On sailboats

One quiet California summer afternoon I drove out to Santa Cruz, thinking of taking pictures of the ocean, sunsets on the beach and whatnot. When I got there, there was no idyllic view to be found. The place was teeming with folks on the beach - sunbathers, surfers, and hordes of squealers on the Boardwalk. Lots of people who believed that there was a special rush in riding roller coasters by the ocean. As I threaded my way between some of the sun-worshipers, I realized I was conspicuous by my clothes, or rather, by the amount of clothing I had on, and by the camera stuff hanging by my shoulders. There was absolutely nothing to take pictures of, unless one was interested in immortalizing vacationing thrill-seekers from the Midwest, their ghostly-white legs a dead giveaway....! It was disappointing, to say the least.

I decided to take a walk, maybe catch a beer to commiserate in silence and wandered away from the beach, through a neighborhood, past a large gray stone whale with a perky smile. As I crested a hill, and looked downward, I saw a sailboat in the distance. Then another, and another. And many more.



Sunset forgotten, I spent the rest of the afternoon with the sailboats. The boats were amazing - in their simplicity of purpose, the complexity of their operation. It felt like each boat seemed alive - with it's own personality, it's own intentions. As the sun went down I realized that it wasn't really all that quiet down by the boats. There was the usual magical California afternoon hush, but the language of the boats made it extra-special - sail-ropes creaked, prows rubbed against the dock, the clink of cook-pots, the murmur of weekend warriors plotting their next escape.