Finally on the coast. Everywhere I go I am rolling through the white oceanic fog, everything encased in veils of light, the delicious smell, the waves beating themselves to death against the rocks in fifty foot plumes. I wish I could sit here and watch forever. I want to be a grizzled old man in Charleston some day, my pipe smoke beating out the rich air of fish guts, with an address on Seven Devils Road.
First flat tire just after the 600 mile point. It’s not unlike a 9 to 5 job out here, but the economy of problems and solutions is very small. Excepting bodily injury, not that many things can really go wrong, and the fixes tend to be straightforward. There is no one else to answer to for your mistakes. You may feel hopelessly screwed many times per day, but then you find some drinkable water, or a can of beans, or a state park with free hot water in the showers, and you are restored to condition green. It’s sort of like Final Fantasy in that sense.
