The sun hung over the distant hills. Standing in a dirt road berefoot in shorts, I searched for rocks the size of a finger tip. Gathering a handful of choice specimens, I stood up and removed my wrist rocket from my back pocket. Selecting a the pick of the litter, I pulled the pouch back to my cheek and aimed towards a can some 20 feet away. Letting go, the rock whirred towards the upright can, and missed by a few inches. With a hiss, the rock ricocheted off a patch of hard dirt, emitting a sound familiar to a Sergio Leone film. Searching in my back pocket, I picked the runner up in terms of size and shape, and placed it in the pouch. Brushing a fly off my shoulder, I pulled the pouch back, let out a breath and released the rock.
It was early fall on the central coast of California.
It's a bit ambiguous when the summer ends and the fall begins. The temperature stays about the same; hovering in the sixties at night and highs in the 70s during the day. As a surfer, the season change is evident by the switching of predominate swell direction from the southern hemisphere to the northern. During this transitional time, the swell tends to die down and the section of coast protected by Channel Islands turns into a lake. Hours stretch on. The dog days are over but the foggy days of "winter" haven't arrived yet.
Dan Malloy's bike set up for his Slow is Fast Bike Tour.
Heading to Lompoc.
Early morning shakas.
Emma Wood is up to no good.
Jason Fraizer's Studio.
A view from 7000 feet in the Los Padres National Forrest.
The pace of time slows and my sense of urgency backs off. Sometimes you just have to wait. I've never been good at it.
Grabbing another rock from my back pocket, I carefully centered it in the middle of the leather pouch. Keeping my gaze fixed on the can, I drew the rock back and released. The can jumped a foot in the air with a hollow ting.
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