Short
We had spent the night before jading on a beach in Big Sur. Ramona, the woman who was camped out in her red pick up truck, offered us some blankets. We were cold. The four of us huddled together, boys on the outside, sisters in between.
Ramona told us how she had to escape her husband. He didn’t beat her. He wasn’t mean. She just didn’t love him. Or the kids. She moved to the beach with the dog, George (the only real man in her life) and became a jeweler.
She kept us up late. Night, she said, was the best time to jade. Each of us got a flashlight and we ventured out toward the water, hobbling on rocks and underneath the moon. Climbing and falling and dragging- we got tired. We didn’t understand. She kept going. Every night. This beach. Wet feet and flashlights. She needed not to stop.
Shivering quietly, I listened to them dream. I used their warmth and thought about the morning. Every step I had taken that night, hours of stepping stones for some stranger- I think I did understand. I needed it all again.
I left with 4 rolls of film and no breakfast. The California coastline. Highway 1. I am still in pursuit. It is not a choice or a dream; it is a compulsion. I make, take and live stories. That is why I am a photographer.
Ashley doesn’t get it. Do you? Thoughts?