The other night, squatting on a log on the beach, my back to the booming surf, my face to the bonfire, I was buttonholing my dear friend Joy with my belief in the mystical complexities of the world that some attribute to a God.
I was very drunk.
The gist of my ramble was this: the Southern California house I grew up in was but a mile from the beach, but between the two was the busy Pacific Coast Highway, drowning out the ocean’s sound. But on certain late nights I’d lie in bed with the windows open and across the distance would come the deep thrumming boom of big surf. To this day I can’t hear that sound without a wash of nostalgia not unlike the swash of the surf up the sand.