On the way to my destination I blast the music in the car and sing along. This is one of the joys of driving. It doesn't matter if I know the words, if I sound totally off-key, or even if I truly love the song. What matters is the release.

Driving over the Golden Gate Bridge the morning fog engulfs the bridge itself. I can see enough to get across and make my way to Baker Beach. Once there, the fog remains thick. The atmosphere is ​mysterious and somewhat magical. The mist from the fog and the ocean mix to make a salty spritz. 

Fishermen dot the edge of the water, casting rods into raucous waves. One gentleman has built a low barrier wall and moat to protect him from the water. I compliment his set up and he grins at me, sans a few front teeth. He gestures to the sculptured sand and says something I can't quite decipher over the sound of the ocean. I smile back anyway, then realize he cannot see half my face covered in a mask. I give a friendly wave and walk on. 

A man waves a metal detector over the sand. He has a little basket to filter the earth from his treasures. He shakes the basket and then puts something in his pocket. This is a modern day gold digger. I hope his search proves fruitful. 

I wander to the edge of the beach where on a clear day, the view of the bridge is quite breathtaking. Today I like feeling like I am on another planet. I'm happy here where water fades into sky, and sand finds a home between my toes. 

The air was clean enough to go to the beach this morning. This is our constant cycle these days. Check the air quality, measure the covid risk, and decide the heatwave tolerance level. It is the 2020 disaster dance of west coast sanity seekers. We are mostly here for the environment after all. It is so strange to interact with it in this odd and dysfunctional way. Nevertheless, at the beach, contentment is found.  

The waves are raucous and surfers find solace in flowing with the push pull of the water. Salt drenches sun soaked skin of those who see the ocean as their second home, or maybe even their first. I grew up in the south near a river where, at the time, people dumped old refrigerators and used car parts. Sure, it was also pretty in certain areas, but it wasn't much more than a glorified creek. So, to me, the ocean has always seemed so grand. I realize I repeat this sentiment over and over again, but some things are well worth repeating.  

As the smoke clears for the morning, I head into San Francisco. I park on the end of California and venture up a hill that takes me to a golf course. In non-covid19 times I might have wandered deep in to explore what I could find on the carefully maintained grounds. Now, I follow the rules for reasons of safety and social distancing. The designated walking path takes me to the other side of the golf course where the land meets the water. The view is amazing and the depth of feeling it evokes could never be captured in pictures. Vividness of color (or lack of), beauty of composition, and luck of timing can never come close to expressing what happens in my gut when something touches me deeply. It can, however, be a reaction or retelling of what is seen, a new story that exists on a different plane of reality. 

Down the road are homes of great wealth. This is a unique world which is somewhat foreign to me. It is beautifully manicured, full of caretakers and builders. The facade needs constant maintenance. Walking through is free. I wonder who lives here and what their lives are like. A quick search reveals a few well known celebrities. I doubt I'll ever be their neighbor but no harm in pretending. And yes, this is a frivolous, empty kind of joy, but it is entertaining. 

Further in, I spot a sign that says "public beach". Of course, I have to follow it, and I land at China Beach. There is a road down which is wide enough for social distancing. There, I find a lone fisherman, a swimmer who obviously does not mind the cold water, and two young men enjoying the view from above. Beyond that, it is me and the birds. I feel gleeful, because in all my years living in the Bay Area, I had never been here. I had seen it from above, but just assumed it was inaccessible.

The Golden Gate Bridge stands tall in the distance, an icon of this joining of land and sea. Seagulls rest in the sand, only slightly hindered by my human presence. I hop over the water that reaches the rocks to see the other side of the cove. I am filled with delight and know this is exactly where I need to be at this second, on this day, in this very strange and difficult year. 

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. 

Fishermen stand quietly waiting for a bite, a sign of other life. The foggy morning air is cool and comforting, and humans are few here. My mood is lifted immensely by this old place, near to the city that sings to my soul when I let it. The hills surround, hugging what is often hidden from plain sight. Rust and ragged show age and story. Boats tell stories of sailors and water wanders. It is beautiful as beauty can be, but I still see the broken bits that tell the true tales. 

An act of recording is a means to not forget, to be present and also remember. I am here; I am alive; I stand in this place and my heart is open. Pelicans fly by, majestic. I click away but their pace is quick and their spirits not easily captured. The prize is their presence. 

Tracking time seems entirely arbitrary now, but I still try to remember the day, the month, the year. Spring and summer pass in isolation from a once known reality. Everything is called into question, for good reason. Patience is a virtue most desired, and, for many, newly nurtured. 

This day reminds me of days spent on my bicycle, and how I once landed here by happenstance. The world is entirely different now, but my essence feels secure and constant. I stand where I stood then, taking some of the same photographs. I challenge myself to look in different directions. There is always something new to see and a deeper measure of understanding. I look out; I look in. 

A bee finds refuge inside the carcass of a crab. Seaweed morphs into the shape of a bird. Masks are worn only briefly when nearing humans, few enough to be counted on one hand.

Wanting to feel the calm the beach can bring, I smile a true smile, with teeth revealed. But I am not truly calm. When time is so ill-defined and days turn into months of on hold, one wonders when idyllic days will return. Recognizing that no time is free of complications, this point in history is an endless series of chaos, destruction and bad behavior by questionable humans. Greed brought us to this state, and now we swim in the muck of our own making. We take our oneness to mean self, when the planet and humanity requires us to humble our own egos in favor of healing what has been so very broken. 

Pelicans glide low and fast on their way to or from sustenance. A deer runs to the hills like a jackrabbit, nimble and appearing to fly. The fog slowly clears revealing a steely blue.   

The cool morning salt air is healing. The beach is wide and familiar. This is where I come to visit the ravens. They are always here and don't know about social distancing. It is consistently easy being in this place. I pick up rocks and shells and later find sand lining my pockets, the treasures squirreled away in backpacks, jackets or purses. Over the years, I have carried beach rocks and shells from location to location. I mostly forget their origins but never the enthusiasm with which I declared them unique and worthy of holding dear. 

When I was in grad school, I would take the N Judah to the end of the line with Ocean Beach as my destination. I would stroll until the sun sufficiently shined through the rolling fog, I could taste the salt on my skin, and I was heavy with collected charms. I would eat a hearty lunch at a beach cafe before the long ride back to my apartment. 

In more recent years, I would ride my bicycle here, along the Great Highway, stopping to document feeding or frolicking birds. I frequented my favorite coffee shop and occasionally stopped for art supplies at a shop next door. 

In times of uncertainty, this ocean, this sand, this salt air has done me an immense amount of good. The vibrant painted walls nudge my creative brain. The birds win my heart. The Cliff House on the hill and the ruins of the baths below remind me of the picture postcard aspects of San Francisco that I have examined and dissected in order to better understand my own desires. Over and over again. The horizon reminds me of the vastness of this planet earth. It is a heavy weight to put on a plot of sand and body of water. You don't choose your gold. It chooses you. Never worry if it is of the fools variety, if it is what makes you shine the brightest.