Where I live, it is summer. In San Francisco proper, the fog calls the seasons into question. The beach is blustery and cold. My hair whips around in a way I am not used to. Since the pandemic, I have yet to get it cut. It blows in my eyes and into my mouth. The dry grasses dance around, mocking me, but I don't mind.

A young cormorant is taunted by a dog. It seems the bird cannot yet fly or is injured. Youth seems more likely, as the escape is a bit clumsy and awkward. I lean in to see if the bird is ok but refrain from getting too close. I don't want to cause the bird more anguish. 

I venture out from the beach to find a place with less wind. I park and walk around an area of the city I had never explored. I step onto an empty college campus. It is well landscaped, and there are amazing views from here. Palm trees wave and sway. I wave back.

A man in a dark suit wears a covering over his head and face. I am self conscious about being maskless. I am still not used to walking with a bare face. At first, I think this man is campus security, glaring at me, wondering my intent. Later, I see him strolling with a paper sack. He is just a regular guy getting lunch. 

It is an odd day, where the sky is hiding its blue. I get a bit lost before returning to the car. I enjoy wandering without paying attention to any specific direction. Driving back over the bridge, the temperature rises, the sky clears, and the sun shines bright. I appreciate the foggy days no less; they are just a different mood, an alternate (but temporary) state of being.

Out in the avenues, the ocean calls, again and again. I return to revel in the sand and sunshine. Some days, this is everything and enough. 

On the morning of what will be a really hot day, I venture to where the surfers catch early waves. As I walk the beach, I notice a bulbous form in the sand. At first, I perceive this to be a large piece of driftwood free of bark. As I get closer, I sadly see that it is a deceased whale. It is raw, damaged and in a state of decay. The smell is unpleasant. I don't look away. Instead, I document the animal and wonder what brought it to its demise. Several whales have washed up in the Bay Area recently, many of them wounded by ship strike. (My photos of the whale will not appear here, out of respect for the once beautiful, grand creature.)

Further down the beach, the tide is low enough to walk all the way to where the sand ends. Mussels and sea anemones cover the rock formations here. Waves crash and fall. Hermit crabs scurry to hide. My sneakered feet get wet, and I wonder why I have forgotten that it is sandal season. If it weren't for my camera, I'd probably just step deeper into the water, to get a closer look at the ocean critters. 

Up on the hill above the beach, I wander through the fort looking for spots to aim my camera. I watch the cliff swallows fly in and out of their mud nests. I listen to a vibrant red finch singing sweetly while sitting on the wires. An official looking white vehicle pulls up beside me and I say hello. A uniformed gentleman asks if he can help me in some way. I say "no" and smile. He asks what I am doing, and I say, "I am taking photos". He asks, "of what?" I pause and look around. I point to some discarded objects lost in the weeds and say, "artsy stuff like this". It sounds silly coming out of my mouth, but all other answers seem suspect. If I am a criminal, I am plotting my future shady escapades. If I am a self proclaimed artist for profit, I need to pay to be permitted to be here. My solution is to look happily naive with a new hobby. It works, and he drives off, choosing to ditch any further inquiry into my activities.  

The ocean constantly calls for my attention, and I try to answer with great respect. One would think I'd constantly find myself swimming, but often I stand on the edge, barely touching the water. In tropical climates, where the water is warm, I find myself swimming for hours upon hours, conversing with the fish. Here in the Bay Area, the water is frigid for a cold wimp. The pandemic has had me asking - Why don't I own a wetsuit? Why don't I know anyone with a boat? Why don't I own a boat, even if it is an inflatable dinghy? Why am I not a surfer or paddle boarder (beyond the annoyance of my crap knee)? These are repeated questions that need resolve. 

A young man approaches the water and disrobes down to a pair of shorts. He runs briskly into the ocean and back out again. Is this a test of will? A dare? An attempt to awake out of an endless stupor? If I went in that far, I would swim out past the waves, float on my back, feeling the water rise and fall. Surely I would get carried away with the wind, but that is not part of my current daydream. 

Two men are fishing and are the only others at the beach. They whirl around with their poles, trading places now and again. Seagulls look for bait to snack on while the men tug at the lines. I kick rocks and take pictures. 

I wander and wait for I know not what. My hair blows in my eyes and into my mouth. I am not used to the unwieldy nature of these unattended tendrils. My worries waiver and whip away with the wind. I wander back up the hill dancing, quietly collecting these scattershot halcyon days. 

Above the surfers, an old battery sprinkles its rusted metal and concrete on the hill. The ground is green from winter rains and the sky is a welcoming shade of blue. From here the land is magic; the ocean is vast and deep. It is hard to imagine soldiers here awaiting attack, but there is evidence of this war readiness all over the Bay Area. 

I look for signs of rabbits and coyotes but am satisfied by the flit of a small butterfly. Water fills a hole where a cannon once was mounted. Here, I look for frogs and fish. I have no idea how fish would make it up to the top of the hill, but I look anyway. 

I call out into the concrete hall and my voice calls back. I wonder if the soldiers sang songs while holding watch. Did they get distracted by the beauty of this landscape. Did they swim or surf at nightfall? 

The coast is a carved sculpture made by the sea. Looking out over the water to the horizon, all else falls away. I am endlessly grateful for this.  

Little birds nest in the sand while a vulture spreads its broad wings. Two humans walk maskless when others are far enough to be the size of ants. Behind the dunes, the sand is mushy and feet sink. An elephant seal calls out sounding like gurgling water in rusty old pipes. Barnacles cover cement and wood pushes itself into sand. Salt and grit whittle away at the skull of a whale that has found eternal rest.  

Sky and water reflect, blue on endless blue. 

I drive around in circles, looking for a place to park. I have no agenda other than to walk and take pictures, but today I am off kilter and a bit sad. I wander somewhat aimlessly, arriving at a hill. It is like a cartoon exaggeration of a steep street, but a perfect representation of my emotions at that very moment. I turn around before I reach its peak, adjust my temperament and start again. Riding the wave between is the balancing act of these pandemic days. 

Finally parked, I head to the ocean, my steadfast friend. Here, the ravens dance as they always do. I am calm in their presence. The spirit finds solace in moments of simplicity. I cannot untether my connection to this place, even though I sometimes still feel like a tourist. The magic never ceases to surprise me, but I am easily wooed. 

After a perfect amount of wandering, I return to the car and remove my mask. Contented and smiling, I wipe away the salt from the tears that dried on my sun-kissed cheeks. 

I don't feel much like exploring but know it is for my own good that I do. I have a particular destination in mind but find parking to be sparse. I drive around until I find an easy spot, then set out on foot in a bit of a mope. The longer I am outside my mood is lifted and my spirit less blue. 

I walk down the hill all the way to the Great Highway. It is closed to traffic now, with four lanes open to pedestrians and cyclists. The wind is gusty, so the humans are hibernating. So many times I have come here by bicycle and had to fight traffic to enjoy my ride. It is wonderful to have so much space here now.  

Just over the wall at the beach, there is a dog playing chase with a raven. The dog leaps high and the raven dips low. They frolic, both willing to dance with danger in order to have a little fun. I can almost hear them laughing. 

When I turn to go back up the hill, a strong aroma penetrates the four layers of my mask. It is ham, the kind we used to eat during the holidays when I was a child. Oddly I savor it, even though I have not eaten meat in over thirty years. It is a comfort I will not partake in now, but it is the feeling that it evokes that is my keepsake. 

I get out my phone and record some thoughts. It is not something that I do. I am alone on the street and no one is listening. Is this what I have become? A wanderer who babbles nonsensically to herself? Whatever the reason, I am laughing for now. This is what matters most. 

Fires recently engulfed the area surrounding this beautiful beach. I watched the progress and air quality daily and expected to now see it charred and withered. Instead, there is evidence but not ultimate destruction. Nature finds a balance as long as we don't stand too headstrong in its way. 

As we walk, a raven is in lockstep with our movements. We say hello as he skips beside us. It is delightful and quite charming. As I reach for my camera, he doesn't exit the scene like most of the corvids usually do. Seeing my curious glance, he does a little dance and pauses for a snack or two. Every time I look for his wings to be outstretched, he is just strolling at a safe distance. 

The beach is sparsely populated, so we are able to breath freely at least part of the time. The salt air smells good and my lungs fill, crisp and clean. Various sea birds flit about feasting on what washes ashore. This is a good mid December morning, in the year 2020. 

The beach is beautiful as always, but it appears that the birds have been suffering a bit. There are more than a few carcasses in the sand. Perhaps these mark the end of well lived, flight filled days - but perhaps not. I'd like to ask the ravens, but they are busy feasting on the feathered dead (disturbing but true). They also dine on watermelon and french bread. 

Mist rises and falls, forming temporary clouds on the surface of the water. Surfers dive in and out of wide waves. One loses his board which finds its way to the sand, resulting in a passerby becoming a good samaritan. I lose my mind to salty daydreams. 

I don't put any rocks in my pocket today, but that doesn't mean I'm not looking for treasure. I recently read of an abandoned coal mine here. I count the gaps in the rock, guessing where the void falls deep. With my camera, I collect images of what shall be left undisturbed, the shared space of critters and man. I thank the winged ones for letting me walk among them, because it is we who have taken way too much.