Clear skies and a handful of people greeted us as we shambled down the sand to Trinidad State Beach. Stopping only briefly to gaze upon the natural beauty of the cove, I ambled to the water, removed my shoes and put my feet into the Pacific Ocean for the first time in decades. The water was cold, but I was thrilled by it and waded a little deeper, laughing, enjoying the simple bliss of immersion in such alluring environs. Soon, the cold drove us onto the beach and we walked along the edge of the water, stepping over the bits of flotsam washed ashore by the waves. A dog cavorted along the beach, running with a hunk of driftwood bigger than itself in its teeth. All was right with the world.
After a while, we decided to head back toward our belongings, which had receded out of sight, and as we went back that way, I spied a surfer heading toward the water, board under arm. As we continued our careless shuffle through the sand, he paddled out into the ocean and sat astride his board. He was far out to sea when I saw him catch a wave, and I felt envious of his relationship with the water. Soon, though, the sunlight turned to grey, as a strange cloud developed off shore and began to move inland. I thought at first that this was a portent of a change in the weather, as it got cooler and more humid, but the surfer seemed unperturbed. Finally, almost engulfed in the mist, he caught a wave and surfed back in toward shore. Then, much to my surprise, he turned around and paddled back into the soup. He knew something that I didn’t; this was the famous Humboldt fog, rolling in and out like the waves, but at a much slower pace, just another kind of winsome dream.