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H e looks at me with grey/blue eyes all at once liquid and stone, set in a placid face. I love it when he's relaxed; sometimes when he is wound-up and turbulent, he appears furious and I stay away. "I forgive you," he says, and I am moved at the beauty of those words. I have more than 20 years worth of apologies to make to him. "Thank you," is all that comes out of my mouth. "I'm giving you another chance. You've worked hard, improved so much. But, still, I'm curious to know what started you down the wrong path when there are so many lovely ones you could have taken? Right here, in your own backyard—pardon the pun." I think before answering him, dig- ging deep for an explanation. I feel like a recovered brat, a formerly inse- cure outsider. "Your wealth. Your beauty. It was all so intimidating at first. I was always quivering in your shadows. And shivering when you were cold. Also, I was young," I explain. "You were 30 years old," he replies. "A lot of women are still weak—not weak, but lacking direc- tion—in their thirties. And forties. Shit, even in their fifties," I argue back, fiddling with my sleeves, pushing them up to my elbows because he's brought the warmth today. "Watch your language," he says, his voice a wave slapping the jagged, brown/orange rocks. "The tourists will hear you." "Well, they're part of it, too," I say, pointing their way. "I used to hate how many people vied for your attention. Then, you had to bring in all that damn fog—all year long it felt." "Again, language. Watch it. And you do love to exaggerate. I give you fewer than 100 days a year like that, and still, you've com- plained since '95. Do you know the Comfort Index here is 79 out of 100? The higher the better, and the national average is 44?" He looks down on me, shining in his correctness, his greens not tinged with envy, his smile as wide as Stillwater Cove. I used to see his eyes so differently, even though they always peeked at me like a glimpse of sun, giving me a chance. "Cold—always so cold," I'd gossip behind his back, wonder- ing if he had the capacity to feel warmth. It was I who couldn't absorb the heat. I took vitamin D and hyaluronic acid supple- ments instead of learning to appreciate him organically. Time wasted. Dumb move. "Can I tell you how I really feel?" I ask. He gives his approval—a sharp ray of light in my eyes, throwing me a spec- trum of insight; to the sore calf muscles from walking his inclines and coveted 200-yard Taylor Made drives; to the songs of coyotes and piles of horse poop; to the cars driving the wrong direction, voices in mangled English asking for help; to the views that'd make a world traveler cry. "I admire you so much; perhaps even more than Wailea, Oia, Dubrovnik, Cape Town. Your shoulders are so broad, fertile with strength and life. You carry landmarks in your arms and you don't complain. And those visitors, like ants, clamoring for a place on every part of you." I kneel before him and continue. "I claimed my spot on you decades ago and treated you like a lover who annoyed the crap out of me, but one I couldn't break up with. It took a crisis for me to realize how much I love you. Wow. I said it. I love you." He doesn't verbalize his thanks, instead sending foamy, frigid water over my shins, soaking my shoes. It doesn't even bother me. I'm usually attracted by smell, basing any solid relationship on pheromones. But, it's the absence of smell that makes him so fragrant. Some days, I convince myself that I can smell his saltiness, or the blossoms that are confused by the reverse sea- sons he seems to love to throw at us. But, really, all that regis- ters olfactorily is the cleanliness of his air. If I breathe deeply enough, I can feel his history and rocky wisdom. All paths lead to him; they always have. I've walked them 100 times. Each time, the portrait shifts; he uses a grey palette 98 days a year. Not my favorite. But, man, when he whips out the blues—the indigo, cobalt, stone and slate, cerulean, lapis, arctic and berry—there's nothing like him. Nothing. I already said I love you, right? I really do. Dina Eastwood is a former news anchor at KSBW TV, past host of "Candid Camera" and has starred on a reality show on the E! Network. She is a writer, editor and yogini. She resides on the Monterey Peninsula with her daughter, Morgan. BEHIND THE SPOTLIGHT D I N A E A S T W O O D H stone, set in a placid face. I love it when he's relaxed; sometimes when he is wound-up and turbulent, he appears furious and I stay away. moved at the beauty of those words. I have more than 20 I used to see his eyes so differently, even though they always peeked at me like a glimpse of sun, giving me a chance. H e looks at me with grey/blue peeked at me like a glimpse of sun, giving me a chance. H Love Letter to Pebble Beach 42 C A R M E L M A G A Z I N E • H O L I D A Y 2 0 1 6