It was time. Time for another weekend away from email, social media, texts, phone calls, TV, Netflix, Amazon Prime, Showtime, traffic, pavement, unnecessary conversations. And I got it in spades.
I checked myself into rehab in the form of the The Montara Lighthouse Hostel, where for $35 a night I got a comfortable bunk in a shared women's dorm with a view of, and more importantly, the sound of the ocean pouring in from the window. I connected acoustically to members of my own species, who also had a need for connection. A 24-year old woman camping her way up the coast was treating herself to a night in a real bed with an ensuite bathroom. She reminded me of my camping trip up the coast in my 24th summer. After preparing supper, side-by-side in the communal kitchen, we headed to the beach and spoke in that candid way that one does when the possibility of ever meeting again is remote. A last supper of words. The next morning, a German woman provided me with a proper English teabag, as I had left mine at home. She came to surf. That evening I asked a young man if he wanted to walk down the cliffs to the beach after dinner. It was his third visit to the hostel and he had never gone down the path. I showed him the tidal pools and caves that I had found early that morning, at the other low tide. He wore a t-shirt that said "Free Hugs."
Had I opted for more "luxurious" accommodation, where a sea view would have set me back several hundred dollars, I would have been lonely; I might have been tempted to check my messages or dip in to Facebook, rather than slip into that childhood innocence that asks, "Do you want to go outside and play?"
How to walk on water.