“He who knows others is wise. He who knows himself is enlightened.”
~Lao Tzu
Los Angeles, California ~ Sunday, July 1, 1979
From the shoreline I watched the sun, radiant in its shimmering cloak of orange, greet a rolling wave with a kiss and slowly sink into it. I could almost feel the ocean’s embrace. The passion of opposites—fire and water—finally becoming one.
It had been an interesting year. Challenging in so many ways. Moving to Arizona. Starting classes at NAU (I was leaning toward library science. Nobody was surprised by this.) Only coming home for Christmas and for a couple of weeks early in my summer vacation. Not seeing my parents for months on end. Or Donovan.
None of us saw Gideon either, although he did send a couple of very enigmatic postcards, hinting he was still trying to decide which ribbon of highway he should ride his motorcycle down next. I suspected he’d pop in and out of our lives like the bubbles in a champagne glass for decades to come. Always keeping us guessing about what he did professionally, where he might be living, why he required such an extreme form of freedom.
I sighed and wrapped my arms around myself, imagining my brother giving me the hug I needed. But the connection and touch I craved wasn’t so easy to satisfy, and the waves were crashing closer to my feet, splashing my toes with droplets of water that were too far away from the sun to be warm.
I jumped back, stumbling a little on the wet sand with all of its unevenness and stray seaweed. But then I heard the voice I’d been waiting for—hoping for—all year long.
“Hey, Birthday Girl. Watch your step.”
Donovan.
I swiveled toward him and he caught me in an embrace so fierce it brought tears to my eyes. Or maybe it was because I was finally feeling his breath on my cheek again. Or hearing the deep strum of his vocal chords when he whispered my name. Or inhaling his scent as he pulled me even closer and kissed me. A union of salt water and body heat. Ocean and sun.
When I could gasp enough air to speak, I brushed away my tears and chided, “I’ve been waiting forever for you. I thought you’d never get here.”
He pointed toward the parking lot of the beachside hotel that he’d chosen for us to meet at tonight. Even from this distance, I could spot the distinctive crimson gleam of his Firebird Trans Am. “It was a hell of a long drive from Chameleon Lake, Aurora.”
We both laughed at that. A journey far longer than the sum of its miles, that was for sure.
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “But I’m so glad you came.”
This, too, was an understatement of massive proportions. Our plan was to celebrate my nineteenth birthday on the Pacific Coast—just for a few days, so we could finally see the cities of L.A. and Pasadena and the western end of Route 66 together—and then we were both heading to Flagstaff in Donovan’s car. To work at our summer jobs in the city. To start classes in the fall. My eager second year of college. His tentative first.
Truly, I could barely stand the anticipation. Of wanting this future. Of wanting to begin this new journey with Donovan. No matter where the road led us.
“You have all your stuff with you?” I asked him, squeezing his hand and tugging him toward a trail that led away from the shore—a different one than I’d taken on the way down here. I wanted every step we took together, from this point forward, to signal the forging of a new path. For both of us.
Donovan nodded and hugged me as we walked toward the hotel. “Everything I need.”