Ocean Sea.

Travel Writing 322. 

Take a trip.

Write about it. 

Our hotel, the Victorian Inn.

Rolling hills with immaculate green grass. Tucked in between these hills lies a valley, equally green, but flat, and housing someone’s beautifully simple, old home and a grand, majestic, paint-chipped, red barn. And right at the feet of this field: the ocean. The ocean is blue and green and grey. Her waves spilling forth her power onto a sheet of sand and crashing into the cliffs on either side of her tiny, pocket-size bay. The sound of the waves is louder than thunder but as peaceful as a good night’s sleep. And the combination of all three – the hills, the valley, and the ocean – is like a rest-assured promise land.

It is as if God, himself, was taking a morning swim across the earth, heading for the ocean. His immense and powerful shoulders bulging out of the ground, exhibiting the kind tight muscles that cause girls to go weak in the knees. His chest expounds the royalty of this humble farm and engulfs its helpless livestock. His hands reach out to cup the water that will pull him onward and finally into the ocean that is already shaking in anticipation of his long hoped for arrival.

January 2011.

Road trip to Ferndale, California.