We’re going into town. Santa Cruz is a beach community. Apparently they love dogs, too. Everywhere you go there’s a pooch, and at the coast, climb down a bunch of rocks and there’s your beach.
There’s an amazing boardwalk, too. Reminds me of Coney Island. But nicer. Cleaner. More maintained. Quiet. Everyone’s really enjoying their day on the beach, and the strange weather totally makes up for the strange attire.
In NYC, when it’s hot for the beach, it’s hot. Bikinis, tank tops and shorts because you’re gonna sweat. Santa Cruz is different. The sun gets hot but the breeze keeps it cool. No sweat. Just the perfect temp that allows me to stay sheltered from the sun in a hoody over my bikini. California, now I understand.
The rocky beaches are really meditative. Just sitting on the rocks watching the ocean beat against the wall created to protect the city from erosion.
Listening to the waves rolling in, and then away again. Wild flowers with strong roots grow and grip the soil above the rocks. The water calls out like it needs you.
I know it’s gonna be cold. But I’m ready to accept it. I creep over to the shore and let the waves hit my feet coming in. I feel the cold water and inhale. I exhale when it rolls away, and now I know we were one. It feels different being here, though in some aspects it reminds me of home.
I never realized how important it is to get to know the earth I’m visiting. All the trees, the sand, the water, the dirt. But it is. And I’m happy to spend the time doing so.
Nights bring cooked meals, wine that brighten the stars, and smoke that swirls in the air. Days hopping rocks and napping under bridges, thinking of riddles to fool the men passing over.
The grind of the city seems like too much. But here I am, on the road to San Francisco.