The full moon wears a shroud of white gossamer as it hangs heavily in the sky. Big puffed up billows of cotton drift elegantly across the sky, temporarily masking the moon’s face from my searching eye but illuminating the background like flood lights in outer space aimed at aged porcelain clouds. If I reach too high and touch them, they could crack.
A walk across beach sand in the low afternoon light. The sand is opaque cream, aqua marine, sea foam green, pretty pretty princess pink, eggshell blue, and creamy tangerine. The plastic bits are brittle and they crack in between my discouraged fingertips.
Curious how the color spectrum slants heavily to shades of blue that mimic portugese-man-o-war tentacles. I spot one stretching an impressive length of sand. Two tiny ones entwined like lovers, tentacles tangled inextricably together. Another tosses and tumbles in the foam of a crashing wave and I tuck my legs out of the way.
Funny how I feared these clear bubbled drifters for so long. And the skitter-disappear movement of roaches no bigger than the size of a dime or a bit of lint. I hear they come in massive. I hear they fly. I saw one with beautiful patterns arranged like a black-white-tan mosaic on its back. Mostly, they are shadows and my eye catches them for a second before their whole being disappears. Teasing mushi. The cats come to my calling and try to hunt, but the mushi are gone.
We both stare mystified, and I recall we are cousins.
A coastal ride, sweeping downhill road that greets the edge of the Pacific. green mountains to one side and sandy slant into the water on the other. I climb and the slant becomes a slope becomes a cliff off which I could roll into bunched up greenery. Sleek black wave-washed rocks bathe in the lays sunrays of the day and I am suddenly on the PCH and it is not too far from here to Santa Barbara. I know that dipping hill and those rising peaks — but the ridges are the Ko’olaus are worn by rushing downpour island waterfalls, and the air is ocean tinged everywhere you go. The surfers have different style tattoos and the locals each their lunches different.
The rough pocked road with no shoulder meanders and curves into a bay that could be Bellingham in summer — August, maybe. A distant outline of an island — is it Maui? Could be Lummi or Orcas through a thick fog. And I could be riding the Chuckanuts and dropping into the Skagit instead of Waimanalo.
Funny how all the places I thought of as home feel the same.
Like I was looking for something, and for a brief moment in those places — found it.
It is good to know it is in more than one place, though. Should I feel the need, again, in some number of years, to go. I can journey where the land rises from the water and a bay curves and the rocks are slick and sea-washed. And I will be home.