We scaled the Marin headlands in our rental car, seeking an icon—the bridge, what else? Midway up, we hurriedly parked and peered toward the Golden Gate, which was obscured by a thick, blue grey white trundling mass. This sea above a sea, it calmly rushed over hills, over water, toward the city.
“Sorry!” my friend said. “You can’t even see the bridge!”
No sorry. Despite the fog, because of the fog, we could see so much. A rainbow hovered in front of us, arching over our shadows. The fog, presenting our alternate selves.
Higher we went. A sense of adventure permeated the thick air, even though nothing was happening but the evening wearing on. And the fog flowed like a river, a waterfall over the bluffs, over everything. It was hurrying and maybe we were affected by its sense of never-ending pursuit.
Standing in the headlands, snapping photos, talking excitedly, euphorically, the wet wind whipping my hair—I felt happy, because of my company and what I was witnessing, that’s it. A common-in-this-place earthly phenomenon gently reaching out, its tendrils on my cheek, guiding me to this: the elation of witnessing something beautiful and new.
It was one of those moments when it’s impossible to see enough. It’s magnificent; it can stay forever. Let’s remain, us, just like this.
The fog flowed over us all, indifferent.
We returned to the normal world and in short time, another, familiar mist settled over me once again.