It has been a while since I enjoyed the beach with my son, so today, on a whim; I packed a picnic lunch, put the dog cart in the back of my truck and packed us off to Portuguese Beach. It was the perfect holiday drive, through giant redwoods, dormant vineyards resembling mini brown skeletons and the view of the Russian River, wide and looming.
The tiny communities along River Road are recovering. If one doesn’t look close, one might miss the scattered remnants of the flood clean up. Every now and then a small pile of furniture, sits on some obscure highway corner, waiting for this week’s garbage crew. All in all, much of the River community looks as it always does, rustic, quiet and peacefully beautiful. A testament to those who have survived many floods and are able to bounce back within just a few short weeks.
It was the perfect ocean day for Sonoma County. As the truck cleared the top of the highway near Goat Rock, the ocean stretched out before us until it met the sky. The clouds seemed as high as the stars and the wind faded to a soft whisper, barely noticeable. No one was at Portuguese Beach, which gave Brian and I one long beach-front to ourselves, along with Boonie, the dog. Boonie is a wave chaser and I laugh as she weaves her way through the white foam of the tide. A waterfall from the road carves a stream that sweeps out to meet the crashing ocean waves. It is the perfect paradise for a 10-year-old boy.
I place my lawn chair at the top of a sand hill and walk the length of the beach and back. Brian creates driftwood races in his private river and Boonie runs wild trying to conquer and kill the ocean. She has big ideas for such a little dog. The crashing waves sound like cannon fire. It restores my soul. I love being near water. I cast my eyes at the homes upon the hill and imagine Brian and I climbing the steps to one of them as if it is our home. We would light a fire, I would make some soup, and we’d curl up in some soft over-stuffed furniture and watch the sunset, chatting and laughing about our afternoon on the beach.
As I take my chair and reach for my book, I pause to watch Brian play in his imaginary world he has created. It is pure pleasure to watch boys play…the adventure…the focus…the spirit. How they survive having to sit in classrooms all day I will never understand. Boys are meant to move and conquer. They live such a rich experience when they are allowed to be outdoors. It is something to behold, and very different from girls.
I could watch him for hours, like a great stage play, with Boonie, his faithful stead at his side. There are sword fights and killings, destruction of castle walls and the conquering of foreign lands. He finds a large piece of drift-wood in the shape of a bazooka, which he launches imaginary laser explosions from -complete with sound effects. Boonie is right there at his side digging holes and biting water. I am sure she is killing the enemy before they reach her hero, Brian.
It seems the ocean restores us all, as even Boonie seems to carry a constant grin. I try to read my book, but I am too distracted by the beauty of the day and the fact that we have this beach to ourselves. I rise from the chair to collect driftwood pieces for my garden; chase Brian through the river and collect small unusual shells. I stand guard over Brian and Boonie as we near the surf, as today the tide is deadly like the devil beckoning us into the mouth of hell. I am not seduced, as I know this ocean well and the number of lives claimed here every year. I instruct Brian on what a rip tide looks like by demonstrating with a piece of heavy driftwood which I toss into a crashing wave. It is immediately sucked under the tow and popped up on the other side of the high crashing surf and then beat to death by pounding waves.
We enjoy ourselves to the point where time stands still. I become chilled and realize the sun is beginning to set, and we missed Brian’s daily after-school tutoring session. Tutors do not take holidays. OOPS!
The drive home was far shorter than the ride there. Ioften wonder why that is. I am sure it is some mathematical theory having to do with anticipation plus impatience equals more miles. We reached our home in darkness, satisfied that we enjoyed a truly wonderful day. Brian races for the shower leaving me to unpack the truck, which leads to another mathematical theoryhaving to do with less, is more. Why does it seem that far less goes into packing for a short trip than unpacking?
I am now ready for my work week...of course it will take a week to quit finding sand in obscure places...
Until next time-
C
