Et Cetera : Journal

View from our vacation house, Panama City Beach, a long time ago

Accumulating Cumulus

Some nights, especially as San Francisco nears its typically, lovably perverse summer in September, the fog doesn’t quite make it in or falls apart and retreats, and a few puffy clouds are left scooting across the night sky, low enough to distinctly reflect the city light. When I see them, my mind leaps to a particular, unlikely place.

Panama City Beach, Florida. The Riviera of the South. A white-sand strip of bucket-drink beach clubs, pirate-ship restaurants, mini-golf, and stilt-walking summer homes where a friend and I fled to from Kentucky for two vacations in the late ’80s, finding brief refuge from our deteriorating work situations in a free house whose topside deck had a view over an undeveloped sandy lot to the gently lapping sea just a few blocks away.

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