As life rolled toward the holiday weekend, I planned to get together for an afternoon hike on Friday with my friend Emily in Marin. A few days earlier, Jeffrey wrote to me on instagram saying he was playing at Rancho Nicasio the same evening. So we decided to head to Point Reyes with her Min Pin Chloe in the back seat.
It was sunny, clear and mild on Limantour Beach. The water was as cold as usual, keeping us from doing more than skirting it with our toes, and the wind was up, but if I closed my eyes I could have been somewhere like Santa Barbara. Large flocks of Pelicans as well as a handful of Caspian Terns and a few Osprey were intently fishing the shoreline. I wondered how it was going on Hawk Hill. More than thirty years ago, when Point Reyes was more of a regular destination for me, it always seemed to be foggy and cold.
I’ve woken up more than once during the past several weeks with various dark dreads, about both larger issues — the precariousness of our democracy, about Pakistan and about Jackson, the encroaching heatwave and how little rain we've had here — and personal — what I've managed to transform and where I'm still stumbling. Is it the general after-affects of living through (and in) a pandemic or is it just me?
It’s always good to talk to a pal in times like this (and a walk on the beach is usually great medicine in and of itself), especially a similarly, creatively restless sort. Twenty years ago, Emily and I were roommates, sharing a house with another artist pal in Larkspur. Recalling where we were then from the perspective of where we were now, it was easier to see all we’d accomplished, how much of what was hard or only aspirational then, is now routine.
We were halfway back to the parking area, when a woman in a pink bikini ran out of the dune from a distance of at least 30 yards, exclaiming “oh my god, so cute! Can I pet your dog!” At first we thought something she might have been in distress. Did she need our help? We could see a man sitting on a chair near a spread of towels where she'd run from.
Instead, she fell to her knees in the sand, calling to Chloe to come closer to her. Several minutes of petting and cooing over the dog ensued.
"I'll have what she's having," Emily said as the woman returned to her towel. We could hear her laughing over the wind as we walked away. Ecstasy maybe, or A LOT of weed.
Afterwards, we headed to the restaurant venue where several guitars, bass, drums and pedal steel were set up under the trees. Another oasis of calm and good vibes in the world. Behind the instruments and picnic benches the sun was setting over Marin's rolling hills. We ordered salads and fish tacos and listened to Jeffrey Halford and the Healers while chatting about gigs and the current musical landscape. Despite everything going on, gigs and shows seem, thankfully, to be coming back.
Still, I kept forgetting it was Labor Day weekend. Ten years of hawk watching on Mondays have left me dismissing the holiday weekend. But not the rest of California (and beyond!) The sheer volume of people flocking to the coast became clearer the following day, navigating the traffic on 580 and 101 to get to a gig in Novato.
A few months ago, I had one of those seamless moments between thought and action, sitting on the patio of a newish cafe with another songwriter friend, Erica, who lived nearby. I was encouraging her to start playing her songs out — she'd been writing steadily for years. And I’ve been on a the time is now kick more than ever given my recent bouts of late-night existential dread.
"We could do a show here," I said, noticing there was a wooden stage. "I'll ask."
The staff confirmed they did do music there. I made some enquiries, wrote few emails and booked us a date.
It was hot in Novato on Saturday — in the 90s — but not as hot as it would be after the weekend. The venue positioned an umbrella in front of the stage and the majority of the audience lined the shady perimeter of the patio and astroturf. We swapped sets with Erica and by the last set the temperature had dropped to a comfortable level and things got felt loose and celebratory in the best way. A toddler-age future musician stood side-stage to study Kwame’s guitar playing. Several friends got up and danced. Erica joined us on a John Prine cover and ‘Joy’, I song I wrote with Alex Walsh more than a decade ago. A fine way to spend an early evening.
By Monday, California was really cooking. Too hot to stay on Hawk Hill for the count. It was 80 degrees by 10am, 90 by 11:30 when the tiny breeze stilled. The bay was studded with boats but few had sails up. It was hard to call it a day when the skies were so clear, but even the raptors were having none of it. A few Turkey Vultures could be seen drifting in and out of the haze on the flanks of Mt Tam; a Red-Tail flew close to the hillside as if looking for the perfect shady perch.
Temperatures were soaring into the hundreds in other parts of Marin (112, Erica wrote, in Novato), but the heat didn’t stop the hordes who I passed going the other way from coming to the Headlands. After all, it was still cooler, if not by much, at the beach.