and it came on in waves.

Big Sur was a name that lived in the mouths of surfers and the words of Jack Kerouac and Henry Miller. Spontaneity drove me to this place as I ventured away from the Los Angeles wasteland back to the Silicon graveyard called home. The boredom of business for a whole week might have been the true cause. I'm never one not to take an adventure.

But California natives drove smart. To cross from one side of the state to the other, you took I-5 or 101. We laughed at the idiots who took the "scenic route" for pleasure, not for business. You only took Highway 1 to access the beaches. With the twists and turns, possible motion sickness, mudslides, rockslides, fog and constant construction, Highway 1 was a tourist's wake-up call-- not all is sunny-sexy in the Golden state. Seeing as I lived four years away from home, where the Northeast's transportation circulatory system pulses strong, fast and easy, I did an un-native thing and turned off at Pismo Beach for Highway 1.

Driving this road a few hours to sunset was not the wisest choice. Gas stations, tow trucks, rest areas and pit stops would have gaps of up to ten to twenty miles. For sixty of those miles there would be nothing at all except the coastline and me. Who knew if I could make it to Monterey from Pismo before the fog came in and the sun would leave me. Anxiety should have risen then; my stress level should have peaked. I turned up the volume to my radio and drove on.

For thirty miles, I caught only glimpses of the ocean. Then San Simeon bloomed in the horizon, the rocky coastline I found only in films and dreams opened before me like a picture book. More than once I pulled over simply to stare at the rushing waves crashing fifty feet below into rocks Mother Nature birthed thousands of years ago. I stared out at the endless water and focused on the line where sky and sea met, the sun hovering above, floating, waiting to sink and sleep.

I drove on through San Simeon, a town that hosted cattle, grassy mountains and history. I paid my respects to William Randolf Hearst at his castle in the mountains without spending a single dollar. The true beauty of this place rested not at the top of mountains overlooking the world, where an old word mongol once reigned; it lay to the left of me, where foam tickled the wet ends of the earth and dark blue colored the yellow sand brown.

The more I drove on, the more the road swerved back and forth. It played tricks on me. I'd be so close to the ocean at times I felt I could stop, open the door and reach out to touch the edge. Then one turn later, and I'd be so close to the mountains I could run my fingers through the wind-swept grass and cut my skin open. The highway represented the old unpaved road it once was, designed by a drunk engineer. It was almost too treacherous to maneuver, too unsafe. But the road led to a paradise that'd lure the most wary of men, more beautiful and deadly than Homer's sirens.

All thoughts of safety left as I finally reached the 'scenic route' of Highway One. The old laughter of California natives rose inside my mind, all berating me like any simple tourist. I placed both hands on the wheel, knuckles pale white, skin taught as I focused ahead at the thousands upon thousands of curves hugging the side of the coastline for the next sixty miles.

Cars, motorcycles, camping RVs, SUVs and minivans full of children lay ahead and behind me, all eager to drive recklessly fast or recklessly slow. Nets decorated the side of the hill to protect from any danger; some already were pregnant with muddy rocks, ranging from baseballs to small boulders, all Mother Nature's warning signs. The wind was my greatest competitor. Gust after gust, the wind rocked the car, threatened to shove it into the side of the mountain. But the sun still rested in the sky, its orange belly floating inches above the sea. Whatever light it gave me was enough to steady my nerves for now. The only enemy left to worry about was the thick Pacific fog waiting for its chance to finally eat away the world.

I saw it from the corner of my vision as I twisted and turned around the mountains. The fog sat there in the sky like a patient predator, settled well in a curling grey line that sliced the sun in half. Mile after mile, the fog swallowed the sun, raping its light and oozing itself closer to the coast. Like a tsunami it pulled back and rose above, but it didn't strike; the fog waited, took its time. Taunted me like I'm sure it taunted others in its past. The fog controls what it owns day after day, loses its rights when the light arrives and gains it all back when the light's eaten alive. The grey monster of the Pacific waited now to take me. But I wasn't afraid.

I saw fear in these drivers eyes as they passed me, honking, flipping me off. I saw such palpable fear as they drove onto the side of the road, taking breaks, heads dizzy from the constant curves. Some cried. Some threw fits. Some gave up and slept, to wait for morning. I had no fear. I did not fear the fog, the wind, or the light rain starting to fall. I could see. I could drive. I could make it through.

And then I reached Big Sur. I knew I was here without looking at the GPS. The whole landscape changed. The curves still tricked, the rain still fell, the fog still lurked and the wind still blew-- but the land changed. I could feel it outside, sense it from the ocean so many feet below me.

I turned my head for one brief moment to gaze at the ocean and finally hit the brake. I pulled over then, right at the beginning of a bridge -- Bixby Bridge, Historic California National Landmark the sign said -- and walked out.

The rocks of San Simeon were pieces of pebbles compared to these slabs of stone lodged deep into the Pacific. The way the waves curled, rose, crashed-- truly crashed into these rocks, where the foam splattered high into the sky and rained back down onto the unsteady surface, all visible and detailed from where I stood so many feet above --  was beyond breathtaking. The fog raped the sea of what I knew was a beautiful rich blue, a color that calls to drink from its rich depths-- all the hues of blue, from colbat to cornflower; but the fog could not take away its power. Here in Big Sur, the sky did not control the land; the sea was its master, its king, and I was its grateful peasant.

I returned to the car only to drive across the Bixby Bridge and park alongside an vast landmass with an outcropping of rocks. One single unpaved dirt road led to a small house in the distance, possibly forest rangers, possibly home owners, maybe inhabited. I didn't care. I ignored driving forward towards it. I needed to be alone. I had to face the wind and the fog alone. This was my sea to embrace, my world to pay tribute to, not anyone else's.

The closer I reached to the edge of this landmass, the more power the wind gained. I could barely see; the wind dried my eyes, my lips, my mouth. But the wind lacked the sheer intensity of the sea I saw before me. I could hear the waves calling out, spitting up, snarling out, crackling and churning at the edges. I pushed myself forward, hair whipping my face raw, the cold wind chilling and nipping my skin. At the edge I saw the landmass split apart into two-- one long rocky shoreline and one smaller shoreline, both shaped oddly familiar. With a closer inspection from where I stood, I recognized what they looked like: the foot and the head of a fossilized brontosaurus. I laughed and stared out at the incoming fog, ready to challenge it.

I stood on the back of the brontosaurus, close to the edge without slipping off, where the water churned and ate the land with every wave, every splash. I stood there as the wind kept pushing and shoving and pulling, trying to knock my balance off, while the rain peppered my face with heavier and heavier drops the more the clouds grew above. I stood there, stood with my chin high and my eyes open as the fog moved in like heavy cigarette smoke. Mother Nature chain smoked the fog my way and I breathed it in as it finally swallowed me whole like it did the sun.

But I kept ground. I stood there in the belly of the beast and saw no darkness and felt no fear. I saw in the mist the keeper of my soul, the master of my being, vast and powerful, landless and ageless, waiting for me. Waiting for one of its children.

And it's then I knew why I came here. I had been here before, another lifetime ago, when the New World was still new, when man just touched the last piece of Mother Earth's face. I had kneeled then as I do now, bowing before the power and the safety of my true home. The longing inside me left me wanting, pulled such an ache in my chest down to my belly that tears came. I wanted to plunder down and become the waves again. I wanted to reach out and curl around the rocks Mother made years ago. I wanted to sink beneath and hit the floor and bury myself deep in the land where I came from. But it wasn't time yet. For now, I was home. I was home.

I tilted my head back and screamed the roar of my ancestors. The Pacific roared back.