We're driving at 15 mph as the bald tires on my white 2003 Hyundai hug the edge of Highway 1. The Pacific air blowing in off Bolinas Bay dances with our hair, disquieting our feverish thoughts to imperative introspection. All is silent as we take in whiffs of wild sage and rosemary — the romanticized version of Northern California that has lived throughout the years since Simon and Garfunkel's seminal 1966 album made its mark.
On the way to Stinson Beach we pit stop at gravel-dusted turnouts on the side of the narrow two-lane road. A pastel-colored procession of heaving cyclists make their way up the hill as my friend points an iPhone toward my pose against Marin County's purple wildflower-speckled hills. My hair run amok, my jeans high-waisted, my tank-top white and paisley — a dwelling nomad turned flower child.
We frolic amidst grassy cliff-top knolls where mammoth-size rocks hold their weight against gusts of oceanic wind. I run my fingers along the loose sea-foam green mineral runoff of the cherty mudstone as my friend scales another rock all gangly and child-like in a bout of sun- and fog-spurred ecstasy. We are transient beings lost between the familiar and nature, allowing the ethereal coastline to have her way with us.