Steinbeck’s restless ghost whispers to me as I tiptoe along a stone seawall. He steers me away from the bay back to the old sandstone churches built by native hands,
back to music festivals and artisan fairs full of mild, white cheeses and would-be novelists arguing about Henry Miller’s tropics.
But I’ve grown tired of his whispering and no longer wish to dream of these things. I would rather descend into a watery haven. I will wave goodbye to John and I will run down sandy paths that lead to the sea.
I wade into the depths and sink into a canyon where kelp shivers in underwater breezes, and the only stars I see will be suction-cupped to the rocks below.