Rather Suspect

I drove into the Sunset neighborhood in San Francisco earlier today, not far from the ocean, and a quiet fog enveloped everything and everyone.

What is it about fog that softens and slows life down? Achieving something in the fog feels almost pointless. Fog takes the world and transforms it into a hidden place, a childhood place.

When the fog arrives it’s best not to resist. No need to worry, no need to strive. Sit, eat, drink, relax.

I saw a young boy in a wetsuit, covered in sand, trotting along behind his father on the sidewalk. And why not? The surf doesn’t care if it’s sunny. The surf is a sort of fog itself, welcoming to young boys, welcoming to the childhood mind.

What will he remember, this boy, sixty years from now? By then his father will have passed on, into the fog. But the boy doesn’t know that yet. Right now all he knows is the salt on his lips, the sand in his hair, and that his dad took him surfing one foggy afternoon in a place where the gray water and the gray sky all blend into one.