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After a weekend that was notably sunny and warm, the coast is wrapped in fog this morning, blanketed in the temptation to defy obligation, instead snuggling down, tucking in, and returning to slumber. If I’d had my windows uncovered to see the world outside, perhaps I could not have resisted.

This is one detail I love about the coast: I am almost always content with the weather. Though I’ve been deeply missing the east coast, and the change into fall, I can’t deny that I’m drawn to this existence, too.

Thursday, Friday, and Saturday of last week were particularly beautiful, to the point of shorts and sunscreen, which hasn’t happened since I moved here almost two months ago. After a calming, expansive yoga class on Friday night, I stood with a glass of champagne on the porch of the person who’d just taught the class, watching the sun set over the water. The sky was clear, and the colors stacked upon each other like colored sand, poured by small children’s hands into a jar.

The clear skies held throughout the day on Saturday. I kayaked with friends, my first time doing so on the ocean, and still feel the joy of the experience reverberating through my body. It took only a few strokes out into the water to feel like I was in another world. The waves rocking me, gliding past kelp, we moved from the sun to a band of fog and back into the light once more. A seal popped up, his bald head comically curious, before disappearing and popping up again. Birds I’d never seen flew past us, and fellow kayakers occasionally drifted by.

I’ve been eager to go through a cave, on a kayak or a stand-up paddleboard, and finally had the chance. It felt like a drug, in that I wanted to do it again immediately, and often. A small tunnel, with enough room for one kayak at a time, the cave was dark and sloshing, the sound of the water echoing against itself again and again. It was the most unexpected aural experience, and as there was a slight sacrifice of control whenever the water receded against me, I was reminded of the beauty of horseback riding, when trusting the animal is critical. I gave something over, gave something up, in the cave, for why wouldn’t I? I was the invader.

We remained on the water for a few hours, and when we emerged, we journeyed over to another beach, setting up blankets and a small table, which we quickly covered with beer and snacks. For hours, in that sun, we watched the water and I felt so completely calm that it made perfect sense to me that some people must live oceanside, or feel always lost. Though I am not such a water person, I understand the desire and the need.

And then yesterday, while gardening, while the yogurt I was making was incubated and warm, the fog rolled in. Friends here have warned me against wishing for it, but I can’t help it. I loved this weekend, loved every minute of my sunshine-filled Saturday, and yet the fog feels like a protective being that tucks me in. It feels like it can keep secrets, in the way that the bold sunshine never could, so generously lighting every corner it can find.

In this fog, I can move without being seen. Though I have nothing to hide, I like the occasional foray into such a world, where there is no clear path, where contemplation and tea is welcomed.

And where, apparently, I can ramble my words by candlelight, knowing I have mere moments before my day starts in earnest. Hopefully it will move with ease, and patience, and grace for the change in weather.

One comment on “Sunset and fog

  1. Danie says:

    Beautiful piece! The kayaking sounds lovely – wish I was there!

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