We stopped in Brookings, California as we were driving down the California Coast. We were in Puca territory. As we approached the coastal town, I am reminded that we are just a blimp in the tiny micro cosmic universe and that we could be swallowed up whole by a tsunami at any given moment. The trees are whipping branches across the roadway and we are maneuvering as diligently as we can. Signs posted warning of tsunami is common around these towns and no one seems to be quite alarmed by them as me.
I am thinking of a Godzilla movie at this point in time as we travel through town. At any given moment, Godzilla could rise up above the waters and stomp this tiny town into smithereens. Tiny dust particles. I’m also thinking about an Irish folktale of pucas. Pucas are described as shapeshifters and at this point, my mind is racing with all sorts of evil intentions. The hairs on the back of my neck are prickling their spidey sixth sense. Mythical benevolent and mischievous beings of Irish and Welsh origins. Nothing is safe here. I am reminded that we are now in Ray Bradbury’s country. Where all things stir deep within the heart and soul. Dark, lurking things made to stare at you in the dead of night.
We find a hotel room in town and settled in for the evening. I am imagining the endless night out on the waters. Fishing in these waters, winds crashing and the ocean calling my name.