Hard to be Both

The lagoon at Stinson Beach was glassy, reflecting the perfect sky. Robed in fog one morning, but clear the rest. Rambling modern houses crowded its bank, dipping docks into the water, trailing canoes and kayacks.

We sat, lounging on well-worn outdoor furniture or stretching out on its padding on the weathered deck, and talked. For four days straight.

It’s what we do. Friends since the furniture was new. Or at least newer.

We met early in our 20s, some of us even earlier: awkward teenagers finding our way in dorm-life college. Over the decades we have fought and forgiven. We cheer each other’s strenghts and make jokes of our own weaknesses.

It isn’t therapy, these days at the beach. We’re as likely to gossip about celebrities as we are to mention our own lives. We pick up conversation threads from when we last spoke, though now the interim has been filled in some with online updates.

We watch paddlers and fishing pelicans.

We don’t tell each other everything. But there is a comfort in knowing that we could.