In one week I’ve had two ridiculous injuries. First came the pulled groin muscle which I got from trying to climb over a baby gate while holding a glass of wine in each hand. Then I managed to pull a muscle in my back while washing my foot. Each injury causes me to walk like a penguin, lest I bend more than a half degree in any direction and send hot wires of pain threading up my spine and across the front of my leg. I wish I could say I was disarming an armed assailant, doing freestyle heli-skiing, or competing in the world Judo finals, but the ignominy of these injuries is in their banality. Headline: suburban dad does boring things and manages to hurt himself.
Good, now that’s covered we can go onto the color of water in the harbor. Each morning I get to see San Diego Bay as I bank high off the highway and drop down through Little Italy on Hawthorn Street. Every day the water has a different color profile. Sometimes it’s like beaten foil, white hot and inscrutable. Other mornings, while the fog is still being burned to shreds by the sun, the water seems lit from beneath, a translucent jade vessel run through with veins of kelp. If I’m lucky it’s overcast except for a beam of morning light that strikes the far side of the harbor, spotlighting white plaster houses on a tan slope as one would find clinging to a cliff edge in Mykonos.
Finally we end with an image from the Border to Border book, a sample of which is up here. This project is evolving so stay tuned for Land Rover adventure travel writing!