The Hangover

Seaweed on Muir Beach | Mark Lindsay

After the big trip the adrenaline rush was no more. The counting of days before the departure—that was gone too. Now it was just the two of us, the Bogey Man and I. Jet lag gripped me as I watched the shadows on the ceiling. The nighttime demons were out to play. The trip was gone. Over. All that was left were the photos and bills. It was back to, what the Italians call, the terrible dailiness of life. Normal life felt half-empty after this grand voyage. I was in a rut. I had a vacation hangover.

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Muir Beach Encounters

Muir Beach Fog| Mark Lindsay

Normally I like to go to Muir Beach very early in the morning, long before the summer crowds start to fill up the small beach. Muir Beach is best experienced alone, save a few turkey vultures, oyster catchers, seagulls, or pelicans. I like the sand when it's freshly combed by the surf and before myriad footsteps and paw prints muss it all up. Yet, sometimes I arrive late and the party has started without me. On those occasions, the beach is full, the day's story already unfolding.

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Digging Around

Muir Beach Curlews | Mark Lindsay

Tomorrow is a great day for photos. July 4th is a gaudy holiday filled with silly hats, parades, flags, bunting, and an occasional Uncle Sam on stilts. My camera is ready, I just cleaned the sensor with some exotic (meaning expensive) cleaner and the batteries are charging. Today I'm doing business chores that keep things going, the unglamorous underpinnings of life.

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Muir Beach #3

Muir Beach Haiku #3 | Mark Lindsay

Please forgive my current obsession with Muir Beach sand. It will pass. I've been photographing these small sand vignettes for years, squirreling them away on my hard drive, not quite knowing what to do with them. I've always liked them but wondered if anyone else would feel the same way. I feel shy about them. But, creativity has its oddities and for some reason, right now, these simple, little images need to see the light of day.

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Muir Beach #2

Muir Beach #2 | Mark Lindsay

"Listen to the ocean!" my mother used to tell me. Back in the early '60s the Jersey Shore had big conch shells cast onto the beach. They were everywhere. I was a short little towhead with a buzz cut and snazzy white sunglasses. I picked up a shell and held it to my ear. Sure enough, it had the echo of the ocean deep inside it.

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