If you build it...
Ever since I met Keith, my husband’s brother-in-law, he’s talked about this little plot of land by the coast down in Baja California, where he dreamed of building something where his family and friends could gather to fish, surf, cook, eat, and watch the stars. To show my husband and his sister, Holly, the exact location of his dream, Keith took them on a 13-hour car ride from San Diego, most of which was on unpaved roads, until they arrived on a stretch of rocky beach called Abre Ojos (“open eyes”). This was in 1999 and there was absolutely nothing there – just the ocean and smear of stars above. They pitched a tent and all night, the wind blew their flimsy shelter this way and that. In that moment, my husband admitted, it was not exactly apparent how this dream could ever be realized. On the way back to San Diego, Keith stopped at various places along the coast where they swam in the ocean and dove for clams, and ate fish tacos at roadside shacks. In the light of day, swimming in the ocean, my husband began to understand a little (being in the ocean is the way he understands most things). But how Keith would actually build something in this very remote location when his and Holly’s life was in San Diego was still unclear.
Over the years, Keith continued to talk about his vision. I remember when my husband and I drove down to Rosarito from San Diego for Keith and Holly’s wedding, how much that had opened my eyes to a part of Baja culture. The fish tacos and ceviche were unpretentious and simple – just fresh seafood and a squeeze of lime. On our drive, we stopped by a bakery and I was surprised and delighted (and curious) to find that the concha, a round, sweet bread, looked incredibly similar to one of my favorite sweet breads from Taiwanese bakeries called 墨西哥 (“Mexico”)! People in coastal Baja were kind and easy-going and made you feel immediately like family, not dissimilar to the way Taiwanese people are. I felt I could imagine the kind of unharried oceanside culture Keith wanted to build in, but being a city kid, I had no idea what actual building meant.
Over the years, my husband and I moved farther and farther away from Holly and Keith – first we were in New York, then Singapore, Hong Kong, and finally, Taiwan. Our growing families got together regularly over the winter holidays and summer vacations and each time, Keith would tell us about the progress he’d made on Abre Ojos. But because the life my husband and I were building (nothing we built was with our actual hands) was so different – the contrast between big metropolises and sleepy ocean towns could not be more stark –Keith’s dream receded into the distance.
This summer, more than 25 years after my husband’s first trip to Abre Ojos, we brought our family to the Black Bass Lodge, the place that Keith and Holly built – brick by brick and tile by tile with their hands – a solid structure that houses Keith’s early dreams, a place where family and friends can gather to fish, surf, cook, eat, and stargaze. It’s still not easy to get to – and that is part of its magic – but once there, we unhinged from whatever urban concerns just hours ago felt urgent and dire and surrendered to the lull of the ocean waves. Before retiring to bed the first night, Keith turned off all the lights in the lodge and we climbed the stairs to the roof and tilted our heads back. In Taipei, because of all the light pollution, we’re lucky if we can see a handful of stars at night – and often, when we point at a star, it moves away and we realize it’s actually an airplane. Being able to see the mass of stars across the sky – and clearly make out the chalky smudge that is the Milky Way – that was the moment I understood Keith’s vision and how this had to be the exact place for him to build his dream. In the morning, I woke early and sat on the balcony to write and read. I could barely see my own writing in the glare of the sun, but I tried to describe the sense of simultaneous knowing and unknowing while stargazing the previous night. Being able to wake to the sounds of the ocean, I felt time and space become liquid – soft and malleable, enveloping.
Everyone dreams of different things. But it is a beautiful thing to be invited to witness the realization of someone’s imagination. And it is an even greater beauty to see when people can share dreams and make them real together, as Keith and Holly have done. Right before we left Taiwan for our summer travels, my husband and I celebrated our 20th wedding anniversary (our 28th year of being together). I gave us an assignment to prepare before our dinner, which was to write about how we envisioned our retirement – not the extraordinary travels or bucket-list things we might do when we have more time, but a regular day after the children are grown and our work has slowed down. What does the start of the day look like? What are the sounds that we hear, the languages spoken, perhaps, in the local market? What are some things we could do outside the house and are we nearby other family and friends? How does the sun set - over the ocean or behind mountains? We shared our visions over a bottle of wine.
I don’t take for granted that we dream the same dream.
For more on the Black Bass Lodge, watch this excellent documentary by Keith and Holly’s older son, Calvin.