Bum, I am

The drive is the adventure. It's the fleeing that's exciting. It's the company that's stupendous. It's the beach that's the destination.

It seems like this time of year was a constant norm for me as long as I can recall. We would pack up in a car, cooler and towels where they would fit between anxious legs smiles that threw little caution to the wind. The windows would have to be down, even with the valley heat pouring past. Out of the valley and into Calabasas and through the grass desert mountains spotted with gandering oak trees. It was breakfast with the Beatles, if it were Sunday, or the Beach Boys to ride shotgun up the 101.

The canyon could be the scariest part, but only to my sister. I loved to imagine flying off of the cliff to the left and climbing the rocks to the right. The conversations were always so meaningful, even if they were about who liked Coke or Pepsi better. Hold on, raise your hands and hold your breath two or three times and look for the naked lady in the rear view. Or just turn around. Sliding through the passes rolling over the peaks, the ocean seemingly always cutting the valley even wider in it's awesome display of blue.

PCH was the end all, right or left. Too many choices, and with the correct one, would soon see Zuma. You'd pay to park, or nearly get killed by the flying cars out on the road trying to find a gap between the other bums. Too excited to have started the day, you forgot your sandals or to put them on. You skip across the asphalt playfully, but dangerously into the even hotter sand. As a kid, you'd run from your mom holding the sunscreen and be in the surf before the umbrella was even unsheathed from it's carrier. As a teenager, you wouldn't waste the time either. The waves, glistening and calling for a Hasselhoff sprint into the offshore break.

All day, your plans would change, and one idea would become better than the other. When you weren't scoping out the babes walking to and fro, or swimming out further past the waves, you'd be fighting over PB&J's or control of the boom box. You'd toss a football and regret sliding in the sand. All day, from start to finish, your energy endless. No one would ever want to leave, and much as the rise of the day you'd fight your mom or responsible member of friend for five more minutes. A cold shower to knock off as much sand as you could, but still knowing whose ever car used would still need vacuuming.

Your nap would last only as long as the swerving and ear compression would allow as you climbed back through the three virgins' canyon. You knew you'd be stopping and getting a shake, somewhere, someplace, even if it were going to be a quick In n' Out. You couldn't recount the fun that you had, no matter how you concentrated. But you'd sleep well in the night, and do it again tomorrow.

Nothing like anything else. Paradise, defined.


... the west coast has the sunshine, and the girls all get so tan...