Saturday at six AM, Charlize and I walked the Kalaloch campground in the dark. It wasn’t really dark. A half-moon was out, bright but not as bright as the moon I remember growing up in Phoenix, long before that place became the megapolis it is today. The winter moon of the desert, that I remember, was bright enough to read by, or maybe my eyes were young enough to see by.
Thirty feet west of where Frog is parked there is a sharp drop off to the beach, guarded by a split rail fence. Relentless waves work their way onto the sand. The sound they make is similar to a busy highway. A vez en cuando, (the English translation of this expression would be “from time to time”, but in Mexico in 1967 when we lived there for a year, it conveyed a connotation of inevitability, an inability for a human to change events). A wave much larger than its brothers breaks over, roaring his delight.
I was up at five again, walking Charlize. It was cold enough during the night for a sheet of ice to form on Old Blue’s windows. I had to scrape them before we could leave. The moon, still bright before dawn, illuminated the stark silhouettes of Douglas fir, various pines, Sitka spruce and western red cedar all in stark relief. Their trunks bent slightly east, towards the Olympics. Their tops, sheared by high winds blowing in from the ocean, pointed at the mountains.
Charlie and I ate our breakfasts. I cleaned up, with her close supervision to make certain everything was done properly, and we were ready to leave before seven. All the other RV’s were still dark, their occupants sleeping in, I presume.
