A warm spring night gradually overtakes my dusty Blazer. I'm parked on a hillside overlooking an empty, blue horizon. A massive orange ball of sunlight falls into the cloud bank that spills over the mountainside of Vandenberg Airforce Base, while 40-knot winds-howling as the daylight begins to fade-burst the seeds of waves into white puffs of popcorn across the deep-blue Pacific Ocean.
Troops of pelicans and ribbons of seagulls chase the plunging solar sphere as they glide effortlessly along the cliffs into the distant horizon. My body, having transended exhaustion, seeks complete rest as it melts into the upholstery. The only sounds are the deep static rumbles of breaking eight-foot swells and the swoosh of another gust of compressed air. I'm alone again with the Jalama, and this is the story of it's restless spirit.