There would have been some delicious irony if I had died after being blown off the side of the bridge by the speeding lumber truck.
Luckily, I didn’t. At the next sweeping curve, I met Mark, who had been on his own walking adventure from Buffalo, New York to California via Florida and the southern route through Texas. He was headed north to a speaking event in Eureka from San Francisco. We talked for a few minutes, sharing a rice cake and some almonds, and then carried on in our opposite directions. I slept that night in a lean-to constructed out of driftwood on Irish Beach, serenaded by the sonorous roar of crashing surf.