On somewhere far from home.

Out the train window, in between the trees, I watched a wacky waving inflatable arm-flailing tube man whip around in the Santa Ana winds. Bright orange against the sun-blasted hills, his big smile beckoning.

Doesn’t California always kind of seem impossible? I said to someone, a stranger, making conversation. They weren’t sure what I meant and I wasn’t either.

From the train to the bus and a short walk to the ocean, through the tightly packed neighborhood of pretend bohemians in their multi-million-dollar bungalows. I felt grateful, I guess, that the beach was still free.

In a dank little bathroom stall, I changed into my bathing suit. I got up to swim, leaving the seagulls to rifle through my stuff in search of snacks. When I got back, I was sure for a moment someone had stolen my things, but only the remanants of a tostilote had disappeared. Later, I found the empty chip bag, washed up in the sand.

The water itself was warm and clear. I felt the waves lift me off my feet, dove beneath them before they carried me away. Out there, silhouetted by the sun, a couple of surfers sat atop their boards, bobbing up and down on the horizon.