You’ll Wish the Drive Was Two Hours, He Said
I bought coffee in the small town of Boonville, on the Northern California coast. A friendly guy asked me
where I was going as he passed me some milk. “Fort Bragg,” I told him. “Is it really another hour?” I had been driving since 10:30, and it was just past 4:30. The road has been winding around so much I feel like I’m in a parking garage. “I envy you…driving to Fort Bragg,” a woman chimed in. “The drive is so nice you’ll wish it took two hours,” said the young man with the milk.
The redwoods gave way to the pounding surf, and at last I reached my home for the night. It’s the Beachcomber Motel, and now you can see what’s just outside my patio door.