It’s in the 60’s most days. Wildflowers blaze across the hillsides; tear-shaped petals mirror the bright orange orb that sinks below the liquid horizon.
Gentle waves unfurl along a foamy shore, swift to kick at sandpiper legs and kelp piles. Seals barking in the distance. Those obnoxious peacocks! It’s so green that a friend swears if he were blindfolded and plopped down here he’d have thought he was back in his own Ireland. Bluejays and seagulls fill the morning sky; raccoons and dear eat the trash and flowers by night.
Indigenous people boast that there are no fast food joints or chain businesses of any kind. You’re either a waitress, artist, or business owner. Jack’s avos are the tastiest, Olallieberry pies are king and everyone who is anyone knows how to get to Nitwit Ridge.
There’s Happy Hill, Lodge Hill, and Park Hill. Tin City, Marine terrace, Lamert, East side, West side, Pine Knolls, Moonstone. Oak trees, Pine trees, Sweet broom, wild mustard, wild mushrooms, “sour grass”. Kayaking, surfing, boogie-boarding, bike riding, hiking. Open space is everyone’s friend; Greenpeace is their cousin.
Growing up in a town of 6000, going to a high school of 300, and graduating in a class of 40. The only people I expect to understand this are one of the 6000.