I last visited this beach with a dear friend who left this earthly realm last year. It has been a little over a year since then, and I can't help but feel her presence here. She would have been as anxious and sad about the fires as I am (not to mention the pandemic), but she would have found joy in watching the surfers and the waves crashing against the rocks.

I think there is still time in this life to learn how to surf. It is one of the things I have always allowed my knee to decide, but it seems worth it to try. I have paddleboarded once, and it was awkward and quite funny the contortions I put myself into stand up on the board. I cannot do that swift pop up from the knees that seems a pretty basic skill one should have to catch a wave, or even to cruise around on calm water. Thankfully, I am a good swimmer that does not mind being tossed around a bit. So this will be on my post pandemic bucket list. I have to say, a bucket doesn't seem a large enough container for all the dreams. 

I just looked up the origins of "bucket list" and I am laughing because it never occurred to me that the bucket referred to what one wants to do before "kicking the bucket". Here I was imagining a tin pail full of little strips of paper scribbled with future aspirations. The origins of the phrase "kick the bucket" are disconcerting, and not how I want to refer to any future I might create. One's life should be about the celebration of small moments collected to form a complete story. It should not be about lofty goals and checking off boxes into the moribund. 

When my friend was ill and was probably fully aware of her ultimate fate, she was making plans. There were suggested photo shoots, travel arrangements, home renovations, cooking, wine making, gatherings of friends and family, meetings with architects for a future project, and always time for the beach. She was never self defeating, never without curiosity, optimism, and passion. She was sassy and strong. 30 years ago, I met her at the beach in Southern California and said a fond farewell at the beach in Northern California. She will forever live in the ocean waves as will the life lessons I gained by being her friend. 

Fire has been consuming California, and it is a gross understatement to say that it has been stressful. In between the smoke and the tears, I venture outside to savor the moments of blue sky and breathability. 

The past couple days we were threatened with more lightning storms which would have resulted in more fires. Last night, I stayed up all night tracking them, ready to evacuate if need be. We made it through, and the Red Flag Warning was canceled before it reached its end. A true weight was lifted, even though the current fires still burn. 

Not having air conditioning, to help combat the heat during the middle of the day, I attempt to block the sunlight with old tablecloths hung over the existing curtains and blinds. One of these is a large red and white checked tablecloth passed onto me by my grandmother. It has holes and stains, but I hang on to it and like to use it for picnics at the beach or in the grass. 

My grandmother lived in the Bay Area during the Loma Prieta earthquake of 1989 and the Oakland Firestorm of 1991. She was a huge collector of breakable objects and had a house full of flammable solvents for her hobby of refinishing furniture. During the earthquake, only one tiny wicker basket fell off the wall. During the fire, she was hosting a small gathering of friends. Flames quickly engulfed houses below and above hers, simply skipping over her home. I like to think in both instances she was extremely lucky. 

As the light shines through the red and white checked fabric in my kitchen window, I thank her for the luck she passed on. As night returns and the air cools, I remove this symbol of her good fortune, folding it up for another day. My grandmother found something special in this golden state, and that was undeniably passed down to me. Wherever I hang my hat, a big piece of my heart is always here. 

It takes all that I have to stay positive as California is burning, but it is nearly impossible to escape the inevitable at this point. Every time the wind blows, my heart jumps. When the heat rises, my stomach turns. When the electricity disappears I wilt in worry. These are the days of the apocalypse. Glimmers of hope filter in through the cracks. Watching the horrible that is the news creates an abyss that is hard to crawl out of. Photography will continue to be my refuge as long as I let it. A pandemic is one thing, but piling on raging fires is more than most have capacity to digest. Our "go bags" are ready and for now we are safe. Others are not so lucky. My heart breaks for them. My heart breaks for this beautiful state. 

Oh starry sky
You enchant me
I have wished upon your shimmering lights
Time and time again
Repeating a childhood rhyme
Sending messages in invisible bottles
Occasionally landing on a passing satellite 
Accidental wishes carry themselves to far away lands 
Never as far as the light years
That bring this vision to our earthly realm

I believe in magic and fate
Even as the two collide 
The ingredients of dream states
I believe in tears that cleanse my soul
Allowing my heart to face the day 

As the fires rage
And the pandemic fails to fade
As humanity tries to destroy itself 
Your light shines for a billion years or more

If all the wishes spilled upon the earth
An immense understanding, compassion and wonder 
Would unfold into all the souls who found solace in your vision
Oh starry sky
I am under your spell

The heat rolls in, pushing away the cooling fog. Rolling blackouts take pressure off an aging power grid but it comes unannounced. I edit these photos outside tonight. Sounds of crickets, birds and distant voices fill the air. Someone is singing. 

I look up and a young fox is staring at me, just a couple feet away. He waves his head back and forth to look past me, seeking safe passage. Something dead, like a mouse, hangs out of his mouth. He is not much bigger than a cat, so possibly new to solo outings such as this. 

Last night I could not sleep because of the heat. Our cat meowed at what I believed was his distant pal I like to call, "Rascal Cat". However, this animal did not have a bell, like the bird hunter normally wears. I then saw one more, and eventually six cat like critters. These were young kits not cats, probably the offspring of the bigger fox that visited a few weeks back. 

I imagine this young one in the yard to be my new friend, fast and furious. But I know I am just an unfortunate obstacle in the quest for dinner. He eventually turns and exits by crawling under the fence. I return to editing pictures I took just before the temperature got hotter than blue blazes. 

Grass coats my boots. I wore them knowing I would be avoiding any designated pathway in favor of what lies adjacent. I remember that as a child, I cut the grass barefoot. The cuttings slowly gathered between my toes. I ducked to push the mower under young trees as junebugs flew into my forehead. When my brother mowed the yard, he talked to himself loudly. I could hear him outside through the closed windows. He seemed happy, so I never bothered to ask him what he was talking about. 

Today I am close to the beach but do not linger for that is a popular destination. I long to lazily linger again, to lollygag among the masses. Maskless runners pass by as I hug the trees (not in the literal sense, but in terms of my close proximity). 

I wander into the private part of the parking lot, where I know the great blue herons nest. I have missed the spring when they are in the tops of the trees. I still am lucky to see two fishing, one in the marina and one in the pond across the street. 

At the tourist destination close by, there are normally newlyweds getting their pictures taken, but not today. It is a relic of a 1915 exposition and is an iconic destination in San Francisco. It holds a certain magic and I fall for the facade and fantasy every time I see it. Wandering around its artificial lagoon, I admire the birds that call it home. 

Beneath the bridge that carries me back across the bay, this city gives me pause. It adds to my character, and on very rare occasions takes it away. Wherever I land, I will always be fond of San Francisco. Like New York City, many people long for what it once was. I understand that inclination and believe many things in both places have been lost. However, the more you explore, the more you find the hidden corners, the stories untold, the grit that holds it all together, the more you appreciate what it is today. Having lived on both coasts and in between, I lean toward the sunny side, even when the sun is covered in the summer fog.  

Good morning ocean. Someone has left you flowers. Did you happen to notice them? The wind has battered their delicate petals but it makes me love them all the more. I have a feeling that they may not actually be for you but for someone you took. They could also be in honor of someone who held you dear. I will never know, and you can't answer, so I will leave it to wonder. 

Good morning seagulls. You are lucky you do not have to be socially distant. Thanks for letting me join your gathering for a moment. I know no one hired a photographer, but lucky for you, I currently work for free (for birds anyway).  

Good morning ravens. You and I have been friends for a while now. We pretend to ignore each other, and you do that silly dance of trying to get away, when you clearly want to be close. No, I did not bring a picnic, and will not be leaving any garbage for you to collect. You do alright though. Your numbers have grown and you show a vastness of age and agility. There are some scrappy ones among you, but aren't there always? I dare say, I find them charming.  

Good morning humans. For all that need to hear it, we must do better. 

I drive to where the houses float on the bay. I can feel them subtly sway as if to breathe freely with the tide. I feel like crying when the world has wavered from any semblance of sane. I hold my tears in favor of believing in what is gained, what can be sought, and the renewed wellness that comes after the collective unwell. I remind myself that I am one of the lucky ones, and my heart is heavy for the whole of us, not as a reflection of my personal circumstances. 

A wave of happiness washes over me the way it does when I am out wandering. I don't see it coming and then it is there. I welcome it and share it with the birds; there are always birds. 

Some of the houseboats are precarious in their build. Their charm and decorative flare outweigh their dubious structure. There are sailboats here too but none are active on the water. I imagine what it would be like to live right on the bay itself or to be able to sail at will. 

I used to ride my bike here from the other side of the bay. I would take public transportation from the East Bay to San Francisco, ride through town, over the Golden Gate Bridge and then along a path that hugged the water. I eavesdropped on old salts yukking it up in a crafty cove. I looked for pelicans, egrets and herons communing in marshy water. I pedaled along the path until it ended in mud and overgrown bushes. I stopped for coffee and rode ferry and bus back home.

I was never hindered by the humans that surrounded me then. Now, I am in a constant state of zigzag and space assessment. I am disguised, as are they - if they are conscientious.  The sky is still blue and the water still ebbs and flows.