NOVEMBER 2, 2025 – After falling back off daylight savings time, we should have re-calibrated our body clocks to coincide with the early morning sun. Instead, we opted for an extra hour of sleep. We didn’t launch ourselves out of the house, however, until noon.
Beth and Kerri headed for Suffs, the road show version of the Broadway play by that name. Russ, Kyle (carrying Kyle’s baby in a Baby Babylon carrier), and I, meanwhile, drove to the Lands End Park within the Golden Gate National Recreation Area for a leisurely hike along the Coastal Trail. Along this route we were treated to spectacular vistas, accented by ideal weather conditions.
This outing gave me added appreciation for this extraordinary corner of our country at the elbow of our western coastline. Little else fires the imagination as much as standing in the shade of a Cypress glade atop a high cliff and peering out over the open horizonless Pacific. If I followed a course due west over the water until I arrived in the Far East, where would I land? What sea conditions, creatures, weather would I encounter along the way?
As we watched the breakers crash over the jagged shoreline below, I asked in rhetorical jest, “Have you noticed that no matter where you go in the world along a big sea or ocean, the waves are always coming in, never going out?” But it’s true! Ocean water along a coast is always moving onshore—or is absolutely still, though never that way for long. I never tire of watching enormous quantities of water smashing into the edge of a continent and hearing the roar of the pounding surf. What works as shock and awe on this Midwestern is the irresistible strength and inexhaustible endurance of Big Water. Unlike a coal mine, a field of oil wells or a region of fracking operations, the ocean never “runs out.” Surely, our seemingly insatiable demand for energy could be met by the power of the sea.
And in what coal mine or oil field can one see a pod of dolphins, the sun flashing off their backs as they leap out of the water along one’s walking route above?
Ironically, our foray into nature’s exquisite garden brought the best and worst of encounters with our very own species. In the Sea Cliffs neighborhood within sight of the Golden Gate Bridge, we walked past a long line of palatial dwellings hanging precariously over the edge of the heights above the ocean. With minimal imagination the passer-by can form an accurate sense of “big wealth” behind each gate, door, window, and “Private Property” sign. When Kyle, an astute student of politics and “how the world works,” mentioned that this precinct was predominantly pro-Trump, I said, “I’m sorry, but when I hear that, I think, What best describes these people is, ‘A lack of class.’”
At the end of a short cul de sac, we found an entrance to an easement that led to a short-cut back down into Lands End Park. Because of the government shutdown, however, the gate was closed and padlocked—for no apparent reason, since there was no conceivable financial consequence to keeping that point of ingress and egress open.
In any event, coinciding with our approach from the south was the appearance of four older middle-aged people from the north—one wearing a University of Maryland sweatshirt, another wearing a visor cap bearing a small patch in the shape of my home state of Minnesota.
After exchanging “hellos” through the iron bars that separated us, I said, “Are you in East Berlin or are we?” They laughed, and one said, “You have to be of a certain age to understand the reference.” Another quipped to our amusement, “We’re looking for Checkpoint Charlie.”
This exchange led to further conversation, and in short order we learned that one of the people was a law professor who’d lived in developing countries all over the world (most recently, Sri Lanka). He was also an alumnus of my law school—one year behind me—we’d had many of the same professors. I asked him what he thought of current conditions in our own country, and what his take was on our prospects. It was as I could easily have predicted. I certainly agreed with his characterization of the Supreme Court as “shambolic.”
After re-enforcing our shared political views and appreciation for the rule of law, we retreated into our respective zones—one side back into East Berlin, the other into West Berlin, but without deciding which side was which.
Our side skirted the long barrier and eventually found the north end access point to Lands End. The vehicular entrance was blocked off, but the pedestrian access was open, allowing us access to Baker Beach. At this destination were infinite photo ops of a gently undulating beach washed by incoming waves, with The Bridge in the background, and a scattering of people enjoying an outing at the water’s edge on a gorgeous early November day.
But there was an underside too; a starkly graphic reminder of our dysfunction. This took the form of three spacious porta-potties—open but not serviced, presumably since the government shutdown. I can say definitively that in the category of gastro-intestinal waste, I have never in my entire existence and imagination experienced more disgusting conditions in such vast quanty and in such tight quarters. When I exited, gasping for oxygen, I countered the urge to vomit by distracting myself with a bad case of humor: What I’d just witnessed was the ultimate symbol of the state of our politics.
The awful stench that had overwhelmed my senses was itself now instantly irradicated by the cleansing power of fresh air off the water and the uplifting view before us—waves pounding the beach, with that stately bridge, like twin gods of truth and beauty, guarding the entrance to San Francisco Bay—and one of the world’s greatest cities.
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© 2025 by Eric Nilsson
