The ballad of pavement and ocean waves
The cats were restless during the night, and so was I. A good night’s sleep has eluded me for some time now. When the alarm went off this morning, I was already awake—waiting. My outstretched arm fumbled around in the dark, searching for my phone. Stop the alarm; check the local buoy. The swell had arrived.
I shambled into the kitchen and opened the sliding glass door. Damn, it was chilly. Dense fog, too. My feline children were hungry though, and very persistent. So I fed them first. Back inside I came; first to turn the thermostat on, then back to the kitchen to flip the switch for the ceiling fan. Quietly I opened the cupboard door and pulled out the coffee tin. I love the smell of dark roast in the morning!
Texts and DM’s were checked and answered. I stretched, got dressed, and made lunch for the road. After putting my gear in the car, I flipped through my CD case and decided Viking metal was appropriate for a moody a.m. drive into the country.
To be a surfer in this county requires patience and a lot of driving. That’s even with having a fairly intimate knowledge of the coastline. My friend Greg and I found ourselves at a loss as to which of the area’s spots would be worth him paddling out and me shooting. After nearly an hour of road time and debate, we finally settled on a raw sandbar with overhead lefts.
Having photographed this wave on Inauguration Day, I knew exactly where I wanted to shoot from. Nature’s light was a little more muted this time around, which felt like a good thing. Once again, it was a stroll along the shoulder of Highway 1, then darting into a small clearing between a wall of brush, and out onto the edge of a now waterlogged and crumbling bluff top.
Greg roamed the playing field for a while, searching for walls to carve and openings to slot himself into. I wandered the trail, more so just to keep moving than anything else. Our last cold snap really made the arthritis in my left knee flare up. That dull aching decided to stick around. Walking lessened the reminders of old age.
Later on, I found myself standing at the edge of the world. The sea was rough. The wind was cold. But the sun was out and I was alone. I hadn’t planned on coming here, however, apparently Belinda Point was calling and my soul heeded that call. I was grateful.
The past few weeks have been… shall we say, a bit overwhelming? But I don’t need to tell you this. As a former newspaperman and someone who was fairly politically minded back in the day, I’ve soaked in the events since Inauguration Day like a sponge. It’s been pretty fucking unhealthy actually, and so being alone at Belinda Point—out in the elements—feeling utterly free; even if momentarily… was just what I needed.
When I decided I’d had enough, I was no longer alone. A family had made their way out to the point itself. On my way back to the staircase from the Belinda’s rocky beach, I passed a fisherman and his daughter. These interactions were brief, but pleasant. It helped to put things into perspective for me.
Eastbound on the Fort Bragg Road I traveled; third in a line of vehicles all in sync with the pavement and each other. My windows were rolled down. The Icelandic band Sigur Ros spinning in the CD player. Oh so familiar trees felt new. At the top of Seven Mile Ridge, I stopped. One more photograph was created. My soul, on an even keel again.
It may be nearly 1:30 a.m., but its Sunday and I don’t have anything pressing happening. Perhaps I’ll finally get a chance to sleep, and I mean truly, sleep well. Of course, it all depends on if my cats want to be assholes again.
