Yard Work
Christy pulls up stakes at 9:30 for her mom's house. I'm already in the front yard, futzing. I clean out the Vanagon, which had become a sand trap even Phil Mickelson would have trouble getting out of. I hose down the outside, which is also covered in sand and seawater from the kayak.
What next? Must stay busy. I drive big red -- nice and clean as she is -- down the coast to look at the surf. Miserable. Again. No, it's actually a smidge better, but the Saturday hordes have descended. Terramar is peaky but full of the Mongol Masses. Choked. The tide is too high at Ponto.
I buy Spook Country, the new William Gibson book, at Barnes & Noble, then head over to Home Depot, then La Costa Nursery. Adequately stocked, I weed and buff out the front yard so any random passersby will smile and take notice.
Feeling a sense of pride myself, I bite the bullet and head over to KRC Rock where I buy 590 pounds of boulders, load them up in the van (where they grind loudly around the curves). At home I plant them in the ground. By three I'm pooped.
Haven't eaten much all day except that Starbucks Coffee Cake low those many long hours ago. Evening comes. I head out for a drive, up to TransWorld, over to the O-side North Jetty, the strand, C-bad Village, skirt by home before heading all the way down the coast to Cardiff. It's a whole tour of my situational DNA, a topographical retinal scan of the last ten years.
It kills two hours and the sunset is nice.
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