My beach is usually ranked the second or third dirtiest in California. Nobody cares because the city rakes it clean-looking every day. Maybe it’s just the water that’s dirty. It would make sense because of the many seabirds, and the many sea lions, and the small harbor seals, that take turn defecating right in there, even with a modest contribution from the occasional sea otter. Nobody cares about that either. In the summer and much of the year, that beach is thronged. Nobody get sick or if they do, they die off quickly, away from where one would take notice.
It’s a straightforward beach. It extends from the Santa Cruz wharf on the left, facing the ocean, to a cliff, 400 or 500 yards, to the right. I should note that the right side of the beach is to the West and so is the cliff. So it gets in the shade first. So everything I am going to describe should be viewed dynamically, with people migrating from right to left during the afternoon to avoid the growing shade.
In the back of the left side of the beach is the pricey Dream Inn. The Inn has a discreet door giving directly on the beach, for members only, leading to a swimming pool and a Jacuzzi. My granddaughter and a few other young girls have perfected the art of slipping themselves in with a guest who possesses the magic card.
The entrance to the beach itself is about 1/4th to the right of the wharf when you face the sea. People arrange themselves in recognizable and remarkably stable segments throughout the years. This goes for people who don’t know each other. I don’t see why but it’s a curious enough phenomenon to report it.
To the extreme left, against the wharf, come Mexican families. Their children don’t know how to swim but they enter the water exactly where the waves are always the roughest. It’s OK; everything is going to be alright. And it is, as far as I know, and I frequent that beach three or four times a week, year around. It’s true that Mexican adults are often in the water with their children though. That would explain the low mortality.
Next, on a very small slice of beach directly in front of to the entrance, lie the very few black families that find their way to this beach. (They may go to the more obvious and more obviously public beach to the left of the wharf known as “Main Beach.” I wouldn’t know; I have never set foot there.) The small black children wade in the water completely unsupervised. No adult or teenager ever goes in. If you see a black man bathing or swimming, you can be completely sure that he is a foreigner. And he sits in a different segment of the beach, among white people.
That segment of the beach, the one with white people, a little to the left of the entrance is frankly a mixed bag. (And, by the way, I don’t mean to say that it has only white people, just mainly white people.) That’s where the lifeguard tower is in the summer, some sort of signal, I imagine. It takes in different kinds of people affiliated and unaffiliated, in small groups and in twos. Most interestingly, this is where the beginners tend to sit. You know the beginners by two things. First, they have everything that might be useful at the beach, including chairs, a tent, a football, several base-balls, and other balls of mysterious destination. Second, everything they have is brand new, right out of the department store. Easy for me to be smirky. I live five minutes from the beach. If I had to drive hundreds of miles to spend a weekend at the beach, I might want to pack in a much as possible, to really enjoy the experience.
A little to the left of this, close to the water, from 2 to 4 there is a blurb of towels and discarded clothing. These belong to the swimmers. I mean, the real swimmers who swim to the buoys and back in the cold, cold, cold Pacific of the central coast of California. I would think that two out of three swimmers are women. Full disclosure: I never join them but I do swim a little bit, ingloriously, parallel to the beach, when both the water and the atmosphere warm up. My relationship to the swimmers is made up of equal part envy and admiration. I salute them cordially, nevertheless. They spend little time on the beach but they play a large part in my beach consciousness.
Near the lifeguard tower many little kids play in the water. Their parents are often close by but almost never in the water with them. That’s true even when the waves are big enough to roll a small child. It’s driving me crazy. Hello, you are going to the beach, can’t you have enough forethought to wear shorts or a skirt you can hike up? Deuh!
To the right of the lifeguard tower lies a vast expense of low density beach. This is where the whitey-white families sit, lie, and stand. You know who they are. They have two or three impeccably blond children. Note that it’s not necessary for both parent to be blond. One is enough because blond hair is dominant in children. Their belongings are neatly stored away on a beach cloth. All the members- except, often the mother – sport real O’Neil wetsuits. The children have boogie-boards and the adults and older children have surfboards. I don’t know how many actually surf. I would think that most but not all of them do. It’s a mystery I will soon elucidate. Still, I am endlessly puzzled by the fact that whitey-white families occupy the very space contiguous with the smallest waves generally available on this beach.
Against the cliff, about one third to one half of the beach, if you pay attention, you will often see a small tent. There is a bicycle parked nearby. That’s a homeless person who set up camp there hoping to occupy too little space, to be too small to be chased away. I don’t know exactly why but I think the gambit might just work. I think nobody cares because the homeless are only bothersome in large numbers and where they colonize important spaces.
The density of occupation goes down as you move right or West, or away from the entrance to the beach. The next spot is occupied, spottily, by surfing schools. There are seldom more than seven or eight members per school. Surfing student are easy to spot because they move in groups and they wear the colored t-shirts of their school over their wetsuits. That’s so the instructors can spot them in the water and try to bring them all back. (But, frankly, win some, lose some.) They never stay long on the beach. They gesticulate for a few minutes under the direction of their instructor. Then, they depart on their surfboards, paddling toward the moderate waves a few hundreds yards a way. But since you seldom see them coming back on the same portion of beach, the worst can easily be imagined. It’s none of my business, I guess.
Finally, at the extreme right of the beach, next to the cliff, there are always, but I mean always, a few pot smokers. This is kind of a mystery. The smoking of recreational marijuana has been legal in California for several years. Why would they seek isolation? I see two possibilities. First, smoking in general is not allowed on the whole beach and these guy are complying though the rule is probably seldom enforced, and certainly not at the far, deserted end of the beach. Second, the pot smokers, in their delicateness want to save the public from the emanations of the stink weed. Pleasant thought; speaks well of them; good people. Groovy, man. Far out!
And then, there is stuff going on across the whole beach. One guy who looks twelve from afar and forty from close on is there every day from 4 to 5 with his slide board. That’s the board you use to slide from the beach into the small waves at the edge. The guy has not visibly improved in four years. Perseverance. That’s what I like.
La Guerre de Gaza (suite)
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