YOU ARE SITTING IN THE PASSENGER SEAT, YOUR WINDOW half rolled down, your short hair fluttering in the wind like wildflowers. In the forty minutes or so since we got off the freeway, we’ve driven through forest, farmland, and a handful of small towns, the Russian River faithfully on our left, dotted by the occasional kayak or canoe.
“I can smell the sea,” you say, closing your eyes and inhaling deep.
I can, too. One small hill stands in the way of perfect blue sky and our destination. We are only two hours away from the city, but we are in a different world, one without billboards and crowds and traffic and noise. Cows munch grass in front of a picturesque old farmhouse. We crest the hill and the Pacific Ocean swallows the earth in front of us. I forget that I’m driving, and we fly the rest of the way to the edge of the continent.
The sand takes our toes. The sun warms our bones. We are on the edge of the world, on earth that was just born. We are new people, falling in love for the first time. Again and again and again.
“I love this emergency nap blanket,” you say. You are in my arms. We are facing the sea. Waves hypnotize us with their rhythm.
I think about the times we have spent on this blanket, all those moments we used it to make ourselves an island, which we tucked away on hidden beaches, on tops of hills, behind bushes and driftwood and gravestones. We are not hiding now, but there is a solitude, still the sense of a world that is only ours. But it is not a dangerous world. It is made out of clean sand and ocean breeze and a safe distance from the waves and riptides.
You sigh. “I wonder how long it’s going to stay wild like this, before humans fuck it up.”
You push yourself into me. We make a more perfect spoon. “Let’s not worry about that right now,” I say.
“Okay.” But after a minute, you say, “Why did God even bother making humans? We must be such huge disappointments.”
“Maybe not.”
“But we ruin everything we touch.”
“Not everything. We make music and art and write books. We love each other.”
“When did you get so optimistic?”
I squeeze you tighter. “You make me feel optimistic.”
A long-beaked bird pecks at the sand in front of us. A wave crashes inches from his little bird feet, but he doesn’t even seem to notice. He is at peace with his rough world.
“My brother had this theory that the way a person, or even an entire culture, thinks about God is the way they think about their fathers,” I say. “Like we all want God to be this kind, nurturing dude full of forgiveness and unconditional love, but what most people actually believe is that God’s this hateful, mean guy who we’ll never please no matter what we do. Either that or he’s totally absent or nonexistent.”
“That’s depressing.”
“David could be a depressing guy,” I say. “But he could also be really funny. No one’s ever made me laugh like him.”
“I wish I could have met him.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Me, too.”
After a moment, you say, “But maybe it doesn’t have to be depressing—David’s theory. Because relationships can change, right? If people can change, then maybe so can God.”
You turn around and face me. Your eyes are everything. I wrap you in my arms and bury myself in your neck. I breathe in your sweetness with the salt.
“Do you think there’s more?” you say. “More than us? More than this?”
Of course there’s more. There is a whole ocean once you get out of the bay.