We are parked again now. A spot closer to the water than the first. The beach was one of our destinations after all. I wasn't sure. There had been talk of beating the traffic. I know so little of LA traffic.
We walk down to a cove. A hidden gem.
It is easy to find a place a place to unfurl a blanket.
Young teen girls, blonde, still fair skinned, athletic- California to the core- play pyramid and splash in the surf. I wonder at their two piece suits and that they are not in school. Older folk, more clothed, sit and let the sun dissolve their thoughts.
In time, both of my companions strip and aim themselves at the waves.
They let their bodies be jostled by the water giant.
Content with my notebook and pen, I do not go be laughingly drowned.
I turn my back to the sun. Under my hat, I feel rising heat tug the water out of me.
A man sits topless and cross legged in the dry sand to meditate. Or so it seems.
In the very next moment he is spitting into the sand and laying down. His actions registers as repugnant to me.
I look away from him uncertain if I want to spend any observational effort on such a self-involved creature.
But inexplicably he begins to walk on his hands.
I give him a few more seconds of my time.
Clearly, he is very proud of his physical accomplishments. If only his spirit were in such capable shape.
A couple of hours to avoid the general rush to get home? Is that possible to avoid?
The amused girls squeal.
A crow calls.
The freeway is far away. The country I am in is far away. Mexico is far away.
Adrift thoughts anchor as I my drenched friends return to the blanket. They dry and dress once more. Though I am content to sit and write, I am invited to explore the tide pools off to our right. I accept this offer.
One agrees stay to watch our belongings.
Two are free to clamber over rough and wet surfaces.
I feel unusually certain on this terrain. Using all my limbs every once in a while for balance feels very natural.
We peer into so many different scrying glasses. Every possible reality just a bit different than the next.
Careful not to disturb any of the pools with an indelicate step, my canvas shoes soak through from the tide's unpredictability anyway.
A guide is available to explain the shore life to us. On such a lovely day there are three or four of them leading on small groups of curious people with fancy cameras.
They boast that the cove's ecosystem is recovering after some sparse years. All thanks to their preservation efforts.
In direct opposition to the posted (and guide reiterated) rules, I keep two small shells in my pocket. I remain confident the cove will continue to mend itself just fine, in spite of my transgression.
Just before feeling that we have over-indulged ourselves in this daydream retreat, we go. Back to the car. Back to the freeway.
Happy to have been there. Happy to get moving.