So the trip finally happened.
The once planned three week road trip from Boston to San Francisco, in an attempt to replicate the steps of the Byrnes and Masterson troupe, was finally planned and consolidated to a one week melee of absolute insanity.
And I had a blast.
Several glitches led to a late flight the Saturday, whirlwind tour of Boston on Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, flight Wednesday, with Thursday, Friday and Saturday in San Francisco, with an early flight Sunday.
What. A. Week.
The thing that stuck with me the most from the whole thing – not the Yankees vs Bosox game, not the humpback whales in the middle of the Atlantic ocean, not the late night Pho trip or climbing Lombard street or riding a street car or traversing the Golden Gate Bridge or visiting Alcatraz at night – the thing that’s haunted my thoughts every day since – the surreal coast of California at sunset. The wind howling. The foam from the crashing gilded waves rising into the sky with every heartbeat of the ocean. Every grain of sand silhouetted against the drifting dunes. The islands rising from the surf. The ever-present sensation that the fog will roll in and engulf you from the distance – and yet never does. I believe it’s the closest I will ever feel to being on another planet – and it’s a sensation I want to capture.
It’s the yearning. The wanderlust.
I’d drop everything in a heartbeat for another hour of that wild, racing fury.
If I can even pour a portion of this into Book 2, I will feel that years of work will be worth it.