This was written on Sunday afternoon, while in Capitola, a little town next to Santa Cruz.

I'm sitting on a boulder against a cliff of the Capitola Beach. If I could, I would sit out here all day. This is a personal retreat, a chance for solitude. Nobody here knows me. They don't know my worries, aspirations, likes or dislikes. Nobody cares if I write in this notebook, read a book or stare at the surf.

It is a comfortably cool and breezy day. The waves come rolling in, their roar building as they approach. Some simply fizzle and subside, while others bombard the shore. Surfers in wet suits ride the swells. Men and women lay out on the beach. About fifty feet away, a young woman sits on another boulder and sketches the scenery. A dog scampers away from the incoming tide, only to turn around and chase the water back out as it retreats.

There are so many days when I feel to be alone is to be incomplete. But sitting here by myself, I don't feel less than whole. This solitude is precious and desired. How many more weekends will I have like this one? How many more chances will I have to escape to places like this, before my life becomes too complicated, overtaken by other obligations?

It is such a beautifully clear day. I can smell the salt in the air. Skimboarders run along the sand, chasing after the receding waves and gliding across the thin film of water left behind. Families come and go. The sea of people is constantly changing like the ocean itself. How I wish I could stay, but it's getting late and I must go too.