I always knew I was the center of the world!

We have driven 5239 miles and some today. Sitting on South Beach at Point Reyes, the west most point of California, the place where Sir Francis Drake landed sometime in the late 1500s. At Point Reyes, there is a sign that says that the sands are mobile. They keep moving, changing and shape shifting the land. That may be so but I think the ocean would have been the same wild, deep green whitening into yellow and falling into the arms of a blue of the darkest depth of an eye. I met that ocean with a sense of awe and respect. As I sensed the honor of being here, haflway or full way across the world I sensed the ocean being honored by my presence.

Apart from that silent and somewhat poetically dramatic encounter the other aspect was that the salt and cold of the water were like a thousand knives piercing my freshly shaved legs. I know, I know... I almost didn't write that bit down but then I thought this is no time for half truths!

So there we were, somewhat ripped to the core of our beings by the experience of being in the Tenderloin of San Fransisco and then the contrasting hurried, glazed-look ripple of humanity that we walked past in downtown San Fransisco. I tend to write long long sentences. To avoid getting lost let me start this one again - so there we were, somewhat ripped.... seeking the soothing of the Pacific, driving from the chi chi San Anselmo, to the hippie haven Fairfax, through Tamalpais - the Sleeping Lady Mountain - National Park, toward the water. Sinous roads lined with what we think were redwoods and gently contoured hills looking like old skin with soft down, took us and we passed Historic Ranches M to D and reached South beach.

This was it. It was as if all my days were leading me to this moment of meeting the end or the beginning of the world. Like a child who expects all the water to fall over the edge, I walked into it - and out and waited. In the waiting I quieted and sat and watched the 5 gulls flying in a single line formation up and down as if that was their assignment for the day - to fly the line of the cresting wave, hide behind it, appear and turnaround to fly in the other direction in the same formation. All the while the ocean roared and laughed and sang and talked to me and to the one or tgwo fishermen waiting for it to settle into a line throwable roll. Didn't happen. I could have sat there the whole day maybe the rest of my life - who knows. Maybe I have begun again, today, another journey having completed the previous one and shed it like a skin, offered it to the ocean.

The scenic route is the story of my life - so there we were, on Hwy 1 - the non description for the Coastal Pacific Highway that runs from Oregan all the way down through California, and suddenly without fanfare and drumroll there it was, the Pacific Ocean all over again, better than in the movies, better than in the books and better than what I could ask for! A road, designed for my pleasure along the side of the mountain, coasting up and down and all the way strolling with the ocean. Like lovers who will not let go of each other, but will play, hide, run and roll, cavort and flirt with rock and weed and all the mystery of life and their connection, the highway and the water swayed and danced as Sweet Chariot (we have named our car) took us to Donna's house.