Early Writings from "Tomales Point"

Part Two: of Butter & Eggs

Winter cold has finally come to Point Reyes, and the ocean is its mirror. The little hound and I walk along its foam-edge in all kinds of light. Copper sunset light, opalescent midmorning light, lapis afternoon light when the tide is up and the waves are dangerously big, with the force of a stallion charge as they crash. Waves like that thrill me. I become transfixed. Seals show their faces and look right in my eye. There are no words for moments like that. For the mysteries they open.

I like to race the foam-break, running after its changeful white trail, seeing how far I can follow it without stepping on it before it vanishes like a bit of snowy lace into the sand. The hound enjoys the tideline too, but for different reasons— mainly because it’s full of rotten bits of sandcrab. These she relishes, disgustingly. We both come away sandy and cold-nosed and merry, drenched in what a winter sun and a winter moon can do to the ocean, and to a woman’s heart (human or dog).