...the letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life...

Thursday, April 13, 2017

37. Trestles

Wax-word-melt on the asphalt walk that used 
     to be US 101 re-
minded us of the “EPIC FOG SWELL” of 
     December 18 1988.
I was there for the sign and the swell. A-
     round eighteen, home from college for
Christmas, and with friends from high school, I trudged
     in the cold from a far parking
lot. The surf was impossible to see
     until it was right on top of
you. You’d hear, behind the gray veil, a
     clamor like sudden thunder, if
you hadn’t paddled out far enough, and
     we hadn’t often paddled out
far enough. I don’t know how many waves
     I caught, if any, how bad the
ice-cream headaches were, which friends were there. (I
     have a feeling Gary was one,
back from UCSB.) It was my sis-
     ter’s birthday, I was home, cold, wet,
worn out, privileged beyond knowledge, about to
     have a day memoried in wax 
on an old road long empty of cars, come
     to mind later as sweet, lost, a
mark on a mark on mapped geography.

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