Not a day went by that my parents didn’t hate Eureka. The cold, the damp, the drizzle, the smells of fishing and wood mills were utterly foreign to their San Diego-driven view of the universe. When I breath its sulfur and anchovie essence , I once again race my bike through a stinging cloud of droplets, excited, happy to reach Stubby’s birthday party in the mud and slippery green grass.

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