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It is beautifully not summer here, Walt. Dank and cloudy weather
at the seashore is the best.
As you might expect, there is not a lot of tanning going on. The
beach is empty, the restaurants are not crowded, and it is
refreshing to be an outsider, although being an outsider is not
such a contrast to the usual now that I am retired. Just a different
venue for hanging out is all.
The sound of the surf coming through the open patio door is
really the sound of cars on Pacific Coast Highway. The authentic
surf sound is around on the preferred other side of the building
facing the ocean. We are still new at the timeshare game, Sharon
and I, even though we have had ours for thirty some years. We
have scored a few great condos, and maybe like everybody else,
there have been quarters only slightly better than a motel.
We are on the less desired landward side of a beach resort, true,
but for me it is not so bad. I practice the perspective that allows
me to see one kind of current being as good as another - a belief
that the hiss of rubber on the pavement is as worthy a sound as
the sound of breakers on the beach side, and that waves of autos
on the highway are just a different sort of beauty from the waves
of the sea. I don't know what others call that way of looking at
things, but I call it a form of mental tai chi. Besting sour grapes by
fending off the offending reality with postures of sunshine.
Something like that. Unpleasant reality has no effective answer for
it. (insert a creative smiling emoticon here)
Shortly after sunrise, Sharon and I walked down into the heart of
the village of Laguna Beach, tourist destination extraordinaire,
where we experienced all sorts of romantic notions from the days
we were lovers at Sharon's flat over on High Street. High on love
on High Street. Could be a song title.
Beaches and love go together. I think most would agree.
Here is a predawn photo of the night side of morning I awoke to
yesterday. Probably the most photographed beach on the west
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