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.
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.
