Well, it wasn’t really setting yet, but nearly, and the year wasn’t over yet, but nearly, and these arbitrary yet nature-based things we call years are as full of wonder as the ocean, and the sand, and the cliffs,  and the scrubby brush, and the flowers of the succulents, and the rocks, and the birds, and the whales we saw spouting a few days ago, and the children frolicking, and the people sunbathing and picnicking and reading and playing frisbee and digging in the sand and writing messages and piling rocks and dragging kelp and collecting stones and shells, and playing volleyball and surfing and swimming and paddle-boarding and even fishing way out there — while I walk and hear the rush and the crash and the rattle and the pause, and stop and breathe and take photos and pick things up and stare at the sky and at the foam and at the patterns of the receding waves, and at the effortless-seeming pelicans and the skittering sandpipers and the pecking godwits and the gathering gulls, smelling the salt and the eucalyptus, digging my toes into the cool dampness, and breathing, just breathing, rejoicing.