soft tones and gentle, accommodating language.  Oh, he might occasionally grouse in that way of harmless creatures protesting injustice — mildly, reproachfully, but quite reasonably.

I first met Michael in March of 2015 when I came to Pigeon Point Lighthouse at the urging of my friend Catherine Kenyon.  I rented a car in San Jose and made the journey over the mountain and down the coast.  I had not reserved a bed.  I did not even realize that I could.

The beauty of the park surrounding the lighthouse astonished me.  I stopped in the office to ask about the facility and there, I met Michael. He called me, “Dude” and asked from where I had come.  He told me the three or four facts he knew about Kansas City.  He insisted that I make a reservation. Dude, you have to stay here, this place is magical.  

Dude.

In June of that year, I returned for a two-night stay. Michael checked me into the hostel and then walked down to the parking lot to get my bag.  The hostel doesn’t offer any such service, but Michael does.  He has a personal mission to make the world better by treating everyone with whom he comes into contact as though they actually matter. 

As I sat outside Dolphin (the building where I always stay) drinking coffee the next morning, Michael walked by and nodded.  A few minutes later, he walked the other way, passing again, nodding again.  This time he paused long enough to say, “Magical, right?  Dude, I told you.”

I believe that I have stayed at Pigeon Point perhaps a dozen times.  I try to arrange at least two nights.  I’ve spent my birthday at Pigeon Point for the last three years.  I’ve met people from halfway around the world and made life-long friends.  A few people with whom I sat in the kitchen talking for hours then left without saying goodbye or leaving a number.  That’s the hostel life.

Each time that I have made my way to the lighthouse by the sea, I have spent cherished moments listening to Michael’s stories.  I don’t know if they are all factually accurate.  Some might be wholly fanciful; others might have evolved as time and distance tend to dictate.  Each tale of his life and the waves he has surfed contains a nugget of wonder.  Always he reflects the lightness of his Buddhist principles and practices.  Magical?  Indeed.

Michael and I have only had one brief moment of being cross with one another.  I had splurged and reserved the private room in Dolphin for my birthday.  As I stood behind a couple in the little office, I heard Michael give them my room.  I generally limit myself to a bed in the female dorm.  In fact, that was the only time in which I went for privacy and solid comfort over economy.  Michael couldn’t know, but I needed the time to myself; time to cry, time to regroup. The private room had been meant to be my consolation prize for having to spend my birthday alone.

I thrust my reservation at Michael.  He gasped.  He searched his computer, but somehow, I had been deleted.  Corinne, I’m so sorry, but I just gave that room to the people ahead of you, he said.  But I would not relent. 

In the end, I got the room.  Michael had to put the other folks in what should have been a dorm for six men.  They got a refund for their disappointment.  Michael cast his baleful eyes at me for the rest of my visit.  I brought him a treat from the Pie Ranch to compensate for my treachery.  He had already forgiven me, but I think he liked the pie.

I went to Pigeon Point this weekend to bid Michael a sad farewell.  He said that he has reached the end of his ability to give to others.  He needs to rest.  He plans to spend some time at an abbey. His elderly parents need help on their ranch in Utah, so he might head east for a while. 

He asked for my contact information.  We embraced.  Then other friends and fans stepped forward to do the same.  I faded into the background, wishing, somehow, that I had never complained about that lost reservation.  I felt a little bit like Scout, asking her Papa why it was a sin to kill a mockingbird.

I will return to Pigeon Point.  I will breathe in its magic. I  will calm myself as I gaze at the sea.  I will let the waves lull me to sleep.  The place will still be a refuge for me.  But there will be a Michael-shaped hole in the universe, which no one else can ever fill.

It’s evening, on the nineteenth day of the sixty-fifth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

Fare thee well, my friend.  May you find the peace which you seek.

GRATEFUL DEAD:  BROKEDOWN PALACE

A note about the photographs: Some were taken at Pigeon Point; others were taken at Half Moon Bay. All were taken with my little Canon and my weak eyes.  I hope you enjoy them.