A Night on the Pacific Coast Highway
Night fell like a curtain, quick and cool. Headlights from other cars became scattered stars along the ribbon of the Pacific Coast Highway, and the cliffs turned into soft silhouettes against the sky. We drove slower, the RV’s engine a steady heartbeat, windows down to catch the salt and the faint, distant hiss of surf. Streetlights were scarce; the coast kept its darkness like a secret.
Finding a legal place to park felt like a small miracle. A sign—clean, official, and almost apologetic—marked a pullout where overnight parking was allowed. We eased the RV into the space, the gravel settling under the tires, and shut off the engine. For a while, there was only the sound of the ocean and the soft creak of the RV cooling in the night. We made coffee on a single burner, wrapped in blankets, and sat on the steps with our legs dangling into the dark. The highway hummed faintly behind us, but in front of us, the ocean kept its steady, patient conversation.
I slept with the window cracked and the salt air drifting in, and when I woke before dawn, the horizon was already blushing. That first night on the Pacific Coast Highway felt like a promise kept: we had chased a coastline until the world opened, and then, by luck or grace, found a legal place to rest right where the land met the sea. The memory of that first sight and that quiet, lucky night weighs it—gentle, persistent, and impossible to lose.
From-The-Road Adventures 