When I left Jayson's place at around 8 pm yesterday evening, I was seduced by the light of magic hour to the shoreline. Coming to Ocean Beach reminds me time and again that San Francisco is, in effect, a beach town. And what a beach. Wide and expansive. Wild and uncontrollable, much like the City's inhabitants. The crashing waves resonate a constant rumble, while white foam begets more white foam. I watch lines of pelicans sail through the sky in an inverted V, and cargo ships inch towards the horizon, both headed for destinations unknown to me. We are at the edge of the Earth here, standing in an ecotone, on the threshold between one solid body that I intimately know and a fluid body of something so profound and unrestrained and full of life that remains a mystery to me. As much as I love my City, when I stand here on this shoreline, I am reminded of the limitations of its perimeter, and of the infinite possibilities that this planet offers us as a gift.
The sun breaks apart into panels of gradient hues of orange. It seems as if Monet could have painted this landscape for my eyes, and for the eyes of the man next to me with his camera, snapping away, and for the eyes of the lovers next to him, entwined in cozy embraces and kisses, and for the eyes of the dogs unleashed, running free across the sand, and for the eyes of the children playing games with the waves lapping the shore, and for the eyes of the surfers waiting for that perfect wave, and for the eyes of the hard core beach bums weathering the chilly air, roasting marshmallows on their bonfires, and for the eyes of the man untangling his fluorescent kite so he can send it high into the sky once again.
The sky darkens into a shade of pinkish-purplish-blue, and as I walk back to my car, the wind sings in my ears the passionate love song of the Pacific.