The campground itself is nestled tightly between the two mountain ridges that tower high and close above. The mouth of the ridges opens up to the vast blue of the pacific. The beach is guarded on both sides by seawalls and rocks that fall into perfect formation or stand out for their own attention, white foam smashing and leaping to grab hold and tear down their defiance. The foam staying near, not defeated, as defiant as the rock itself. It lingers.
The beautiful blue water is always cold but refreshing, like the beer half buried in ice. The activities on the drift wood and rock filled beach seem to vary between the dog chasing the tennis ball, or kiddies building sand castles or narrowly escaping the splash of waves. From picnicking and barbecuing to running with the sand squishing through your toes. Or as simple as laying, listening to tunes reading and watching the sun glinted waves roll in. The beach is always the funnest adventure, and when it comes to my family and friends, we've always at least made one.
The mornings in the campground, the neighbor to the beach, separated only by the Pacific Coast Highway, are always good mornings. The fires embers still give off their heat from the long nights before, with coffee brewin', eggs cookin', and the morning sun pampering the sleep from you. After a breakfast or two, it's always the best time to start the days adventure. With a backpack full of goodies and water to boot, a relaxing hike to the summit of one of the coast keepers allows for that humbling tell tell of human existence. As you look westward, the ocean with it's thousand diamonds strewn across it's endless blanket, and below you to the east, the sycamore and oak trees like shrubs from such a heighth, the realization sets in. How small we really are. How vast the world is, and how wonderful it is to stand at the top, feel the breeze and smell the salty air.
After a race to the bottom, the sweat working up the perfect excuse for a mid-morning dip. Dive under a wave or two, and catch one back to shore. The appetite has grown and it's time to refuel. Of all of the divine foods in the world, none even remotely compare to that of a creamy peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich cut into four triangles, and crust-less. Another few hours spent in the caress of the pacific, ending with a dangerous ascent up the seagull covered cliffs and watching the sunset on the horizon. The blue of the water no longer, only that of the matching hues of the reds and oranges of the fire burning in the sky. You sit close with friends, arms wrapped around the backs of one another, waves crashing low beneath, spraying you with the fingertips of it's touch. You all talk, enjoy the company of one another, but eventually the conversations stop. Cease to exist. You sit and stare at the falling sun, the never ending horizon, and the never ending assault of waves coming forward. It's too much to take in, and the many questions scramble in your head. You scratch your thoughts until you figure it out, why the feeling inside is so warm. Then if it was almost to obvious, you put your finger right on it. You have your little slice of heaven. An error in the gods construction, they left part of their kingdom accessible to mortals. You breath it in, and hold your breath. It's to clean and crisp a breath to ever let out.
Back at the tents the fire is holding the cold of a night at the shore back. It's flames lighting the area enough to see faces, but not fully. You drink a beer and eat your carne. Roast some mallows and tell stories. After you wash the sticky off the cheeks and throw on a sweatshirt and pants, you can't but stroll back towards the beach. The starry night, complimented by a few moonlit clouds and white of waves of the black sea and sky. Sitting in the cool sand, you stare for hours, talk without saying a word, and hope there is no cleaning crew coming from the heavens to sweep up this gods mess. You exhale finally, and have to admit that life is that good.
Shine on you crazy diamond...
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