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Breezes of August is a quiet, sensory-rich reflection on how small disruptions in a day can deepen its beauty. Its artistry lies in its restraint—letting the Pacific breeze, the seals, the flicker of police lights, and even a low gas warning serve as narrative “beads,” strung together into a meditation on unpredictability, companionship, and the fleeting texture of summer.

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Breezes of August

By Harry Arabian

It was an exceptionally hot Sunday—the kind that made the streets shimmer and the air feel heavy. After hours of the relentless hum of the air conditioner, Marie and I decided we’d had enough. We slipped into the car and headed for the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH), letting the road carry us toward the promise of cooler air.

The ocean appeared like a sheet of hammered silver, the horizon lost in a soft haze. We rolled the windows down, and the sea breeze rushed in—cool, salty, alive. As we wound through Newport Bay, I noticed a cluster of canoes gliding across the calm water, their paddles dipping in rhythm and sending ripples out like quiet applause.

I leaned toward Marie. “You remember when we used to do that?”

She turned, a smile softening her face. “Of course I do.”

For a moment, it wasn’t Sunday in the sweltering present—it was years ago, our canoe cutting through the water, the sun warm but not oppressive, our laughter carrying across the bay. The breeze off the Pacific seemed to return those memories to us, and we drove on, windows open, content in the gentle revival of something we hadn’t realized we’d been missing.

At the intersection of PCH and Jamboree, the light turned red. Just as it shifted back to green, flashing lights appeared in my rearview mirror. I pulled to the side, expecting the police car to pass. Instead, it stopped behind us.

“Maybe we crossed on a red light,” I thought, glancing at Marie.

I lowered the window, the warm air pushing in as the officer approached.

“Hello, folks,” he said—friendly but direct. “I noticed you have no brake lights on your vehicle. There’s a gas station about a hundred feet away; they might be able to look into it. I’ll follow you to keep you safe.”

We thanked him and eased forward, the patrol car a quiet escort in our mirror until we rolled into the gas station.

The lot was nearly empty, the heat rippling off the pavement. Next door, the service lanes of a Jiffy Lube stood open and quiet, a few young mechanics gathered in the shade, talking idly as they waited for the next customer.

“Welcome to Jiffy Lube,” the service supervisor called out with a friendly grin. “How can we help you today?”

I explained about the brake light, and he nodded. “You’re in the right place.”

Within moments, the trunk was open and the burnt bulb replaced. It took less than three minutes—fast enough that Marie and I barely had time to step out of the shade.

With a wave of thanks, we were back on PCH, the Pacific still glittering ahead.

Marie glanced at me. “It seems flashing police lights, brake lights, and a trip to Jiffy Lube were an unexpected incident. You look a bit stressed. Perhaps a fresh, cold hibiscus tea will relax you and lower your blood pressure.”

I spotted a Starbucks in the distance. The left-turn light was green, so I swung the car toward it and parked right in front. Inside, the air was cool and fragrant with coffee. We ordered our drinks and found the first empty table.

I took a few quick sips of the tart, ruby-red tea, letting the coldness spread through me. Sitting there with Marie, I tried to let the memory of the flashing lights fade into the background, the day’s earlier calm slowly returning.

Once we felt fully relaxed, Marie suggested, “Why don’t we make one more stop before heading home?”

We decided on the Dana Point Headlands, a place we both knew but hadn’t visited in a long while. The drive south felt unhurried, the Pacific glittering beside us. When we pulled into the small parking lot, it seemed no one else had the same idea—it was as if the day had been reserved just for us.

The trailhead waited quietly, a soft breeze carrying the scent of salt and wild coastal sage. As we walked along the bluff, the view opened to the harbor below, its waters shifting from deep blue to jade in the changing light.

Out near the channel, a few harbor seals sprawled lazily across the buoys, their slick bodies catching the sun. Every so often, one would lift its head and let out a sharp, playful yelp that carried up to where we stood. The sound mingled with the low murmur of the tide against the rocks—a rhythm as old as the coastline itself.

Marie leaned against the railing, smiling. “It’s like they know they’re putting on a show.”

We stayed for a while, watching the seals, breathing in the salt air, and letting the last bits of the day’s earlier tension dissolve completely. Eventually, we turned back toward the parking lot, the sun beginning its slow drop toward the horizon.

But a small surprise was waiting. When I started the car, the low gas light blinked on.

Marie, still riding a little high on caffeine from her hibiscus tea, spotted it immediately. “Oh no—low gas! What if we get stuck?”

“Don’t panic,” I said, smiling. “Costco Gas is only two miles down the street. This isn’t my first rodeo. We’ve got at least two gallons left—plenty to get there.”

She wasn’t convinced. “Are you sure we have at least two gallons in the gas tank?”

“Positive,” I replied. “Thirteen gallons will fill the tank.”

Marie raised an eyebrow. “If you’re right, you’ve earned yourself dinner at Roberto’s in San Juan Capistrano.”

“Deal,” I said.

We rolled into the Costco gas station a few minutes later. To our surprise, every lane was wide open—no lines, no waiting.

“Looks like they’re closed,” Marie said, peering through the windshield.

“Nope—the pumps are open,” I told her, pulling up to one. “Just the latest in our string of surprises today.”

As the nozzle clicked into place and the numbers on the pump began to climb, the sun dipped lower over the Pacific. Our day—part ocean breeze, part flashing lights, part seals, part near-empty gas tank—was winding down with a quiet kind of satisfaction.

As we left the station and pointed the car toward home, I thought about how the day had unfolded—beginning with a simple search for a cool breeze and ending with a trail of small, unexpected turns. Brake lights, hibiscus tea, harbor seals, and a nearly empty gas tank had all found their way into the same Sunday, woven together like beads on a string. Marie sipped the last of her tea, smiling out at the fading coastline, and I realized that sometimes the best days aren’t the ones that go exactly as planned, but the ones that surprise you all the way through.