We followed the salmon through the ancient forests to this rivermouth and now we are out of petrol. It is like a scene from Mad Max down here. La Warrior De La Plage. Sand blasted and abandoned outhouses, cars and trailers. ‘Fuck-off’ notes written to the authorities, decades ago in defiance of their regulations and evictions, blowing in the howling northerly winds like anarchic pray flags.
The ice in the cooler has melted. The Half and Half is sour, as it should be- a bourgeoisie luxury we must learn to live without.
We’ve got two round pin 6’6” surfboards and a couple of clammy 5mm wetsuits each and we are going to be dedicating ourselves to this ever-shifting sandbar. Waiting for that perfect A-frame to pop up again. Tube of your life or a neck-snapping dive into the shallows? - a fine line we are training ourselves to walk with a calm and dignified acceptance of both outcomes.
We know the bears and sharks are keeping a close eye on our activities and it excites us.
We’ve got a tent with a broken pole but, no worries, because, we’re squatting the abandoned and crumbling church. We’ve made good friends with the grizzled 80 year old in the airstream trailer down the way, as he waits to die.
We have supplies and fine wine that we never paid for from Mendocino- we ran rapidly south from town with the cold wind on our backs.
I’m tying this note to one of the many vultures that circle over our heads on a daily basis. I hope it finds one of you. If you are the recipient of this note, tell everyone we are OK but we are going to wait things out right here.
“It’s too bad they won’t live! But then again, who does?”