The alarm had gone off before the first hint of light, though in truth, I was already half-awake. The restless pull of the ocean had stirred something in me long before dawn. Surfboard strapped to the roof, I wound my way down the serpentine roads of Big Sur, chasing a feeling as much as a wave. With no cell phone reception, no buzzing demands to remind me of who I am supposed to be, time unfurled in a strange, elastic way.
The world around me was still, cloaked in the hush of early morning. Shadows clung to the trees, their gnarled limbs reaching skyward like ancient sentinels. Every so often, the road would break open to reveal vast stretches of coastline, and I’d pull over, drawn like a moth to the flicker of dawn breaking over the Pacific.
I stood there, alone on the cliff’s edge, board forgotten, mesmerized by the unfolding drama below. The ocean shimmered, a living tapestry of texture and light. Swells rolled in slow, deliberate procession, their surfaces dappled with a sheen of silver and gold. Each wave seemed alive, speaking in a language I couldn’t quite decipher but felt compelled to understand.
In the absence of distraction, my mind wandered freely. Thoughts rose and fell like the tide—some fleeting, some lingering like driftwood caught on the shore. I thought of the road I’d traveled, the ones still ahead, and the ones I’d avoided. I thought of nothing at all. It felt good to be untethered, to exist without obligation, simply a witness to the raw, unpolished beauty of the world.
When I finally reached the break, the sun was just cresting the horizon, painting the cliffs in hues of amber and rose. The waves called to me with their rhythmic insistence, and for a moment, I hesitated. Part of me wanted to stay there on the cliff, a voyeur to the wild dance of nature. But the other part—the part that woke me before dawn—longed to dive in, to be a part of it, to taste the salt and feel the pull of the current.
“The ocean at dawn in Big Sur—there’s no describing it, not truly, but I’ll try.
Standing on the edge of that vast cliff, the world feels suspended, caught between the waking dream of night and the raw insistence of day. The water below moves like silk unraveling in slow motion, its texture a paradox—soft as whispers, yet heavy with the weight of eternity.
Every ripple, every crest and fall, seems deliberate, as if the ocean is telling secrets only it understands. The colors—oh, the colors!—they’re impossible. Liquid silver, bruised lavender, hints of a gold so faint it feels stolen from the heavens. The wind brushes against your skin, carrying salt and the faintest echoes of some wild, untamed hymn.
You feel small, insignificant, and yet, somehow infinite, as if you too are part of this great, eternal rhythm. You breathe, and the ocean breathes back.”