I spent yesterday on a boat.
I saw the frigate birds and Nazca boobies soar and wheel over Kicker Rock, and a blue-footed booby perch precariously on a nest halfway up its nearly sheer cliff-face.
I saw the maelstrom churning through the honeycomb of rocks at its base.
I saw sea lions: sleek and elegant in the water, not the clumsy clowns they are on land.
I rode over dark navy waves, the color of the Pacific near my home.
I snorkeled and swam in waters as turquoise as those of the Caribbean at Key West, and saw parrot fish and damsel fish dart and scatter below me.
I saw a sea turtle pop its head out of the water a dozen feet away from me, take a look around, and slide back under the waves.
I dozed on a bed of ice-plant, and sand soft as fine sugar and pale gold as morning sunshine.
I saw dolphins cavorting in the boat’s wake, and shearwaters forming an avian honor guard as their flocks escorted us.
I swam in the ocean for the first time in far too long — I had forgotten the feel of the silky water on my skin, and the briny aromas on my nose. (I had forgotten too, if I ever knew, the unforgiving nature of lava rocks.)
I grew up a creature of the ocean, of wind and wave. I live now in cities of metal and glass, not even visiting the sea that lies ninety minutes from me. Yesterday was coming home.
Yesterday was a very good day.