Jersey has its shore. Here, in California, it’s the coast, and it’s rocky and wild, even in the most inhabited places. The rocks are monolithic boulders topped with a drizzle of bird guano like a sea sundae, cormorants as cherries. Pelicans move in groups aross grey skies with a movement neither clumsy nor graceful, but merely miraculous. Look out upon the water as waves crash in, the great breathing rhythm of an immortal earth, and see surfers and sea lions. The air is damp, the eucalyptus leaves falling from the trees as the west coast monarchs find their way to their wintering grounds. A friend has dove into the waters here and tells me of flying through underwater kelp forests with the sea lions. I am moving quickly, hardly in a place for more than a day or two on this trip, and I too feel like i am flying.