Independence day.
America’s gain or England’s loss, should I celebrate or cry?
In fact I was torn between sea and sky, waking up way south of San Francisco in the Big Sur among the pools and lagoons of Pacific Ocean; emerald green, cobalt too, indigo, turquoise. Swirls of white foam, alone around rocks, anchored through the flaming brown kelp. Wet, shiny and smooth; approaching fog, clouding the way, suddenly clear; Monterey town lying between the city and this endless blue; crowds gathering early, nowhere to park; screeching gulls dispute the cut offs of red raw fish thrown from Fisherman’s Wharf, grey speckled harbour seals pulling it free; rows of tar black cormorant astride the bleached white breakwater, brown furry sea lions beneath; a solitary silver seal sitting on a rusty buoy.
The white ephemeral spray of a far distant whale; close up the black rubbery barnacled back of a cruising Humpback. A seemingly bottomless blowhole, the sound of its breath, then a leap, twisting free from the ocean, for a second or two motionless and then its joyous splash.
Independence amidst the fireworks of the sea.
Miles of dusty road, and empty sand towards San Francisco, people slowly moving to the shore; flashing lights of Patrol Cars trying to enforce the law, no fires. But, a line of flares, the gathering dusk, and the first fires lit along Half Moon Bay. Sleeping bags and mattresses set on roof tops, for the view; July 4th explode the sky.
The darkening Highway as we reach the city; stop lights help and hinder; the radio carries live the musical accompaniment, the dome of the Exploratorium, the road closed, a back way; Crissy Field by the bay, quick, on the sand, the tide closing in and there, and there, the fire in the dark night sky.
Happy Birthday.
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