California Sunday Mornings

I’m in a state park in Southern California, high on a bluff, 100 feet above a well-worn beach and the noise of the sea. A cool salt breeze causes ripples in my Seattle Supersonics T-shirt. The warm sun on my neck reminds me to keep my already burned face pointed west. I silently chide myself for not bringing sunscreen and wonder if after this morning, my neck will match my nose and forehead.

For a moment there is no horizon. The world and the sky have combined and dance softly between gray and blue. Somewhere in that haze the sky meets the Pacific.

Part of the beauty of this place is the sound. Growing up on the Great Plains of the Midwest, I know the wind as a relentless battering ram. It buffers your ears against most other sounds you might rather hear. Today, however, the wind is subtle. It gently wraps itself around my ear and is more cool than loud. What I hear today is the constant, inconsistent roar of water crashing into itself and the rocky shore. Nothing else is audible.

It is tempting, sitting on gravelly sand a hundred feet in the air, to throw something. I want to launch a pebble or small stone into the sky and watch it plummet toward the beach below until it falls out of site beyond the bluff and all I can do is listen to see if I can hear it reunite with the earth. I would do it if I were ten years old once again. But I am not. Instead I am old enough to know that somewhere directly below me is the path that leads to the beach and directly below the path, is the beach. While there aren’t many people here, there are a few. Joggers. Walkers. Most of them pause and stretch at a spot just below me. Right down there, just out of site. It is at that spot that they stretch before beginning their Sunday morning exercise. So I pick up a small stone, turn back into the hill, and give it a short toss into the thick vegetation. It is not nearly as much fun. I am also not ten years old.

The land I occupy is right on the edge of the bluff. It is not far from a path but a small ridge keeps my location hidden. I’ve been here since about 7:30 It has been peaceful.

It is 8:47 A.M. My solitude is broken now by a family. Dad comes first. He pops quickly up on top of the ridge ready to claim this spot for his family’s Sunday picnic brunch. He stops, sees me sitting just six feet away. He is irritated. For a moment, he just stares. His fingers clutch the plastic bag wrapped around his L. A. Times just a little tighter. He is wearing tan shorts, a black T-shirt, white sweat socks, tennis shoes, and aviator sunglasses. I’m irritated. He’s invaded my space. I silently return his stare. He turns, faces north and determinedly, quickly makes his way up the bluff to find his spot.

Just seven seconds behind the father is his teenage son. Remarkably, the son is wearing tan shorts, a black T-shirt, white sweat socks, tennis shoes, and sunglasses. He looks at me for just a second. He couldn’t care less that I’ve occupied this space. He turns to follow his father.

As the men are about to disappear over the bluff, the teenage little sister appears. She pays absolutely no attention to me. She is simply irritated. It is, after all, vacation. She ought to be able to sleep in. Now she’s going to be stuck with her family in some isolated spot for as long as it takes her father to read the Sunday paper. She had tried to talk them into going all the way down to the beach. There she could escape. She could walk by herself along the edge of the water and maybe even get a chance to talk to those guys that are surfing. Instead she is trapped.

Finally, just behind the daughter, comes Mother. In her right hand she holds a large plastic bag filled with all of the necessary ingredients for Sunday brunch at the beach. She appears over the ridge but doesn’t stop to look. Instead, she offers a quick smile and an awkward wave with her free hand. She leans forward slightly as she begins to make the trip up and over the bluff. Slowly, mother and daughter disappear and I am alone again.