Finding Fluff

For the holidays each year, our family rents a house in Northern California instead of gifts. No infested malls, no fretting over gift ideas and no maintenance of facial expressions during the unwrapping. The house this year was an incredible split level Obie Bowman (it’s advertised, he must be famous) house. The kitchen was on the second floor, coffee machine next to a window wall of ocean.

Weather all week was typical, some rain, some sun, wind. The last night, a crazy storm. Why are all crazy storms in the dark? I guess it is better, as we couldn’t see the waves about to eat the house. Around 2am, my sister tapped me.

“Mom and Dad’s bedroom is leaking; they are coming to stay in my room.”

“Leaking?” I was up. I guess I was never asleep. Just hovering in the alert sleep zone (aleep) should a tree not so politely knock on the two windows inches from my head.

We scampered around the house. Checking doors, windows, other drip zones. We rearranged the pots and pans in my parent’s bedroom. Four different leaks. I felt sad for the house. We secured our wood friend and fell asleep

The next morning, I woke up and my sister up was in the corner of the house taking photos. Thousands of white cotton like shapes were shooting out from the ocean. It was sea foam, churned up by the storm and blowing merrily over the bluff. We all stood over white ocean pot, missing the perfect gust every time we headed back. Flying foam is incredibly hard to photograph.

I’m trying to conclude, but I guess this isn’t a story. I just liked that a wicked storm created a pod of floating softness. Like the planet laughing, "See I not that scary."