From the mission home, we walked down to the beach and over to what my sisters and I named "The Elephant Rock" because of its vague resemblance to an elephant head.
The water is higher now than it was in the mid-80s, so the "face" and "trunk" of the rock, which face the water, aren't as visible as they used to be. But you can still see quite well the outline of an elephant's head and ears from the back.
I have many memories about the Elephant Rock and time I spent on it gazing out into the water. The area around it looks like a big lake, but it's actually an ocean inlet with peninsulas and islands in the way.
My second published novel, At the Water's Edge, got its name, in large part, to the Elephant Rock and events placed at it. (I posted the cover in the side bar so you can laugh at how truly inaccurate it is.)
When I walked out over it, the moment felt reverent. For years I'd imagined myself coming back and walking across it, and here it was. I kept whispering to myself, "I'm here. I'm really here." That was just one of literally hundreds of moments during the trip where I got choked up with emotion.
In addition to the rock itself, other items in photos taken there include a huge water tower to the west that looks remarkably like a UFO and birds (ducks, crows, and even a swan).
1 comment:
These pictures are leaving me feeling very quiet, too. . . I had completely forgotten that we sometimes saw swans. I remember going down there during the winter a couple of times, when everything was frozen and you could walk right off the rock onto the ocean. (Being a metaphor/symbology nerd, I like thinking how maybe when the environment seems the least hospitable, sometimes we can actually go further than before.)
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