I grew up alone from birth in the middle of a lush thicket of golden currant shrubs on an abandoned island off the western coast of Southern California. It’s not identified on any maps and nearly impossible to find if you don’t know the right sea life. When my salt-baked skin was well crusted over—a high tide swept me away and floated my near-weightless body to the California shore, while I napped under the stars (oblivious to my predicament). A small pack of coyotes dragged my ass from the shore to a small grove of scrub oaks on a hillside near San Luis Obispo where I live now.
You didn’t want the truth anyway, did you?
