The Point


I’m worried about ticks, and poison oak, mainly, and now — but to a lesser extent — gravity as I switch lenses again and try to balance the camera atop a very old pocket tripod atop a mound of sandstone across from the group.

It’s a long hike out to the Point after dark, although not quite long enough to sober up. The photos are slow to take but look promising from the viewfinder.

The laser up onto the sky and the three or four conversations roll out into the sea. I sling the camera strap back around onto my shoulder and climb up onto the pyramid of rock, to sit and listen and look out over the whole of the Pacific Valley.

I hear what sounds like a canteen hitting the rock next to me.

And then rolling.

And then nothing.

“Oh.” I say to my sister sitting next to me, patting my empty jacket pocket where the second lens had been.

“Oh god. I think that was my lens falling into the sea.”



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