On a February evening at Huntington’s beach—where this quarter mile pier arches out past the breaking waves, and where you’re reminded of California’s beach kitsch by tee-shirt kiosks and fob hawkers, and burgers and Coke at Ruby’s, and acres of volleyball nets and surfer music and surfboards stuck in sand like gravestones—you can hear the sizzle and hiss of the sun’s bottom touching the Pacific.
And in the space of a few quivering minutes the sea consumes the same sun it birthed.
And if you stand close to the edge of the pier, so close that Ruby’s diner and Jan and Dean dissolve, you’ll find yourself suspended, hung-up over the ocean by a fibre of light, just you three, in solution—you, the sun and the sea.
And nothing comes clear, the green streak is still a rumour of elves, the sun keeps its secrets and the sea digests its whodunits and the dark takes hold, and you are left only with the hope of sunrise. Always the sunrise. And as you sink into faith’s ancient habit, this will be enough for you over the next few interminable hours.
