Camera bag in hand, and tripod slung over my shoulder, I set out to capture waves, light trails, the city before it tucked in for the evening. Dress shoes clacking, flannel fringes flapping with a light drift from the sea. I steady my hat, pulling it down lower, to keep still, to cover features. A shielded face is one that cannot be easily perused by passersby. Slinking quietly, invisibly into the night is essential protection. It helps to be relatively anonymous for clear thoughts to emerge. An all too trivial hop over a low barrier and this side becomes accessible. The 101 freeway looms below, cars zipping, howling by. Setting up a tripod requires meticulous handling. A twist here, a slant there, and a lock into place. Fourteen second exposure, then ten, five, twenty two, a range of light intently introduced. Neon trails manifest themselves in variable quantities, evidence that this route has been thoroughly traversed. Beach Fossils's "Closer Everywhere" dances in the background of my consciousness. I have acquired what I came here for. Within the camera or within myself? A walk to the pier is especially inviting, tantalizing even. Along the shore, the waves hardly feral, driftwood with a view. Resting flush to the sand, I lean carefully backwards, in one thought detritus at a standstill, in another a natural seat from which to watch the evening's proceedings. Left and beyond the pier a bolt strikes the water. A fantastical purplish flash - and gone. Just as soon as it arrived into this world. Electrons liberated, connecting sky and sea. One foaming, both roiling and unkept. Stricken by a desire to unite, albeit briefly. Repetitively, intermittently, with a tantric quality. Rather than shy away, I continue onwards for an ideal vantage point. Above the shore, where cresting saltwater meets pulverizing granules, I set up shop, solidifying movement at thirty second intervals. Two twenty-somethings with beers in hand approach, "Are you a photographer?". "Something like that" I say in a coy manner. I oblige to their request for a snapshot in the moment. One procures my number, for the purpose of receiving the final product of course. Despite a refusal to accept cash compensation, a wad of bills has been subtly tucked in my open bag. No luck immortalizing the storm here, onto the next point. A blinding zap dead-center, at the end, the wooden terminus, where the vastness is perceptible, the horizon worth scanning, clouds, jet-black glassy surface below, offering a guess at the next junction between mediums. Drops start, then a smattering, now a full-blown offering. A life sustaining storm, an opening of the heavens, the storm suddenly at its crescendo. Rain generously offers a fresh coating to parched surfaces, seeping everywhere it can, inhabiting novel places for a time. "Are You Reelin' In the Years?" Steely Dan implores. Finally, the drumbeat settles, a sigh away from losing control. The waves continue terminating at their usual destination. Still no depiction of the storm via artificial lens rendering, perhaps another opportunity, the next wild, wind-whipped night. It isn't always about securing the ideal shot. An ounce of perfection is rare as can be. Otherwise prone to losing value, to being taken for granted. Internalized peace and reflection in the process is truly sought after. I am always at the right place at the right time, doing my best work, no less. Feels like the right context to call it a night, a lovely one, more than I could ask for, the highlights found in the simple moments. Ambrosia is tasked with closing out the evening. The hotel elevator dings, the doors seal, lifting me to rest that awaits.
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