The Ragged Point Inn and Restaurant. So many memories are bound here, I could create an entire set of notes chronicling them all. Stumbling across it as I drove the PCH—dragging friends a three-hour drive each way to have dinner here—going on retreat with Kat and Molly—almost getting engaged to my wife, dancing on a deserted December patio—getting my parents to come join us for a weekend—watching Venus leave a trail of light in the Pacific—watching the ISS—catching an Iridium flare—whale-spout-spotting—making out on the point—climbing down to the beach—the smell and sound of the firs in the wind.
We haven’t been back in years. The restaurant lost its star chef, I lost the job that brought me out to San Francisco four times a year, Mom lost her battle with cancer. My career really took off. Kat and I started a family. We may go back some day, or we may leave it be: a cluster of cherished moments, sealed away so that new experience cannot corrupt it.