Across the ocean is an island—our destination. Standing on the bow, watching the waves. The bitter air turns our cheeks and noses red, freezing in the breeze. But not wanting to miss a thing, for we would have missed things: the dolphins glide, a raised fluke of a whale, and sea lions holding each other tight. And soon, in the misty haze, an island appears—Santa Cruz. Barely touched by man, luscious forest, and the prettiest little flowers thriving, untrammeled from the absence of structures and steps. 

   A peek into a world that could have been, perhaps should have been, on the mainland. 

  As one foot goes in front of the other to Pelican Bay, surrounded with the hymns of a choir in flight and the gentle lapse of the waves kissing the shore. One thing speaks louder than the likes of these, valued not by volume but of depth. A chance to hear, not of the shoulds and daily tasks echoing across the way, but the stillness of silence—Solitude. No soul disturbed; an isolated visit with self.