Vignette: 24 Hours in Half Moon Bay

Outside, the seagulls cry. The foghorn sings and we open our eyes. We’ve snoozed the alarm a half a dozen times. It’s finally time to get out of bed.

We pull our blanket aside and reveal a blossoming sunrise. Mist lingers on the hills. Small waves tirelessly pound the jetty. Little blackbirds litter ground and linger, chirping.

I lean over the bed and see Buddy. He’s upside down, cozied in his cave.

I peer out of the tinted kitchenette windows. The morning colors are invigorating. The sun’s up, and I don’t want to get left behind.

We fire up the Jet boil. Steam clouds the windows. They sweat against the cold air outside. 

We sit for a while and talk about things we need to buy to complete our home. I pop in my contacts and I’m awake, ready to take on the day.

We lock up the van and scamper across the highway. “Just two vagrants,” I say. 

Across the road, we grab two coffees and breakfast sandwiches at a local cafe. It’s nested in a hardware store. Good Morning America is blaring in the background.

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The highway bustles as the morning stretches on. We manage to cross back over to our oceanside spot. The van looks like a dwarf among giant RVs.

Richmond grabs his board and throws on his wetsuit. It’s small but surfable. He hops across the tumbled rocks and into the blue. He times his leap between the sets.

I watch as he looks for the best catches. The seagulls watch him too. Buddy and I return to the van. We sit in silence and listen to the world outside of our little cabin on wheels.

I pull out my notebook and write. Buddy snoozes. Richmond surfs. The sun filters through the clouds, through the kitchenette window, onto my paper. 

It’s a beautiful morning.