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.
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.
