Mornings seemed colder when he had the dream for some reason. The aftereffects only intensified as winter came into its power and the wind whistled up the Columbia River. The Portland wind always carried a little chill, but lately it stole more than the warmth of his coffee. It seemed as though it dimmed the dawn--as if the sun could light his way but not warm his shoulders. The feeling would evaporate with the dew, only to return in a few nights when the dream recurred. It was bittersweet, because although the next morning felt empty, it held a comfort as well: a feeling of purpose that had been lacking in his life since he moved north. The days after the dream inevitably produced a breakthrough or a conclusion, as though just the presence of the mysterious woman in the back of his mind could free him to look at things in fresh ways and find new solutions to old problems. She was a paradox, a calming presence that drove his life in uncomfortable directions. The days when she did not spring to mind were both less stressful and less complete.

He was sure he had the beach nailed down. It was Black's Beach, in his hometown. While he had never been down on the sand, he had seen many pictures. An ex-girlfriend regularly sunbathed there, and she had told him how to get down the cliffs or walk along the beach from La Jolla Shores. What did not seem to jibe was that in his dreams the beach was always deserted. Black's Beach was one of the very few in the United States where nudity was tolerated, if no longer strictly legal, and his memories of pictures and conversations about Black's almost always involved a steady crowd despite the difficulty of access.

That Friday afternoon, the last weekday before Christmas, he decided that the time had come to figure out exactly why his subconscious created the recurring dream and mystery woman. It wasn't a difficult decision to make, given the allure of his destination. His job was the only thing holding him in Portland for the holidays, and work would not be a problem. His boss had been riding him since Thanksgiving about how--once again--the end of the year was upon them with only half his vacation time used. The sense of restlessness was starting to gnaw at the edges of his contentment. He wasn't unhappy in the Pacific northwest. He enjoyed his career and colleagues. Portland's people were friendly, and it had enough of the big city feel to keep him happy. Yet, with just a short drive, he could reach Skamania County on the Columbia River gorge and feel disconnected from his Monday through Friday grind. But, his life lacked something. It was just a feeling sometimes: an empty chair in the corner that looked wrong; walking outside the office on his lunch break and being halfway to his car before realizing he had absolutely no idea where he was going; standing in the hallway before leaving, patting his pockets and checking in his satchel, certain that something had been forgotten but unable to imagine what it might be. So he sat down at his desk, circled the week between Christmas and New Year's, cleared his calendar of appointments, and started planning his trip.

He still wasn't sure that it made a lot of sense, but he booked the flight anyway. What compelled him to make it at that time? Sure, his boss would like that it used another week of this year's paid time off, but he hated to travel during the holidays. The added stressors made people grouchy and annoyed. Lines were longer, too, with kids headed home from college and grandparents complaining about everything except seeing their grandchildren. He hoped he would never again accidentally overhear a gallbladder operation story. It just seemed like the trip had to be that week.

He expected to encounter significant barriers to such last-minute holiday travel. Thus, the mystery intensified when he was able to effortlessly reserve the last available room at his first choice of hotels and book the only remaining seat on the flight he wanted. He considered himself pretty skeptical, shunning the notion that something as ethereal as fate could influence his life path. Preordination got in the way and made his sense of adventure meaningless. After all, you weren't cheating death if you were meant to die twenty years later, right? Fate, destiny, and all that metaphysical crap were just ways for people to manipulate themselves away from the harder choices. Why work at something, after all, if you could just accept that it wasn't meant to happen?