Last June, I left Santa Cruz with two paper maps, a thermos of coffee, and no promise to be anywhere by sunset. The little bus climbed out past Davenport, where the sea kept appearing between eucalyptus trunks and every pull-off looked like a reasonable place to stop.
Leave a little blank space on the map
By the third morning, the best directions came from people rather than signs. A mechanic in Fort Bragg marked a quiet cove in green pencil; a family at the fruit stand sent us inland for warm bread. We arrived late, dusty, and exactly on time for the light.