The West Coast has an undeniable cool kid vibe. In the cliques of American culture, my East Coast surf kingdom of Virginia Beach is on the fringe, chasing popularity with our inferior waves and winter suns. When traveling the coast of California, I recognize my tribe, my people of the sun and of the sea, but I also feel like an outsider on these beaches and coastal highways. Something in the picture perfect magazine swells, boutique surf towns, and blond flamingo girls pushes these places out of reach even for this beach girl and my surfer boys.
Like most cool kids, California has money, and money in some places can buy a swath of ocean and sand. Along the movie scenery coastline, millionaires block access to the ocean with private driveways and gated compounds like a jewel they keep locked away in a safe. Every seaside town has the same beach access problem. We have two areas of Virginia Beach with expensive ocean views, Croatan and the North End; but, the houses located here, are not tucked away on private beaches. They may be a little harder to find then the bullseye of the Boardwalk but locals know the neighborhood beach streets available for parking with lovely pathways that lead right to the shore. I’m sure California has locals only beach spots and coveted secret parking spaces, too; but, even with our guidebooks, we couldn’t find many of them.
So much of the California coastline seems to be protected or hoarded. On the days we did see it, the Pacific was all lush shades of navy and indigo. When we stopped along the way at various overlooks, I felt like a beggar at the table being tossed a bone. Thanks for the peek at the Pacific! Standing with the other peasants, I noticed everyone gazing at the sea with the same serene expression and awed appreciation. Perhaps, the only universal form of meditation is staring at the sea.
At another vista crowded with onlookers, we came upon a pile of elephant seals lazing on the beach like sunbathers; a long way from Southern California and Muscle Beach and bronzed hip bones holding up bikini floss. Elephant seals are fat and amazing and like all true sunbathers, filled with sloth. I think they may be my spirit animal. The grunting seals are not getting up to play paddle ball on the beach for a little exercise and healthy sweat. They just want to loll on the sand with friends who like to loll, too. They never try to flatten their stomach rolls by laying on their backs all sucked in and splayed stiff to the sun.
Occasionally, the elephant seals do lift their heavy bodies and heave with giant inchworm choreography into the shore break to cool off and to play. In the water and waves, they are transformed into agile and graceful mermaids. That’s how my daughter and I always feel in the water. We forget our bodies for a while because the ocean makes us feel light and lithe like feathers, like skinny girls.
Of course, we don’t actually swim with the elephant seals. In fact, we barely swim at all in the Pacific Ocean. On the winding road of the Pacific Coast Highway, to my stranger eyes, the waters feel decorative, not recreational. I have no longing for home on this traveling trail next to the deep blue sea teaming with exotic lazy beasts. This is why we take to the open road. We leave the familiar for landscapes we’ve only ever seen on screens. We drive thousands of miles to witness new seas and skies.
I don’t recognize these winds, these tides, these miles of road. There are no time-worn tracks of mine down to the beach. I’ve never felt the quaking of the earth, only hurricane eyes.
The geologists and cartographers could tell me why the California coastline undulates like this, the forces at work, the history in these rocks. But the glorious view needs no explanation. In our busy, crowded concrete lives, the scenic overlook is how most of us will commune with nature. Maybe we would all be better off if we stopped five times a day, bowed to the oceans or the mountains and prayed.
The coastal cliffs here keeping watch over the water seem more formidable than the sand dunes with wispy sea grass I am used to at home. Still, the cliffs are no match for the infinite muscle of Poseidon who will have his way, carving and shaping the land, creator and destroyer in equal measure. We ride along the Pacific Coast Highway feeling the architecture of his work as we curve this way and that way searching for a path to the sea.
Finally, we stop at Sand Dollar Beach on the Central Coast. It feels more rugged here, rural even, unlike the exported surf culture of Huntington or Malibu. But this is still Beach Boys country, and I can’t help but hear the harmonies on the California Coast. Here is their inspiration, the curling break for catching a wave, surfer girls by the ocean’s roar, and the warmth of the sun enough to soothe any broken heart. This is my father’s music, the music of his youth, the last songs he heard before adulthood hooked him and reeled him to the other side. I can’t help but to think of my parents as I watch the waves crash; then, recover and crash again.
My parents grew up in Virginia Beach mostly and were childhood sweethearts. My dad spent many days surfing through the sixties with my mother watching from the shore. By the time I came along, he had stopped surfing. In my mind I can see him paddling out, turning around, catching a wave and sitting on top of the world like the song says; but, I guess we can’t be teenagers forever or surfers looking for endless waves and simple lives. At some point, we lose the childish wonder of the sea as a faithful friend always waiting for us to call.
My Dad is semi-retired now after 40 years of teaching and coaching. Sometimes he comes to the beach with us. He watches his grandsons paddling out to wait with Zen-like patience for the perfect swell until finally, they turn, and rise with such youthful ease and stand inside a miraculous and powerful wave. He smiles a knowing kind of smile different from my own gushing hoot and holler for my small baby fish turned into surfer boys. My father watches as a fellow rider, appreciating the scene with gratitude maybe, knowing that his love has transferred to the next generation. I watch, amazed by the spectacle and barely able to contain my celebration.
I clap every time my boys ride a wave because they look bigger and better than anything I ever thought I could make, standing tall in sunlight and sea spray like the prow of a great ship. They are kings of the world and eternal beach boys.