Beth was on call this weekend, and I think she got paged at least twenty times, including two visits, one at 3am to emerge an infant.  Beth is loca.  Crazy good.

So as she sat around in a zombie daze trying to find her balance, I realized I’d be on my own.  Which is fine; I am a rambling man.  After driving out to Bob’s house to return his deluxe hand truck, I wondered what to do with myself.  I decided to go check out the ocean some more, to stay on task with the project of discovering exactly where it is that I am.

The geography here is confusing.  The coast is tilted hard northeast, and Eureka is on an enormous bay, with multiple arms, spits and islands.  Highway 101 makes a 90 degree turn right in the middle of town.  Many times I’ve guessed I was traveling south, but was actually heading west.  It’s a geographical riddle!  It’s fun.

I drove over a bridge, touched down on an island, then crested another bridge.  Then I drove SW down the Samoa Peninsula to the end and the Samoa Dunes.  Look at the map, it’s cool.

Out in the Dunes there’s an OHV park where people ride their ATCs and quads and dirt bikes and buggies in a maze of sandy paths.  I picked my way through the maze in my mini-truck until I reached a safe space in a grove of trees to park.  I walked out to the breakwater that forms the mouth of the Humboldt Bay.  I walked up to the jetty wall full of excitement, wondering what type of vista I might witness on the other side.

The entrance to the bay is an intense place.  Waves come in through the funnel mouth and ricochet off the sides, then collect and build to break in open water.  There’s something freaky about open water waves.

The rocks of the jetty were covered with starfish and kelp.  I walked toward the open ocean, watching the waves bounce and batter the rocks.  There’s actually what seems to be a nice surf break, in the mouth of the bay.  I watched a guy in full neoprene casing paddle out from the rocks and ride a few waves.  It was a beautiful vantage, standing perpendicular to the breaking waves, looking up the peeling barrel into the green room.

I walked out to the end of the jetty where a pair of towers stand at the entrance to the bay, sounding back and forth to warn ships.  Dudes in offroad vehicles passed me and waved.  Someone in a 4×4 threw me a peace sign, which I found surprising but cool.  It was starting to get dark so I turned back.

Halfway back to my truck I noticed a distant dog running toward me.  It was a long, lanky border collie with a frisbee in his mouth.  I was apprehensive, but then the collie seemed to realize I wasn’t who he thought I was and stopped coming.  As I approached he dropped his frisbee in the sand, then started to dig manically in the vicinity, shoveling sand into the air.  I could tell he was feeling hyper, jonesing hard for somebody to throw that frisbee around.  I couldn’t resist.

I hopped off the jetty and walked over.  He was solid black and white, tuxedo style, with spotted dalmatian forearms and eyes the color of pennies.  I hucked the disc and he was off.  He leaped and grabbed it out of the air.  “Nice Catch!” I yelled to him.  He ran it back to me, dropped it at my feet, and then took off again, anticipating my throw.  He was running, looking backwards and I teased him, changing trajectories, faking my release, until finally I had him fooled and sent the frisbee the other way for maximum miles.

I was playing frisbee with somebody else’s dog, getting all of the glee of a nice game of catch with an excellent retriever, with none of the responsibility.  For a moment I felt like somebody else, a dog guy, a shepherd.  I embraced the role and hucked the disc with relish, trying to complete the perfect throw that might result in the most gratifying catch, calculating the wind and terrain to make sandy beach dog ballet.

I managed to tire him out pretty good, and he started to hold the disc longer to catch his breath.  So when he dropped it I tossed it to the ground in front of me and knelt down, and he walked up next to me and sat there, both of us watching the disc and panting like campers around a fire.  I patted his shoulders and told him he was a good dog.  I was living the dog life.