|
Previous - this entry written on July 17, 2006 at 5:48 am - Next Along the coastal road there are hundreds of RVs, motor homes, parked. A long, curving line of tan and white wheeled boxes, windows dark, no signs of habitation. This is not a market, it is not a tourist zone, and Caleb assures me that they were not present when last he drove this road. The RVs stretch along the coast, occupying the side of the road for nearly a mile. There are no signs explaining it. The signs that claim to give coastal access are elsewhere (and not connected to actual roads, don't ask). It is July, and the RVs are migrating. They travel hundreds, sometimes thousands of miles to come to this narrow stretch of beach highway. During the warm, dark nights of July and August they mate, each RV exchanging genetic material, design codes, and license plate numbers with the other RVs, a mass breeding that will eventually send the next generation back east in a cavalcade of just-hatched SUVs. There they will feast on the smog particles, just as whales feast on krill, and return once more to the shore next year to create another convoy.
Hosted by Diaryland - All Rights Reserved - Image, Layout, and Content copyright Jax Raven - - Do Not Feed The Moose - |
