The fog is rarer than it used to be. But even without it Half Moon Bay is never hot. The air is merely an extension of the ocean, which is a permanent, pacifying (yes) presence.
The breeze, damp but not humid—a trick of the salt in the air, I guess—smells like the sea, especially at night, when all is calm.
Our light, unlike the air, changes all the time. Just this afternoon it went from brilliant and glistening to diffuse to golden.
There are two seasons: the rainy season, which is about to end, and the dry season, which will be resplendent for a couple of months—as resplendent as anywhere—and then, at the peak of summer, bury us in fog. And then sometime in late August the sun will return, until the November rains.
Having now lived here for nearly seven years, I feel increasingly cyclical. And perhaps cooler—whatever that might mean. I think I sleep more than I used to. Apparently I'm more indecisive. (So maybe pacified by the sea into indecision.) But I've always been both suspicious and envious of decisive people: I interpret decisiveness as ambition—a quality I don't understand (it seems so naïve) and which I fear.
And, if such a thing is possible, I've been further attuned to beauty by this little town, which is as pretty as its name—but which is merely pretty, I'm happy to say, and not sublime, like Big Sur, down the road.
It's curious that a place like this is populated by coarse women. But the Coastside is rugged—not too rugged—and its women are rugged. In response to their ruggedness I'm becoming effeminate. And stupider. But that's common enough these days.
Unless you need New York City—I might, pretty soon—or the Montana sky, this town is about as good as it gets.