"Oh no," I'm thinking to myself. "He wants to see Morro Rock, which is the opposite direction from the way we're headed." I can feel my irritation bubbling. He never could follow the status quo. The traffic on the freeway is speeding up and cars are rushing by. I look into the rearview mirror. My cheeks are flushed; smoke is coming out of my ears.
My father's voice is steady. "The rock. I want to see the rock."
I know he won't change his mind, so I turn around and head back, going against the group's hunger.
As we get out of the car at Morro Rock, the 500-foot-high guardian of this little fishing village, I notice a sign that surprises me by being the opposite of the peace I expect. The sign reads,
"DANGEROUS SURF. DO NOT GO INTO THE WATER." The path to the shore is cordoned off. People are standing around in the parking lot: tourists, police, but mainly surfers in wet suits holding their tall boards pointed up to the sky.
And then I see it. The immense surf pounds against the giant rock, emerald green and foamy white. Rainbow light glistens from ocean spray as giant waves hit, flinging water drops and foam to heaven.
We stand there, my family so small against the background of heaven, earth, and man, a moment so synchronized with reality. It's a moment I know I will remember. Always. My father has become my teacher, my guide. He's not a problem I have to deal with; instead he's an opener into the perception of a magnificent world.
So we stand and watch and let the ocean wash us clean of our small and petty concerns.
Then we get back into the car and drive away.
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