Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

water on my face in the bathroom, lace up my sneakers, and am
heading out the door when the snoozing alarm clock starts blaring
again. Smiling at the thought of Stella having to hunt it out from
under my bed, I start down the path to the dock where we arrived
last night. Where there’s water there must be a beach.
The dock is in a little lagoon, nicely protected from the open
sea, with rocky cliffs on one side and a narrow strip of sand on the
other. Even though I’m not going to push my worn-out body too
hard, I sit on the dock and do ten minutes of stretches. Pulling a
hamstring is the last thing I need.
The sun is just starting to rise and casts a pale pink over everything.
I take deep, filling breaths as I reach for my toes, taking in
the salty clean smell of the sea. A different smell from the California
beaches I’m used to. Purer, maybe.
I twist my upper body to the one side, going for that extra oblique
stretch, and notice a cluster of little white buildings on top of the
cliffs. Bathed in the early morning twilight, it looks just as pink as
the rest of the island. That must be the village. It seems so strange
that there are people that live up there in that little village, a world
away from L.A., with whole lives that go on whether I’m here to see
them or not. I guess that’s true of everywhere—the cars you pass
on the freeway, the towns you fly over at thirty thousand feet, and
those little white buildings. Suddenly, L.A. feels even farther away.
Surrounded by pink and silence, except for gently lapping waves,
I embrace the inner and outer peace. Leaving the dock for the thin
strip of sand, I kick into a moderate run. If my entire year here were
just like this moment then things might not be so bad. But I know
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