Beach Bums

We have been on the road eight weeks as of today -- almost 10,000 miles -- and it doesn't seem that long at all. Every day is interesting, unique and beautiful.
At every wayside, pullout and vista from Fort Bragg to Mendo-
cino, we stopped for cliff walks and pictures. When the wind picked up and the tide came in, waves crashed against sea stacks and roared as the spray broke. Feathery clouds accented the surf as gulls glided by on the updrafts. By noon we had completed all of ten miles of coastline.
At View Trail near Navarro Head we parked for another short hike. A man, probably in his 50's, polished a red 1985 station wagon. The seats were covered with leopard fabric and white fur. "I live on a commune near here," he told us, as he applied polish to the chrome. "I'm a grower."
We never took the hike, not on an isolated beach with computer, camera and luggage in the car.
Wind gusted at Point Arena Lighthouse, originally built in 1870, but destroyed by the 1906 earthquake. Rock layers jutting up from the ocean stood perpendicular to the water.
"Is that a fault line?" asked Andy.
"I'd say so," I told him.
Just before sunset we followed a cliff trail at Hearn Gulch across a grassy field to where it dipped down a rocky path toward the beach. The descent of more than a hundred feet took us down a steep rock embankment with only a rope to hold for support, but after leaping over the creek, we found the beach a beautiful reward. Waves crashed and rolled against sea stacks hidden in a horseshoe cove of towering black rock. The solitude was awe-inspiring. We played chase with the incoming tide, took pictures with the sun glowing behind the rock outcroppings, and checked out the beach for shells. Where in the world have eight weeks gone?