Sunday, August 1, 2010
Twain had it right when he said, the coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco. Point Bonita, a sharp rocky peninsula extending into the Pacific Ocean from the Marin Headlands overlooking San Francisco, is cold and foreboding. Sea lions lounge on the rocks below and the waves crash against the black craggy stones jutting upwards. Hundreds of sea birds float dotting the frothy white caps of the dark water. An imperative for life exists above the water as colorful succulents grow out of sheer rock furthering the surreal scene.
To be there, trekking out to the last working lighthouse in California, I was struck by a sense of solitude, and somewhat ironically, calm, and truly sublime peace.