A vicious winter storm that originated in the cold waters of the Northern Pacific had now reached the mainland and was gnashing mercilessly at the central California coast. The steep craggy cliffs that stand like ever-vigilant sentries bore the brunt of the storms roiling fury. Along this ragged edge of the continent, the famed California Highway 1 clings precariously to these battered cliffs, hanging spectacularly above the sea as it snakes its way up the western coastline. Days of pounding surf, raging winds and non stop rain begin to take their toll as the mighty mountain walls lose grip of their smaller members and rock slides begin to litter the windy road.
It is on this storm battered highway that my soul mate and I find ourselves driving north, heading to our spiritual home in Big Sur. Safe within the confines of our auto, we ride comfortably, dry and warm. In the CD player, Van Morrison rides along as well, soothing us and setting the mood. We are so protected from the storm outside that it almost seems like a beautiful dream.
Climbing and carving our way along, the storm outside only grows more ferocious, the climate inside only more comfortable. Confidently we hug the corners, gliding in and out of the ravines and ridges, artfully dodging the stormy deposits of rocks and debris that lay in wait to dash the travel plans of any less suspecting drivers. Now about fifteen miles south of our destination, the scenery grows more astounding, the sounds of Astral Weeks fills our cabin and the reassuring glance of my lover all combine in an instant of bliss…then, BLAM!!!
The rocks jagged edge had easily cut its way through the sidewall of our right front tire, releasing all thirty-five pounds per square inch of air in one fantastic burst. I regain control and limp toward the next pull out. Coming to grips with my battered ego over this novice level drivers mistake will have to wait, for now its time to change the tire. The pull out is a muddy gravel patch on the outside of a sharp curve between the sea and the road. We limp over and park, perched above the stormy sea on a nub of buffeted coastline.
I step out and the dream storm that I had minutes before watched in comfort like a TV show is now alive and in my face. Fifty feet below, thunderous waves roll in, as large as locomotives they ceaselessly pound the cliffs face so forcefully that the rumble is felt in my chest. The wind, so cold and heavy, drives the marble size raindrops with gale force, quickly soaking me to the skin. Working in the mud, waterlogged and shivering, I begin to curse the car and myself. No use trying to avoid the mud, it’s everywhere. The manufacturer provided tools, designed specifically to do this very job of tire changing, become cumbersome and slippery. Even my hair, which is now soaked stringy and in my face, is a bother. AAARRGG!
Teetering on the brink of total discouragement, without notice, the car doors suddenly fly open, the CD player, obviously cranked to ten, is blaring Van Morrison’s Sweet Thing. My soul mate has stepped out, and in spite of the storms nastiest efforts, she begins to dance. Arms flung out from her sides, she spins and glides and pirouettes her way gracefully around the mud bog. Rather than reckoning with the storm, she welcomes the rain and wind and cold and surf, becomes a part of it.
Knowing full well that fairies inhabit this magical strip of land where the forest meets the sea, I’m forced to double take. It is she of course, my fairy, fluttering in with the grace and strength of a Grecian Goddess, here to save me from overlooking this magical moment. This moment that has us here, drenched in Mother Nature’s grandeur, together, in love, dancing to Van Morrison’s masterwork, on the most beautiful patch of land in the Earth.
It is on this storm battered highway that my soul mate and I find ourselves driving north, heading to our spiritual home in Big Sur. Safe within the confines of our auto, we ride comfortably, dry and warm. In the CD player, Van Morrison rides along as well, soothing us and setting the mood. We are so protected from the storm outside that it almost seems like a beautiful dream.
Climbing and carving our way along, the storm outside only grows more ferocious, the climate inside only more comfortable. Confidently we hug the corners, gliding in and out of the ravines and ridges, artfully dodging the stormy deposits of rocks and debris that lay in wait to dash the travel plans of any less suspecting drivers. Now about fifteen miles south of our destination, the scenery grows more astounding, the sounds of Astral Weeks fills our cabin and the reassuring glance of my lover all combine in an instant of bliss…then, BLAM!!!
The rocks jagged edge had easily cut its way through the sidewall of our right front tire, releasing all thirty-five pounds per square inch of air in one fantastic burst. I regain control and limp toward the next pull out. Coming to grips with my battered ego over this novice level drivers mistake will have to wait, for now its time to change the tire. The pull out is a muddy gravel patch on the outside of a sharp curve between the sea and the road. We limp over and park, perched above the stormy sea on a nub of buffeted coastline.
I step out and the dream storm that I had minutes before watched in comfort like a TV show is now alive and in my face. Fifty feet below, thunderous waves roll in, as large as locomotives they ceaselessly pound the cliffs face so forcefully that the rumble is felt in my chest. The wind, so cold and heavy, drives the marble size raindrops with gale force, quickly soaking me to the skin. Working in the mud, waterlogged and shivering, I begin to curse the car and myself. No use trying to avoid the mud, it’s everywhere. The manufacturer provided tools, designed specifically to do this very job of tire changing, become cumbersome and slippery. Even my hair, which is now soaked stringy and in my face, is a bother. AAARRGG!
Teetering on the brink of total discouragement, without notice, the car doors suddenly fly open, the CD player, obviously cranked to ten, is blaring Van Morrison’s Sweet Thing. My soul mate has stepped out, and in spite of the storms nastiest efforts, she begins to dance. Arms flung out from her sides, she spins and glides and pirouettes her way gracefully around the mud bog. Rather than reckoning with the storm, she welcomes the rain and wind and cold and surf, becomes a part of it.
Knowing full well that fairies inhabit this magical strip of land where the forest meets the sea, I’m forced to double take. It is she of course, my fairy, fluttering in with the grace and strength of a Grecian Goddess, here to save me from overlooking this magical moment. This moment that has us here, drenched in Mother Nature’s grandeur, together, in love, dancing to Van Morrison’s masterwork, on the most beautiful patch of land in the Earth.
posted by Unknown at 4:49 PM
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