I knew her as Frances. She had many names, but I only knew Frances.
On an overcast morning in early November I was surprised to see surfers in their wet suits trekking over to Del Playa and then on to Sands beach. It appeared it was their last-ditch effort to surf before autumnal breakers transformed into winter squalls. The mood of the surfers obeyed duty to the waves, more than to the shear fun of surfing. Their faces were as blank as the gray clouds that hung like tapestry from the Santa Ynez mountains.