I am left with the images of fuchsia flowers water-falling there way slowly down to PCH sprinkling the barren cliffs with colors matched only by the evenings setting sun.

The swooshing waves glisten as I notice the sparkling tiles of 34th street increase there way up as I head back down into the tunneling thoughts of that green room.

 Surf-Liners expressly blow their whistles while we keep it locally loco. Military birds chop through the air as we challenge them with Bubble Copters. A couple on vacation argues from the tunnels just after Penn  all the way to Canal were I exited with a couple who took a chance and boarded  at West 4th and found their destination one stop away. I wanted to say to the first couple that her husband was being a jerk and that you are right! “Two more stops till Brooklyn Bridge!”

 We discus the more important things in life as we try to find a comfortable balance between Vitamin-D and Skin Cancer.  We are richer than any one around and we swim in our friendships turning the ocean into our Ramada.  Like whales we return to the same great spot with the same great people year after year!

 Judgment takes it’s shoes off for a week.

 Nightly sunsets that will continually knock you off your feet, each one topping the other as more show up and travel on. A freight train breaks slowly in the night as the camp fire roars with conversation. Booming waves silenced by its sudden lurch forward as though cannons were being fired all they way down to San Clemente. We become vagabonds and imagine stowing away as Jon tells a story of a Russian train ride. We recede to our tents bare footed and sun kissed as the tide raises its voice and sings us to sleep.

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