Love and the Sea and Everything in Between

chapter seven

I wake to the sound of the waves.

It takes me awhile to open my eyes and I stretch as they adjust to the brilliant morning sun. At some point last night, we crawled into the back of the van, curled up under a blanket, and fell right to sleep. Together.

Liz still sleeps beside me, her head nestled into my armpit. Her hair covers the side of her face, so I pull it back behind her ear and I just lay there, watching her sleep, her breaths slow and rhythmic. It all seems so surreal.

I startle at the sound of a tapping on the door and Liz snaps awake.

I open the door to see a man – police officer or security guard, I don't know – standing over us. "Yessir?" I ask, my voice groggy.

"Does this look like a parkin' lot to you?"

"No, sir."

"You kids need to leave. You're trespassing on private property."

"Sorry. We'll go."

"Good. I don't want to catch you here again, you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

He narrows his eyes at me. "Alright. Drive careful."

"Thank you, sir."

He leaves us and I hop out and move around to the driver's side and turn the key until the engine starts.

Liz climbs up into the passenger seat and I shift Gus into gear and drive off of the beach and back onto the road.

Liz starts laughing.

"What's so funny?" I ask with brow raised.

She just laughs harder and I sit there and then I start to laugh too. And it doesn't make sense, but it feels good.

Finally, after a long time, we catch our breath.

"Where to next?" Liz asks.

"Have you ever been to Point Reyes?"

"No, I haven't. What is it?"

"It's this tiny, beat up, old lighthouse that just sits on this cliff. I mean, it's been restored, but you can tell that it's seen a few storms. But the thing is, you have to climb up a hill and then you haven't even reached it yet because it's at the bottom of over 300 stairs. And it's like you climb all the way down just to see this tiny, beat up, old lighthouse and then you have to climb back up those 300 stairs and back down the hill.

"But, see, most people don't appreciate that tiny, beat up, old lighthouse. Most people are disappointed when they get down there to see that it's not spectacular, it's not noteworthy. It just is. But what they don't get is that this tiny, beat up, old lighthouse is just as important as any of those spectacular, new ones that are super easy to get to. Because it doesn't matter what year the lighthouse was built, or how big it is, or any of that. All that matters is that this tiny, beat up, old lighthouse brought ship after ship after ship safely to harbor."

I look at Liz, who just smiles at every word. "See, this tiny, beat up, old lighthouse should be a national monument, a memorial to every shipwrecked soul whose life was saved by the lighthouse nobody noticed."

"But the people who matter noticed," Liz says. "The people lost at sea, they noticed." She looks at me, a smile dancing on her sky-blue eyes.

"That, they did," I say.

So I drive north until we reach Point Reyes National Seashore. We park in the guest parking and make our way up the hill.

"This isn't so bad," Liz says, controlling her breaths step by step.