Today I walked down to a lookout point called Punta de Barco. The water was blue and waves were rolling in, the tops of them ripped off by the wind. I looked for sea lions but didn’t see any. There was a group of young people sitting on one of the beaches listening to music, smoking cigarettes and drinking. I love how young people are too cool for almost everything but they’re not too cool for beauty. Young people like to drink by rivers, staring out at the sea, down by the beach. But then again young people also like to drink in parking lots. I guess parking lots are beautiful in their own way, especially in America.
I walked down to the beach and sat on a rock. I haven’t touched the Pacific, I thought. That’s a tragedy. I walked to another rock and waited for the sea to surge up and I dipped my hand in it and then held it to my forehead, baptizing myself. I smelled my hand to see if it smelled like salt or purity but it just smelled like hand.
Tomorrow I will continue driving south. Away from the great urban centers or Central Chile toward the untouched lands of Patagonia. Little touched. Less touched. I’ll get my surfboard repaired so I can surf again. I’ll start to camp. I’ll hopefully start to fish. I’m 33 years old.
When I was walking back up from the beach to the lookout point they were filming a movie or something for TV at the top. There was a girl standing there, looking out at the ocean, and they were filming her from behind. How long is this take going to be, I wondered. And she’s not doing anything. She’s just standing there. Finally they said cut and people relaxed. I walked by them and one of them thanked me for waiting. As I walked away I kept looking back over my shoulder, not because I wanted to see what they were doing, but because I wanted to see the ocean.
I wanted to see the ocean.