A Spiritual Love Story
By Frederick Regenold
Copyright 2011 Frederick Regenold
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Frank Taylor had only been in La Jolla two months. The handful of people with whom he was acquainted knew very little about him, and that’s the way he wanted it. There was certain background information he’d kept to himself. Wanting no distractions, he needed to focus completely on the important project that led his immediate agenda. Because of unexpected and uncontrollable happenings during recent years, it had been necessary to postpone this particular project until now and, being a newcomer to the area, he wanted no part of the usual informal inquisition customarily prompted by that status. Before coming here, he made an agreement with himself to keep the lowest possible profile. Of course, that’s always easier said than done.
Sitting atop a bright yellow kayak, he faced the Caves, one of the natural attractions in La Jolla, California, a picturesque community in suburban San Diego, about 120 miles south of Los Angeles. Under him, the lucid ocean’s temperature was in the high 60s, the air about 75º, with minimal wave movement. The black-and-silver Casio on his left wrist showed THU ’02, 9-12, 9:32 a.m. It was sunny and cloudless, not a common occurrence at this hour along the shore. September, however, is considered by knowledgeable weather watchers to be the best month for beach visits. It was mid-September— more specifically a year and one day from that horrendous, world-changing day of terrorism that would never be forgotten—so the kids were back in school and most of the tourists had departed. The locals were fond of saying, “After Labor Day we get our town back.”