Bodega System
The color of the sea stays with me, that and the coldness of it washing over my feet. It was clear where it met the sand, translucent green farther out, dark blue where there were rocks just beneath the surface. The sand was composed of polished stone and shell, large smooth grains that could be easily wiped from the soles of my feet. Beach detritus was purple, fuchsia, indigo, transparent yellow, and bone white. Seashells, kelps, baby corals. The air was fresh and briny.
The fog receded while I was there, revealing the brilliant colors of the sea and sky. The ice plant on the cliffs was purple and green. The poppies were yellow. Small orange butterflies landed on the steps that descended from the cliff to the beach. A foghorn moaned while the waves rasped soothingly over the sand.
I left the beach in sun. On the cliff, I turned to see that the fog was returning, shrouding sky and surf again. Bodega Head had unveiled just for me, and if I was going, it would wear clouds again. Down the road, at the Marina on the bay, I overheard a few lines of a conversation,
”You don’t miss fishing?”
”What kind of question is that?”
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