8am. Bathing suits. Scratchy green towels. Lying on large lounge chairs with plush orange cushions. Watching the hot pool empty itself over the edge. The ocean stretches out to infinity, meeting the sky in a haze at the end of the horizon.
The water from the pool steams as it hits the air and yet it’s warm enough in the sun to lie here in just a bathing suit and towel.
I can hear Blue Jays argue with Scrub Jays over which tree they are each allowed to perch in.
We watch the lightly cloudy sky and wonder where the planes are heading.
“That one is going a bit south for Asia. Maybe Hawaii.”
“And that one looks like it’s going to LA, unless he turns up and follows the coast to San Fran or San Jose.”
The planes leave again and the skies clear. And we go back to just listening.
No cars. No kids. Relative quiet in this rich man’s paradise.
I kept taking pictures of it all. Trying to capture the beauty. But I knew even my awesome camera could not do this place justice. There’s no way to capture the smell of the ocean and the redwoods and the fires burning in the chimneys of the guest houses. There’s no way to record the telltale screech of the heinous Scrub Jay – each one transporting me back to the summer they tortured the cat in our very own yard. There’s no way to reproduce the sweet breeze. I could just take endless shots of the ocean, the mountains, the pools, the houses, and, yes, even the birds, and hope that my memory fills in the blanks.
a need for a restorative resort…
For all you foreigners, that’s Poison Oak. Don’t touch it. Ever.