By Louie Ferrera

Mitch, Andy and I are as close as friends can be. We’ve shared  countless blissful times together over the course of our more than three decade friendship. Our annual boy’s weekends are much anticipated touchstones in our lives. The following is an account of one such day on a recent trip.

It was a day unlike any of the other days that we’ve spent together throughout the ten year history of our boy’s weekends. We were in the flow, moving like a well oiled machine through the streets of beachside San Diego. We were in love with everyone and everyone was in love with us.

It’s 8:00am and the guy behind the counter of the mom and pop market near our rental is all smiles. He beams at us as he rings up our sale (one stick of butter). There’s something about his sunny attitude and this brief encounter that sets the tone for the day. Across the street is a coffee shop that occupies a narrow storefront between two larger buildings. Andy needs more coffee so we head over. I hear “Go Giants” and look down to see Maddy a Bay Area transplant who notices my Giants cap, recognizing me as a kindred spirit. Her brilliant, toothy smile and bright blue eyes are framed by perfectly straight copper colored hair that falls past her shoulders. Maddy was at one of the most legendary games in Giants history: Matt Cain’s perfect game in 2012. She was ten, I was watching the game with my family in Hawaii. The energy around us among the small gaggle of customers waiting for their coffee is vibrant, all things seem possible. The barista is Maddy’s friend, she’d dispensing caffeinated drinks with purpose and a smile on her face. Mitch chats up a guy whom he has a Sayulita, Mexico connection with, it’s one of those small world things. Andy gets his coffee and we cruise back to our place, buoyed by the promising start to our day. We can feel that special things are in store.

Once back home, we team up to make the perfect breakfast: cheesy eggs with Italian sausage and English muffins. When the clock strikes 10, out comes the tequila. Glasses are clinked and shots are consumed as we toast to another day of brotherly love and adventure. We light a “Goldilocks” joint; not too weak, not to stoney but just right and float out the door with no agenda in mind, our only plan is to put our good energy out into this quiet, overcast morning and see where it leads us.

Everyone we encounter becomes a supporting player in our little movie: the guy in the market and the folks at the coffee shop  and now our Uber driver. He’s a grizzled but jovial fellow of around 60 with a thick eastern European accent. A weathered Padres cap is perched at a jaunty angle atop his head. His Prius is still chugging along at 425 thousand miles. Mitch, Andy and I slip into our routine, playing ping pong with quips, jokes and good natured abuse. The driver slides right in there with us, his joyous cackle of a laugh fills the air inside his little rattletrap of a car. 

After a short ride, we wash up in Ocean Beach (OB). This funky little beachside community is like a Berkeley by-the-sea without the darkness and anger. The main  drag is peppered with thrift stores, curio shops, dive bars and locally owned eateries. A “freak freely” vibe permeates the air. Our first stop is a surf shop where we pick up two new cast members. Lizzie and Michaela are sweet, funny and full of life. We get into this absurd routine with them about Mike’s Taco Club. Mike’s is a taqueria down the block that we had tried on a previous trip. It’s a mediocre eatery and the epitome of “gringo” Mexican cuisine. We couldn’t figure out why it was so crowded. Mike’s has been the butt of our jokes ever since. But Lizzie and Michaela love it, especially the “Cali burrito” with french  fries inside. None of us could figure out why  Mike’s is called a “club”. The girls know all of their lines and so do we, it’s all so hilarious. Older gents like us rarely get to interact in any meaningful way with twenty-somethings like these two girls. Their goofy energy and willingness to go along with our silliness pushes us forward.

The pale green neon sign of Pacific Shores has just been lit, signaling that it’s finally noon and opening time for one of OBs oldest dive bars. Inside it’s dark and deserted. We’re the first customers and are greeted  from behind the bar by busty and bouncy redhead Anna. We settle onto our stools, order a round of Bloody Mary’s and the banter begins. Anna is funny and sharp witted and slips right into our routine. She knows how to handle goofy drunk guys like us. No celery? No problem. Mitch heads to the store to buy a stalk while Anna fixes our drinks; her saucy attitude, crimson hair and low cut, bright red tank top fuels our imaginations. Next up is Joe. Into the bar he strolls looking dapper in a rumpled grey suit with a wide, pale blue tie and a matching triangle of  handkerchief peeking out from his breast pocket. His sandy colored hair spills out from under a natty straw fedora and reaches to the middle of his back. His electric blue eyes are alive with mischief. Joe is an attorney celebrating a successful morning in court with a glass of white wine. He’s a regular at Pacific Shores, he and Anna chat amiably. Joe lives most of the year in Argentina and was once a stand up comic. He’s a raconteur supreme and keeps the stories and one-liners flowing. If I were in trouble, I’d definitely want this guy beside me in court. I just take it all in happy to be a supporting player. We stay for another round of bloody’s, blinking in the bright, early afternoon light as we exit the bar.

The flow that we’re in right now is simply incredible. Neither of us want to say anything about it for fear of breaking the spell. We’re in love with everyone and everyone is in love with us has become our mantra for the day. Over the course of our more than three decades friendship, Mitch, Andy and I have built up quite a repertoire. Being out in public and roping strangers into our movie is what we do best. People pick up on our camaraderie and love for one another and are all too happy to join in on the fun. We cast a wide net and shine a light on everyone who falls within it. Today everything feels effortless. We’re good vibe merchants, our mission is to spread the joy.

By now we’re really floating and decide it’s time for a cannabis booster so we stroll the three blocks to the beach and light up. The ocean is slate grey  and calm, a derelict pier juts out from where we sit. The surf is mellow, a handful of surfers swish back and forth across the face of small waves. On this overcast day, usually sunny San Diego is subdued and the perfect fit for our stoned state of mind.

With the booze and the weed comes the munchies so to a highly recommended sandwich shop we go next. Pomo is old school OB, an unassuming little box of a building. This no frills eatery serves up scrumptious sammies that we would soon devour. Mitch never looked up from his meatball sub while Andy and I were digging on authentic Italian “hoagies”. While waiting for our order we strike up a conversation with sweet young Chula. She’s all dreadlocks, olive skin and 100 watt smile with a personality to go with it. She’s got two guys in tow, Andy makes a connection with one of them who it turns out has spent some time in Bend, Oregon where Andy lives. This comes as no surprise considering the charmed and serendipitous nature of our day so far. We banter back and forth with Chula and her boys, they slip effortlessly into our movie. We are magnets for happy people and loving vibes and continue on, high on the symbiosis of it all.

It’s been like 20 minutes since our last cocktail so our next destination is the North Shore Tavern, a watering hole recommended by Chula. In contrast to the dark dive bars we usually frequent on our trips, North Shore is airy and modern with large doors that open to the outside. My canine loving companions spy a booth of thirty-somethings enjoying drinks with their dog in tow and head over to introduce themselves. Instead of playing pool (we only manage one drunken game) we spend the better part of the next hour and a half drinking and laughing with this merry crew half our age and become fast friends. California native Jordan, a chill and smiling young man with a scruffy beard and an unkempt head of hair is flanked by sisters Natalie and Erica who are transplants from Kentucky. Erica’s riveting, dark-rimmed blue eyes and angular face are reminiscent of Meryl Streep. As it turns out, Jordan was once a student at a middle school where Andy was once assistant principal. The rapport flows and so do the drinks. All three of these young folks are bright and witty,  the conversation never lags. Their pal Lilly shows up later, her goofy persona and ready smile adds an extra dose of silliness to the proceedings. After numerous selfies are dutifully taken we say our goodbyes and let the wind take us where it will.

By now it’s late afternoon and I’m feeling ready to dial up the Uber and head back to our rental. However Mitch has other ideas and suggests we take one last walk down to the beach. We get there and voila, there’s Jamm, a quartet of young guys putting on an impromptu concert from the back of their pick up truck. So we get stoned again (why not?). These kids are really playing their hearts out. The three of us exchange stoned smiles and get into the groove with the band. We hear a familiar riff and just like that the band is into the Grateful Dead gem Help On The Way. No one is singing so I jump up there. The guys in the band give me nods of approval, I grab the mic and sing a couple of verses before they noodle off into another jam. Can this day possibly get any better?

Our penultimate Uber of the day takes us away from OB and to a nondescript Ethiopian restaurant near downtown. The dining room is a completely unadorned box of white cinderblock walls. A huge tv sits in one corner playing Ethiopian music videos. It’s a surreal scene. After a short wait,  a delicious platter of vegetarian entrees and injera bread (injera is to Ethiopian cuisine what tortillas are to Mexican) is placed before us which we hungrily devour. After dinner we head home, happy, sated and elated.

Have you ever had a day like this? If so, then you know how very rare and precious they are. Every decision we made today was the right one. Actually, it was more like the decisions were being made for us and we were just along for the ride. All of the people we interacted with today seemed to sense that they were part of something special. They picked up on our happiness and added their own positivity and good vibes to the mix until we were all part of one big feedback loop of joy. Hopefully, dear reader, you’ve gotten some sense of how effortlessly special this day was for me and my two brothers from other mothers. But in the end, you really just had to be there.

By Louie Ferrera

In a world thoroughly trampled on by humans, “secret” places are hard to come by. A couple of months ago I found one such spot just off the trail here at Riverfront Park

Riverfront is one of the more popular of the regional parks in Sonoma County. The location of my secret spot is just a short distance off of a heavily traveled trail. This trail is wide, 15-20ft, and circles picturesque and oval shaped Lake Benoist. The lake is ringed by willows, bay laurel and small oak trees which provide excellent habitat for a variety of songbirds. The lake’s surface is typically placid and glass-like, broken only by a handful of ducks or the occasional angler in a self propelled boat.

I was strolling this trail on a cool and overcast afternoon last February when I heard the distinctive squawk of a Great Blue Heron. I looked up and watched it disappear into the forest to the left of the trail. Then I saw another, and another. After watching four or five of these majestic birds fly into the forest I decided to do a little bushwhacking and investigate. The further I walked, the more birds  I saw and heard. I soon found myself in a small grove of second growth redwood trees, each one 100 feet tall or more and each one topped with one or more huge osprey-like nests, only these weren’t osprey nests, they were heron nests. I had stumbled upon an extensive Great Blue Heron rookery! I tried to do a count and came up with at least a dozen nests, all of them large enough to fit a human infant. This spot was the center of frenzied activity. Birds were everywhere above me, coming, going, making a racquet and building their nests. I had the feeling that no one but myself knew of the existence of this magical place. I was truly in awe and felt blessed by my discovery. Some of the nests were occupied by what I assumed to be female herons. Were they getting ready to lay their eggs? Had they already done so? When do heron eggs hatch anyway? I’d get my answer a couple of months later.

Fast forward to today, April 6 . It’s a glorious blue sky day, cool and clear. The willows and oaks are all leafing out, the signs of spring are everywhere. There are no birds or anglers on the lake. Its coffee colored surface is smooth and glass-like, marred only by ripples from the occasional breeze. I’ve got my binoculars in hand, doing a slow crawl down the trail and observing birds. I breathe deeply of this clean, crisp air, reveling in the beauty of a fine spring morning. When I arrive at the spot off the trail where I found the rookery, I decide to head into the forest for a look. The bird activity wasn’t as frenzied as it was back in February but I did see several herons flying above me and activity in the nests too. But what really catches my eye isn’t above me, but at my feet. Young thimbleberry, poison oak and ferns dot the forest floor and are covered in white splotches of bird poop. Everywhere I look there are partial shells, pale blue and the size of chicken eggs. My guess is that after the young herons hatched the moms did a little housecleaning and tossed the empty shells out of the nest. The air is alive with the duck-like honking of young herons. I could feel the energy of all the new life that surrounded me. It was pretty spectacular! I realized that I was witnessing something that not very many people ever get to. I take a few minutes to explore, collecting a nearly intact empty shell as a souvenir. I’m not sure if the herons perceived me as a threat but I didn’t want to take a chance on stressing them out so I hightailed it out of there and continue my walk around the lake.

I may or may not really be the only person who knows the whereabouts of this rookery but what I do know is, while I was there today listening to the young birds and wandering among their discarded shells, it felt special and like a place out of time. For now, it’s my secret place and I’m going to keep it that way.  

By Louie Ferrera

Our plum tree is almost completely dead, but instead of mourning its loss, we’ve reimagined what a tree could be.

Somehow a small cluster of branches at the center of the tree have managed to bloom this spring. Tiny white blossoms have given way to slender green leaves. Who knows, with a bit of luck we may even get an actual plum or two this year. In its heyday this tree cast a wide shadow beneath it and in peak years produced more succulent Santa Rosa plums than we could handle. Our family had their fill, as did the squirrels and the birds. A sweet, warm plum enjoyed on a hot summer day is an experience that everyone should have at least once in their lifetime. Cracking open a jar of Carol’s homemade plum jam in the midst of a cold, wet winter is to manifest summer itself. You can taste the sunshine and the feel of a lazy July afternoon in each bite.

To everything there is a season and so it goes for our plum tree. At some point, sooner than later, this tree will bloom no more. Nothing lasts forever. We celebrate our dear old tree and feel deep gratitude for the bounty of fruit that it has given us over the years. Now our tree has transitioned from fruit bearer to ornament bearer. Rather than morn its dead, moss covered boughs, Carol and I have chosen to adorn them. From its branches now hang bird feeders, sun spinners, solar lights and wind chimes. What could easily be a sad and forlorn sight has been transformed into a celebration of sound, motion, color and light. A variety of seed eating birds find sustenance  at the feeders. The tree comes alive whenever the wind blows. The spinners dance in the sunshine and at night the lights glow with energy gathered from the sun. When our kids were fledgling rock climbers, they used this tree as their first climbing gym. A few of their makeshift  handholds still hang from its branches. So you see, our dear old plum  tree lives on; a microcosm of birth, death and renewal.

Four mugs hang like silent sentries, standing guard over the coffee maker. They are led by my long time morning companion Blue Mug. Blue, sturdy and thick walled, is the leader of the pack. Its handle spans the entire length of the mug from lip to base. This mug is glazed a bright royal blue, the design on the front a stylized sunburst that resembles a sunflower. An asymmetrical array of petals radiate out from a dark brown center where a simple face is etched in fine lines. On the other side is a similarly stylized crescent moon, pale yellow with a face etched in profile. Irregular orange flame-like shapes radiate from the back side of the crescent. It looks like the moon is on fire. Numerous four-pointed yellow stars adorn the entire surface of the mug. I’m right handed so when I hold it I only see the sunburst, almost forgetting about the moon around the corner.

Last year I dropped Blue onto the granite countertop in our kitchen. I was dismayed when I noticed a thin crack had appeared. When I filled it with coffee and set it down, a tiny brown puddle spread out from the bottom. Was this the end of a long and fulfilling relationship? When ceramic objects like this crack or break, repair is often futile. But I felt I owed it to Blue to at least attempt a fix. I applied a thin bead of all purpose glue along the crack on the outside surface and waited. The next morning I poured my coffee…no puddle! From that day on, every day with Blue has been a gift.

I can’t recall how long I’ve had this mug. Ten years? Fifteen? But I do know that a thousand mornings have begun with this mug in my hands, it’s been the vessel for a thousand steaming cups of coffee. Blue is quite heavy as mugs go. The smoothness of its surface and its heft feel good in my hands. When filled with coffee, the heat from the liquid enhances the grounding effect I feel while holding it. Blue Mug has such presence! As inanimate objects go, it’s quite commanding. Blue stands out and begs to be noticed. That’s probably what happened when I purchased it. Perhaps in some subliminal sort of way Blue was saying to me; “Buy me! Take me home with you! If you give me a chance I know I can become an integral part of your life.” Well, I did and it has.

If you’re a hot morning beverage drinker you understand the importance of the delivery system for your drink of choice. The mug is an essential part of the ritual. I take my morning coffee seriously, not just any mug will do. For as long as I can remember, it’s been me and you Blue. Together we can rise to any challenge, face any adversary. With you in my hands even the most daunting task will seem like a walk in the park…just as long as you’re filled to the brim with coffee.

By Louie Ferrera

Carol and I left for the Sierras on a rainy Wednesday before dawn, returning home after three days of snow and bitter cold to brilliant sunshine and a warm breeze that said, “Spring is here!” with every jingle of our wind chimes. To finally get a clear, dry day after such a gloriously wet winter, I could see how the angle of the sun had shifted and noticed the difference in the quality of light. Our planet was tilting closer and closer to the sun, a little every day. Our backyard had undergone a magical transformation, seemingly overnight.

Tiny green leaves had begun to appear on the ends of the bare branches of our plum and apple trees. The cherry trees were bursting with popcorn-like flowers. Uncountable numbers of buds were making their initial appearances on the oak tree that will soon shade our front yard. The grass suddenly needed to be cut. Wasps were beginning to construct their nests. Eventually I’ll go out under cover of night and destroy them but for now I just chalk up their renewed activity as an inevitable part of spring. Pink jasmine vines climb 25 feet into the air, reaching nearly to the tops of and covering two cypress trees. Thousands of blossoms are about to burst forth in a dazzling display of fragrance and springtime exuberance. 

And the flowers! Freesias; white, yellow, red and even a few blue ones, were blooming everywhere. Of all the springtime flowers, this one is my absolute favorite. Their heady fragrance is evocative and fleeting and an essential marker of spring. The smell of freesias always brings me back to that girl with the curly red hair and blue eyes who came to the door when I picked her up for our one and only date with a sprig of yellow freesias tucked into her hair. I don’t remember her name or where we went on that date but I always think of her when the freesias are in bloom.

Last spring I poached an African daisy plant from a yard in our neighborhood and planted it. It flourished but produced no flowers. This year is a different story. This ground hugging plant now covers six square feet and is bursting with mulit-petaled flowers; white with purple centers. Patience pays off as nature does what it will do all in its own time. Yellow daffodils, purple and white hyacinth, multi-colored tulips, purple and yellow primrose, and pale blue forget-me-nots all add their brilliant colors to the springtime palette. Lavender and white irises are next up to bloom, hints of their blossoms are already beginning to emerge. If Diego Rivera were alive today, he’d be in my backyard painting the huge clusters of milky white calla lilies that grow beneath our kitchen window.

Throughout my tenure as an elementary school teacher, I received many sweet end-of-the-school-year gifts, from “I❤️ My Teacher” coffee mugs to bottles of wine and everything in between. Two of my most cherished gifts bloom every year in our backyard. One is a now six-foot high hydrangea bush that produces softball size purple and white flowers. The other is a lily that blooms in late spring with large bell-shaped, salmon colored flowers. Talk about gifts that keep on giving!

Somewhere along the Pacific Flyway the Hooded Oriole, Western Tanager, Rufous Hummingbird and various tiny yellow warblers are slowly making their way to our neighborhood. I listen for their calls and anticipate the brilliant flashes of color and song they will bring to the surroundings. Of all the signs of spring, the birds are my favorite. The oriole nests atop my next door neighbor’s towering fan palm tree. Spring truly arrives for me when I first see it perched up there shining in the morning sun.

Of course many of the springtime metaphors of rebirth and renewal manifest themselves in the beginning of baseball season. As I write this, major leaguers are tuning up in the Arizona and Florida sunshine, with the start of the regular season just days ahead. You can rest assured that I’ll be in the stands at Oracle Park cheering on my beloved San Francisco Giants. Welcome spring indeed!

By Louie Ferrera

On March 6th our precious twins turned twenty. I wrote them a letter.

Dear Sam and Denali,

So how on Earth did you both manage to turn twenty? The moment of your birth was a watershed event for your mom and I and without a doubt the greatest day in our lives. Two decades later and I can still picture many of the details from that morning with surprising clarity. They’re all there: the sounds of your cries, first Denali then six minutes later Sam, your tiny red bodies covered with streaks of blood and a powdery white residue, your clenched fists and closed eyes, the way you both writhed atop those heated tables under the blinding light of the operating room at Kaiser. You looked so fragile and helpless. I remember asking one of the pediatricians, “Can I touch them?” Her reply, “Well, they’re your kids aren’t they?” There were so many people in the room that morning, all there to make sure you were brought safely into the world. You were just minutes old, I stood there speechless with wonder, letting the moment fully wash over me and wanting to take in every last detail. I was exhausted from a sleepless night but wired on adrenaline. Throughout her pregnancy mom and I anticipated and prepared for this moment only to realize that it was nothing like we had expected it to be. Nothing could have prepared me for the flood of emotions that I experienced meeting you both for the first time.

We were a brand new family and spent the next four days together in the hospital getting acquainted with one another. I did all of the “heavy lifting” as mom was recovering from a C-section. The four of us went for daily walks up and down the halls of the maternity ward. You were side-by-side inside a wheeled basket that squeaked as we strolled along. What a sight we must have been. I only went home to shower, feed the cat and bring in the mail. Our room at the hospital had this funky fold-out kind of couch/bed which I “slept” on. I use quotes here because neither of us did much actual sleeping. You’d cry, mom and I would wake up. We’d change you, feed you and go back to sleep as quickly as possible, twice each night. I became a diaper changing expert in a hurry. Wake, change, feed, sleep… This was a pattern we would become all too familiar with until you were toddlers.

As you know, mom’s birthday is four days after yours. That was the day we took you home. We emerged from the hospital into a blindingly brilliant March afternoon. The nurse and I strapped you into twin infant car seats, handling you like fine porcelain. I drove the two miles to our house about as slowly and cautiously as was humanly possible. It was an absolutely stellar day; warm and sun splashed, the sky as blue as your infant eyes. Trees were beginning to leaf out, daffodils and tulips bloomed, the hillsides were awash in golden mustard flowers. After four days in the hospital the world was simply aglow!

After what seemed like an eternity I finally pulled the Saturn station wagon into our driveway. You were still fast asleep in your car seats which mom and I unhooked and carried inside. Friends of ours had left a bag of groceries in the entryway which came in handy later that day as neither of us had energy to prepare a meal. Your crib was in our room. We gingerly laid you down then crawled under the covers of our deliciously comfy bed, our sleep deprived bodies grateful for its warmth and familiarity. We were home. We were together. We were a family.

Love,

Dad

By Louie Ferrera

The serendipity of a beach structure always makes me smile. I can see the spontaneity in its design, the helter skelter randomness in the way the various materials were used to construct it. There may have been a conscious effort on behalf of the builders to come to the beach and erect it, but most likely it was created on a whim. “Here’s all this flotsam and jetsam stretched out along the high tide line, we have the waves and the wind and the shorebirds as our audience, the sand is our canvas. Let’s build something.” When our kids were little, building a structure was usually a part of any day at the beach. It was always a spur of the moment decision though, based upon the materials at hand. Our creations were never too elaborate or very sturdy but they were ours. When completed, we’d step back and admire them with pride.

I love the ephemeral nature of  beach structures, they’re not meant to last. No matter how solid you think the construction is, winter storms, high tides and wind will eventually dismantle it and carry the pieces out to sea, back from where they came. Typically a beach structure is some type of shelter; a lean-to or three walled construction open in front with a crude roof. I’ve seen everything from simple benches to wildly improvisational sculptures that seem to have been well thought out and assembled by visual artists or engineers. Mostly though I believe these structures are simply spontaneous creations inspired by the freedom and beauty of a windswept beach.

The materials found in a beach structure vary wildly, they can’t be bought at Home Depot. The basis of anything created at the beach is wood: scraps of lumber, broken palettes, tree branches and tree trunks; wood so bleached and weathered it’s impossible to discern its origin. Of course there are styrofoam floats, rope, plastic bottles and buckets, feathers, fishing poles, animal bones, long strands of bull kelp, shells. The list goes on. My favorite object was an old metal ammunition box which I found beside a crudely constructed hut. Inside was a journal filled with poetry and prose; heartfelt musings on life, love and nature. I added my own thoughts, sealed the box and went on my way. A year later I returned to find only a smattering of driftwood where the hut had once stood. Maybe that box is out there bobbing like a message in a bottle somewhere in the vast blue Pacific. Perhaps it will someday be discovered, the reader of that journal wondering where it came from and about the lives of the people who wrote in it.

The beach at Abbott’s Lagoon in the northern part of Point Reyes National Seashore is an especially dreamy stretch of coastline. This is a wild and enchanting place where the beach stretches on as far as the eye can see. It’s also my favorite place to discover unique and unusual structures. Over the years Abbott’s has been a special place for me and my family. We’ve spent many hours here beach combing and building structures. Our kids are in their late teens now and not so apt to spend a day at the beach with mom and dad so Carol and I headed there last week as a duo.

The day was warm and cloudless. Under a dome of endless blue we strolled the beach, filling our lungs with cool, crisp air and reveling in the freedom of the day. Snowy plovers chased by the incoming surf skittered along, their tiny beaks probing the sand for morsels. Gulls wheeled above. Typically the surf here is huge with sets of waves thundering in without a break. But on this day the ocean behaved more like a bay with smaller waves and more time between sets. A short ways down the beach we happened upon an interesting complex of structures, the central one being a solidly built wooden tipi about seven feet tall with a large opening in front. The inside was spacious enough to fit four people comfortably. Various pieces of driftwood were scattered around the outside looking like an otherworldly art installation. A wooden round three feet in diameter sat in the sand like the prefect table for two. Behind the tipi were two ingeniously constructed throne-like chairs. The base of each chair was a circular metal crab trap, the backs various lengths of driftwood, the seats a sturdy combination of worn lumber. These whimsical creations were surprisingly well built. I could imaging King Neptune himself perched atop one of these thrones, presiding over the beach. 

Creating a structure of our own wasn’t in the cards for us today so Carol and I walked on, the promise of new discoveries, human made and otherwise, stretched out before us. 

I’m sitting here at Doran Beach with my eyes closed, deep in meditation and listening to the waves in stereo. In the absence of sight, sound is all I have so the sounds of the waves become intensified. I’m hearing four distinctive sounds. First there’s a woosh as the wave begins to break, then a pronounced crash when it hits the shore, followed by a sizzle and finally a hiss, as what remains of the wave retreats back to the sea. No two waves sound alike. The larger the wave, the louder the woosh, crash, sizzle, hiss. However, I use these onomatopoetic words just as a loose frame of reference as there are endless variations in a wave’s tone, pitch and volume. Occasionally there will be no wave  breaking at all. The silence is brief but profound as I anticipate the arrival of the next set.

After listening to waves for a while, these sounds meld into a soothing type of white noise. I get lulled into a dream state and my mind begins to drift. I wonder, as a fetus inside my mother, was this the sound I heard? The sound of waves is such a primal sound. The Pacific Ocean existed eons before there were beings alive who could hear its voice. It will exist long after we’re gone.

By Louie Ferrera

I’m watching the birds come and go, they flit and flutter from tree top to branch to feeder. The titmice peck contentedly at the seed feeders until they are supplanted by a larger species like the towhee or golden crowned sparrow. When the magnificent scrub jay with its sky blue feathers decides it wants to eat, all of the other birds scatter as they defer to the King of the backyard. This cool, grey morning is absolutely still, however the two feeders that hang from the naked branches of our plum tree sway ever so gently with residual motion as the birds alight and fly away in a pecking order known only to them. What are a pair of white breasted nuthatches doing here? I’ve only seen this bird in and around a forest, yet this couple has apparently set up shop somewhere in the vicinity of our backyard. It’s impossible to miss the brilliant white and gun metal grey color combination of this little jewel of a bird. Like it does on a tree, the nuthatch eats with its body against the feeder, head pointed down. 

The birds are all starting to pair up. The finch couple are back again, the crimson head and throat of the male adds a flash of brilliance to this grey day. In our front yard on an oak tree hangs a small bird house that our son built in junior high. We’ve recently spied a pair of oak titmice exploring its opening. I hope they find the accommodations to their liking. Next to the bird house is a twenty foot tall privet tree, it’s covered with thousands of deep purple, pea sized berries which the cedar waxwings and robins have been gorging themselves on. This is a destination tree, especially for the waxwings, so I wait until every last berry has been eaten before cutting the tree back. Next winter the berries will return and so will the birds.

In addition to the seed feeders and the privet tree we’ve also hung a variety of hummingbird feeders around our yard and a suet feeder too. This feeder is especially popular with the Nuttall’s and downy woodpeckers. One morning a few weeks ago I counted eleven different species of birds either feeding on the suet or waiting their turn in the dormant apple, pluot and cherry trees that surround it. Along the borders of our yard grow thick shrubs and numerous cypress and citrus trees which provide cover and nesting sites for birds. Our fountains provide water for drinking and bathing. The sight of a hummingbird taking a bath is simply magical, their wingbeats are a blur as they joyfully splash water over their tiny bodies. Since moving to our home nearly twenty-two years ago, Carol and I have put a lot of effort into making our yard a safe and welcome haven for birds.

If you’re one of my regular readers you probably know that the love of birds is a common thread that runs through my writing. I’m endlessly fascinated by them. A bird focused hike allows me to slow down and blend in with my surroundings. Binoculars become an extension of my eyes and I soon settle into a Zen-like calm, the birds often seem to just come to me. My excursions into nature are deepened by my knowledge of and love for birds. Of course I don’t always need to be in a forest or at a wetland to have a peak bird experience, the next avian epiphany often awaits me right outside my back door. 

By Louie Ferrera

How long does a second last? As long as it takes for a hummingbird to beat its wings 70 times, as long as it takes for you to blink your eyes. The difference between winner and runner up in the Olympics is one second, it could also be the difference between life and death.

Were angels watching over my son when that huge redwood tree narrowly missed crushing him to death inside his car? Do angels even exist? And if so are they always benevolent beings who look out for our well being and keep us safe from harm? 

Sam’s car was a 1994 Mazda Miata, a tiny bug of a sports car with a convertible fabric roof. The redwood tree was at least 50 feet tall. A couple of weeks ago Sam was driving home from work down a narrow side street a few miles from our house, it was the night of that nasty “atmospheric river” winter storm. It had been pouring all day and high winds were whipping tall trees around like blades of grass. The redwood came down without warning, striking the front bumper of his car just below the headlights, stopping it dead in its tracks. We figured it was a matter of one second. Had Sam arrived at that exact moment in time one second later, that tree would have come down on a very different part of the car. One second. The blink of and eye, 70 beats of a hummingbird’s wings.

When Carol and I got home with Sam that night, we were all in shock. I think he realized how close he came to being seriously injured or killed, but in the moment was more upset about his car being totaled. When you’re 19 years old you’re bulletproof and can’t imagine your own demise.

On my way to bed I could hear wind and lashing rain outside as the storm was still going strong. I went by Sam’s room to say goodnight. When he came to the door and I pulled him close, hugging him as if to take in his entire being. I breathed in his scent, feeling the muscles in his back and the outline of his collarbone against mine. I hugged my son like I’ve never hugged him before, the gratitude I felt at that moment was overwhelming. I didn’t know who or what to thank. “I love you more than anything in the world” I whispered. 

Sleep did not come easily for me that night but when it did I knew that Sam was safe and sound…and alive. When I awoke the next morning, I walked into his room and did something that I hadn’t done since he was a baby: I stood beside his bed and watched him as he slept.