The Pacific

Sam and I followed the Pacific coast for six days from Arcata down to San Simeon, with the exception of a stretch from Albion to the Golden Gate Bridge.  (You cannot see the Pacific from the Napa Valley!)  Shelter Cove, Fort Bragg, Mendocino, Sausalito, Half Moon Bay, Santa Cruz, Monterey, Carmel, Big Sur -- even the names sound romantic.  You could say that we were getting used to the curves of US 1, where around nearly every hairpin turn, the rocky coast appeared.

The first time I saw the Pacific Ocean was in 1983, the year that US 1 was closed down (as were the San Francisco cable cars).  But in San Diego, I saw the Pacific slam up against The Chart House restaurant at sunset.  I still recall how surprised I was that the Pacific was not a mirror image of the Atlantic, but rather, a wild and angry beast.  Not quite as "user-friendly" as the Atlantic, as a friend recently commented.

Ah, but last December, my family and I did a road trip on the East Coast of Australia, and indeed, it was the Pacific that kissed the beaches of Agnes Water and Daydream Island in the Whitsundays . . . quite user-friendly.

I have also seen the Atlantic crash onto the Cliffs of Mohr in County Clare, Ireland, home of my ancestors.

There are two sides to every ocean.

These days, there are two sides to everything, it seems.  And everyone is hugging the coastlines, as if that vast expanse in the middle didn't exist.  I'm as guilty as anyone.  And I don't know what the answer is.

Or maybe I do.  Drive along a coastline and recognize how small we really are.  It can be very humbling.  Maybe some humility is all we need.

Tomorrow morning, our road trip heads northeast, leaving the coast behind.  I miss the Pacific already.