We were at Point Dume in Malibu, where we'd just finished a hike around the cliffs of this western tip of land that stretches into the Pacific. Back down on the sand, wind whipped, waves crashing and at the tumble of rocks splashed with salt water, my daughter declared: "Seal!"
I saw nothing but boulders, but waited a beat. Then the head popped up between the rock.
We settled in for a good 20 minutes of up-close wildlife viewing, as the seal reached his head forward, awkwardly pushed off his flippers and flopped his body until he was positioned in the sun. He was so close, we could see his eyelashes. That's when I realized I didn't have my camera, or even a phone.
Soon enough, others made there way to this rocky side of the beach, and I struck up a conversation with a young man in a Wisconsin sweatshirt. He had a phone and was snapping pictures, so I just had to ask. Within two hours, when he was back in range, he'd texted me photos of the seal my daughter named Ribsy, because she could see the contours of his ribs.
My husband's wise line: "You can always trust an earnest Midwesterner."
