Like a migratory pattern or a circadian rhythm, something internal compels you toward the horizon. It is Laguna, so this is an unofficial ritual, no RSVP, shoes or shirt required, but it is abidingly observed nonetheless. Sunset is a ceremony that all of the best places you’ve ever been tend to revere, their priorities seemingly on the straighter and narrower. You race down a steeply rounded shoulder of pavement, shedding sandals, dresses and worry as your feet hit the sand, your eyes never straying from that glowing orb making its swift descent in the distance. And suddenly you’re plunged into the ebb, paddling past the pools of rock to an ethereally quiet pocket of blue. Gravity releases as you recline, your head rising just in time to watch the sun tuck behind the farthest ocean reaches, a blaze of glory left in its wake.