The Queen is Dead

The morning took us back to Santa Cruz and it's Pacific Avenue. We kicked about the thoroughfare for a bit and browsed the shops lining the way. I spent more time than I’d like to admit at the local record shop, but made it out of there without buying anything. Once we’d taken our fill, we headed to the boardwalk overlooking the beach. It was complete with a theme park, carnival games, mini-golf and, of course, swarms of tourists. I almost felt like I was back at the Coney Island Side Show, but naturally it lacked the hypodermic needles and rough and tumble locals that helped the peninsula gain the notoriety it has today.



Later on in the day we headed North, travelling still further up the coast. The drive was no less breathtaking than the day before as we journeyed through the heavy fog and thick scent of coastal sage. We eventually came upon a lighthouse and, at my insistence, elected to stop. It was situated atop a cliff overlooking the ocean, its bright signal breaking through the dense fog and shining out to sea. The lighthouse itself had fallen into disrepair and clearly existed only as a memento from the past. We took a minute to explore the tower and its surroundings, thankful for any excuse to stretch our legs.



There was something about the place that just killed me. It was all so romantic, as if it were taken straight out of a old novel. The fog, the sea, the rocky shore, the trenchant chill, the rickety old lighthouse, together created the perfect scene; something that was beyond the descriptive power of mere words, a feeling that went straight to the bones. Maybe it sounds a little corny or cliche, but I couldn't help but be awed by it all. I would have stayed all evening if there was time, but of course, there never is.