My watch would later tell me that it was the single greatest hour of our trip so far, but it could have been days, years even that we spent in the rocks and coastal desert scrub that evening. Time was a wash.
Somewhere north of San Francisco two young men pulled over and got out of their car. Naked bar swimming trunks and sunglasses they silently wandered through the thistles and long grass, drawn by some intangible force to the rocks ahead of them.
Hawks rode the thermals above while mice and rabbits dared each other to run the gauntlet between their burrows below. Lizards eyed the boys’ every move, darting from under falling feet at the last second.
Wars raged thousands of miles away. Men with white collars sat in offices somewhere, making decisions that would impact the boys’ lives somewhere down the line, but none of it mattered.
Paul Simon once sang, “I’d rather be a forest than a street...I’d rather feel the earth beneath my feet.” His words were written on every rock, every blade of grass, and the sunlight danced on the water to their rhythm.
Exchanging glances and flashing grins, the boulders were soon conquered and the pair triumphantly looked out over the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean stretched in front of them, a blanket of blues and golds.
A shutter clicked and a moment was captured forever.
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