Still

My ass is sore, and it ain’t from runnin’.

I spent about twelve hours parked on my ass Sunday.

Jon and I left the vineyard around noon. I had about all the communism and community I could handle. I wanted some quiet time before flying home.

“When’s your flight?” they asked.

“In a minute,” I said.

“Way to be evasive,” Jon whispered.

“I’ve had some practice.”

Our new friend Marcie (she of Grateful Body and, formerly, Skywalker Sound) suggested we check out Salt Point. “It’s one of my favorite spots on the coast,” she said.

We wound our way down the mountain, turning on a road that seemed to lead to the coast. The road led in and out of deep woods and wide grasslands through bright sunshine into steep vistas overlooking the sparkling blue Pacific. From a thousand feet above, and a few miles away, we spotted Fort Ross where Marcie hold told us to turn northward. Soon we were on PC1, and Salt Point.

Salt Point itself looked like a composite of Nebraska, Hawaii, and Mars. We hiked down a short hill, past a kelp-strewn bay, forded a small stream, and then ascended a short cliff. We walked the edge of the cliff to where it opened on a broad, rocky shoreline. Large waves crashed dramatically against the rock, spilling whitewater over them and whittling them away at a snail’s pace. The rock was smooth but fissured, dotted with shallow, still pools. There were natural bridges, turbulent coved, and shadowed caverns. I poked around the shoreline, trying to capture the pounding surf and charging tide. Jon stood high above me taking it all in.

As the afternoon ticked away, I became increasingly cognizant of our long back to San Francisco, and long flights back to New York. We hiked back to the Jeep, then drove the winding highway south. The road was cluttered with RVs, so the going was slow. Northern California radio was full of static and crap music, but Jon and I didn’t need it. I caught him up on last year’s melodrama, he caught me up on parenthood. When we finally crossed the Golden Gate around 4:30. My flight to LAX was at 6:45. I started shifting in my seat nervously. “Hey Jon,” I said, “Think you could drop me at the terminal and return the rental?”

I raced through SFO, down the jet way, and into 25B. I was out of breath, and a little anxious about takeoff. I folded my hands in my lap, pulled on my sunglasses, closed my eyes, and began inhaling…

I woke up twelve hours later in my apartment. My ass was sore, but my heart was whole.