Sometimes you just have to get out. For me, that "sometime" was yesterday.
All day I sat at my desk at Google, and ran through the same calculations. You know, the "What am I doing with my life?" kind of questions. The kind that inspires doubt no matter how happy you might be, regardless of any success you've had in the past. These are the questions that rip you apart from the inside, forcing you to message your significant other "I love you" just because you need to hear their reply. Because you need to know you aren't alone.
By the end of the workday, I was exhausted. I didn't want to interact with people. I didn't want to eat. I wanted to relax, take my mind off things, and take a damn photo. So I grabbed a sandwich, a few bottles of water, and left for the coast.
Davenport has been my home for the past seven months. North of Santa Cruz, it's a place I can relax. A place where those soul-shredding questions seem to disappear, if only for a few hours. Within just a few miles of coastline I've found limitless photographic opportunity to distract myself with. I parked along the side of Highway 1, and set out to an unfamiliar beach.
I had no idea I would be so fortunate. The beach was pristine. The crisp sand crunched beneath my feet, and the water seemed unnaturally clear and blue for Northern California. To top it all off, it had fantastic rock structure at both ends, and a pair of grey whales playing not 100 feet from where I stood. Watching them, I set off for the southern-most, rocky edge.
Many of the rocky beaches around Davenport sport smalls channels, carved out from rock plateaus by the angry surf. This beach was different, or at least, much larger. Instead of a 3 foot deep channel, the gouge I stood above allowed for a depth of at least 15 feet, if not more. The waves pounded into the hollow rock below me, slowly carving out a tunnel which has yet to see the light of day. The rumbling shook my tripod. This same action had also carve a peninsula of sorts. A spine of rock stretching some 70 or so feet out into the sea. I set up my tripod, and waited for the right wave to spill over its top. All the while I ruminated on the spine's resemblance to a serpent, stretching out into the abyss, beat back with each wave by the sea.