Last Saturday, The Red Headed Menace and I had an adventure.

It started out as a simple trip to the beach.  A cold gray morning had turned into one of those magnificent autumn/winter Northern California afternoons, where the sky is a deep cerulean blue except where the sunlight dapples through the tree leaves.

I know the way to the beach.  I know several ways to the beach, as a matter of fact.  My planned route involved taking the Page Mill exit onto I-280, then getting off and Sand Hill and taking the roads back to pick up California 84.  (I realize that for all of you who live in other places this makes no sense.)

Except... somehow I forgot to exit off Page Mill.  I'm still not sure why; my mind was on other things, perhaps, or just caught up in the beauty around me.  At any rate, I was about a mile up Page Mill before I realized, oh, yeah, I don't go this way.  Why not, I thought?  Page Mill runs through at least as far as Skyline.  So I kept going.... and then remembered exactly why I never took this route.

It's been a long while since I have white-knuckled a road.  It's been even longer since I white-knuckled a road in broad daylight.  This one had all the elements that scare the crap out of me: twists with blind curves, oncoming traffic that had a tendency to drift over the line, no shoulders, and freaking insane bicyclists.  Oh, yes, and the late afternoon sun hitting me in the eyes.  I kept telling RHM to enjoy the view, because I sure couldn't.

After an eternity, we reached the major crossroads.  Hurrah! "But mom," he said, "The sign says to go to Pescadero to go straight." "No way, " I said,pulling a sharp right. "From here it gets worse."  So we drove north to 84, took that to 1 and drove south to Pescadero. The whole disaster probably costs us an additional forty minutes.

But when we got to the coast...

It was about forty-five minutes to sunset.  The late-afternoon sun hit the waves, turning them golden. we drove along in the cool, soft, mist-laden air towards Pescadero.  RHM and I talked about how, even though people say the ocean is blue, it often is not -- being gold, or steel gray, or green.  To be with my son, on such an afternoon, was joy itself.

We decided to go to the Arcangeli Bakery in the town of Pescadero.  (If you are ever in our neck of woods, it is worth not merely a detour but a trip.)  Although we were in the store for only a few minutes, the golden late afternoon had been socked in with a thick blanket of clouds.  Ah, coastal California.  Wait five minutes and the weather changes.

We still went to the beach.  That's why we were there, after all.

Alone among our family, RHM and I are ocean people.  We will go to see the ocean in a driving rainstorm (barring lightning) or, in the case of yesterday, in a cold overcast with winds that drove through my two layers of sweatshirts like they were chiffon.

"I'm sorry the weather is so bad." "That's okay, it is still wonderful."

The best part of this was that, since the music player in the LGM (Little Green Mazda) was busted, we actually talked the whole way.  He said that when he was older he wanted to bring his wife/fiancee/girlfriend to the coast -- "Are there any B&Bs around here?  I would love to wake up with someone and take breakfast on the beach."  We talked philosophy. We talked about just why we were ocean people.

RHM is excited about the vast array of life that exists under the waves and along the shore.  Me, I am fascinated by the horizon -- by the wonderful thought that on its other side is a whole new world, and all you need is a boat to get there.

I am very blessed.  I know people whose teenagers only talk to them to ask for money or what's for dinner.  Without stopping being a parent (believe me, I get a fair amount of attitude and mete out a fair amount of discipline), I am a friend.

It was a wonderful experience, a reminder of how good life can be.