This year, one of my summer’s highlights was an unhurried journey to the coast to watch the Perseid meteor shower. This was a mission in pursuit of chill, both literal and figurative. Windows down, music up, re-applying layers of sunblock as I hopped from one beloved beach to another.

There’s this particularly scenic rest stop, where wanderers can rest for a wholesome 12 hours, which is like three naps or one celestial experience. So I waited there, anticipating the night. The Perseids this year were tipped to be exceptionally vivid after a couple of disappointments in years past.

Satellite image of the rest area, showing the road and a nearby creek.

The rest stop is pretty deep in the woods, and it’s located right by a small creek. Just a stone’s throw from the parking lot and a hop over some rogue cobble. The waters are very shallow in the summer, so by the light of my phone I settled onto a rock right in the middle of the diminished stream, with a view of the heavens which I believe Galileo would surely high-five me for.

As I sat, smoke curling lazily upwards, the Perseid meteors began their timeless voyage across the sky. Fleeting trails of light like ephemeral brushstrokes. One of those sights that makes you profoundly aware of your tiny place in the vastness of space. In the solitude of the creek’s lapping waters, the phenomenon felt both uniquely mine, and as ancient as humanity itself…

The constellation Perseus.

When gazing at a meteor shower, you can’t help but wonder how many others have looked up at this same wonder throughout history. Ancient ancestors, too, once marveled at such cosmic events.

As dawn peeked over the treetops, the flying space pebbles faded away. Actually many meteors do fall during the daylight hours, but they can’t be seen; the sunlight washes them out. And the sun’s glare overflowed too on sandy stretches now teeming with sun-seeking families.

Summer isn’t a good time for rockhounding along the coast. Sand blankets what autumn storms expose, keeping most of the good stuff hidden away until the seasons turn. Not a quartz in sight, just sand, conspiring to bury my dream agates.

Despite the odds, and among the crowd of summer beach goers, guess what? I found a gem. A medium-sized, highly-weathered orange chalcedony, smoother than jazz from spending who-knows-how-long tumbling in the great pelagic rock tumbler. It’s not every day that you find a beauty like this one in the off season.

Holding a piece of orange chalcedony in my hand.

So I left the coast feeling like I’d gleaned a few secrets from its shores. The familiarity that forms when you take the time to explore and absorb the nuances of a place. Each trip here peels back more layers, and I came away feeling like I understood my beloved beaches more than ever.

And I felt the rush of gratitude for being a sentient speck on this planet, perched on a cool rock, watching the sky put on a show from one of the best seats in the galaxy.

So yeah, that’s about it. A lazy jaunt, meteors that seemed to be showing off just for me, and a lucky find. I’m grateful. I feel the humility of my place in the cosmos. The ocean will continue to weather down the continents, and the meteors will return, year after year, until they too burn out. I was there to witness their splendor for one night, and that’s cool.