What drew me to the Lab—what’s always drawn me to certain places—are its stories. From the day I first ventured onto the 616 protected acres owned, leased, or managed by the Reserve, I was intrigued. Driving past coastal prairies and dunes, I beheld what looks like a space colony hunkered on the continent’s rim.
Twice a day the Pacific draws back its surf-fringed curtain to reveal a secret world brimming with fantastical creatures that John Steinbeck described as “ferocious with life.” They have to be. Only the fierce can survive in the harsh borderland between the tide’s highest splash and deepest pools. In this kingdom claimed by both sea and land, waters rise, waves pummel, predators pursue, and real estate wars rage.
During my Pennsylvania childhood, the seasons paraded through the years in lockstep formation: Spring’s promises and petals. Summer’s lush ripeness. Autumn’s harlequin leaves. Winter’s icy grip. Here on the Northern California coast, the indomitable wind and waves have created seasons of their own: Upwelling (March through July), Relaxation (late summer through October), and Storm (November through February).
When you learn a language, a linguist once told me, you see with new eyes, listen with new ears, speak with a new tongue. In essence, you grow a new brain. As I began my coastal wonderings, waves of words—some entirely new, others familiar but with different meanings—washed over me. I quickly realized that I would need a new vocabulary as well as a new brain.
