Tuesday afternoon it was finally so clear through the college library's window wall that we could see beyond Victoria across the Strait to the distant toothy profile of snow mountains on the British Columbia mainland. Monday, however, the forecast failed to deliver the partly sunny weather promised; the sun may well have been shining on some part of the Olympic Peninsula at some time during the day, but not where I was or when I went.
I was ready for a blue ocean, and had carefully prearranged to spend only a little time at the tribe and then head west; so I went. It was not blue, and not much surf, nor many people, nor any wrack at all. Once I'm settled on a log, it's obvious that if all I want to do is read I should always invest the road time to get to the outer coast and read there. Why ever not? Sound of waves, eagles passing by, foam swashing up the beach. The new configuration of logs and the new beach profile to be examined—they are always new on every visit, especially in winter when the king tides arrive in the dark of night. Books to be read.
The falling tide exposed more pebbles of one size or another, ponded together with their size mates. I like them small and smooth and dark. Two eagles went by, one chasing the other. There kept being almost blue areas in the sky, and then gone again. Having started late, I had to leave well before I was ready, in order to be off the highway before full dark.
Truth: I haven't been blogging. I'm not bored with where I go, but I may be bored with sharing pictures of it, and trying to make always-the-same-beach new in words. Down at the harbor I was bent out of shape by new security signage ('No photographs.' Say what?!?), and it was better for my state of mind not to go than to have another tantrum about it; so I missed the loading of the two log ships. It's been gray all the time and the days are still very short. This is the time of year when any random conversation with a local is likely to end at, "I'm ready for the days to be longer..."