Every journey has a moment when getting there ceases to be the point and the destination becomes paramount. For me, on the increasingly rare weekend when I can escape my every day life, that moment occurs when I crest a hill or take a turn in the highway and my Pacific lies before me.
This weekend afforded me such a time. A couple of gracious creatives who belong to the collective in which I typically toil for the three days after my work-week agreed to staff the shop. I loaded more food than I can eat in sixty hours in my nearly cleared back seat, along with my laptop, the latest copy of The Atlantic, and a weird mystery novel that I found in a thrift store when I went for my fourth or fifth attempt to get properly made glasses at UC Berkeley on Wednesday. I wouldn’t cross the picket line at Urban Ore, so I made my way inland and stopped at Habitat Restore, where I got a sweet little chair for fourteen bucks and this book for half off of a dollar. I felt smug and looked heavenward to see if Jimmy approved as the nice man at the loading dock tucked the chair into my RAV4.
This morning, after getting coffee at my favorite place, the Isleton Coffee Company, and checking with Ruthie at Mubdie’s, I headed west. I stopped for water and scrolled through Substack until I found The Bulwark‘s Secret Podcast. Jonathan V. Last and Bill Kristol, the latter substituting for Bulwark publisher Sarah Longwell, analyzed the authoritarian tendencies of the current administration for an hour as I made my way to the Bay. I might have missed it, but JVL seemed to forget to say, Rebecca, take us out, before the strains of the signature song flooded my vehicle. It’s Friday, Friday. . .
I’m usually at home when I watch the Secret pod (so named because only paid subscribers get access to the full broadcast). The frolicking melody fills my tiny house. But the car fairly rocks as the song swells. Just as the dancing teens hit the wild crescendo, I slip onto the Coastal Highway and the sea comes into view. The moment arrives. The destination supersedes the journey as the pivotal focus. My soul stirs.
I glide south, through Pacifica, stopping for another coffee at Soul Grind, a place that I discovered last year and quite enjoy. With an Americano and a piece of gluten-free almond cake that looks possibly house-made and has what I believe you might call a tender crumb, I sat at a table by two women and an exceedingly excitable girl of six or seven. I cannot see the ocean but I hear the call through the large, open folding doors. A few minutes before I got to the cafe, I had leaned on the hood of my car in front of Rockaway Beach. Ten foot waves crashed as high as the rail. A young man standing beside me laughed as he filmed the swell. Our eyes met. We could have been anyone — virtual strangers, yes; but also mother and son, two friends, a couple of co-workers. It’s amazing, he exclaimed. I had to agree.
At 3:00 o’clock, I presented myself at the gate to Montara, the hostel at which I had booked a bed for two nights. I wanted one of the singles, but the women’s shared room has no one else tonight and I can probably handle one night in the company of traveling students tomorrow, if any come. I dragged my food into the building and stashed it with my name affixed, just as I had done many times in the carefree years. A few things have changed, but the smell of salt still clings to the air and the old wooden fences still groan beneath the weight of the ages.
I raise the window beside the table so I can hear the voice of the Pacific reminding me of her unending presence. Other visitors wander into the room, checking cupboards, assessing available cookware, talking about supper. Wave after wave lifts and slams against the craggy shoreline. I breathe — in, out, in, out. I close my eyes. I have come home.
Mugwumpishly tendered,
Corinne Corley
The Missouri Mugwump®
