People griped about the traffic. They lamented having too little free time to lie in the sun. They complained about litter in the sand and a lack of lifeguards. And yes, people said . . . it really is just too cold. "What, the water?" I asked. Yes. "Or the air?" Yes, that too.
But as I continued to drive around, visiting Ocean Beach in San Francisco, Sausalito, Tiburon, Richmond, Oakland, San Jose, and Santa Clara, a different vision began to emerge. There was the Sonoma State University lecturer who raved about the extraordinary sex and violence of the giant elephant seals at Año Nuevo, near Point Lobos. There was the Oakland guitar salesman who spoke dreamily about sitting alone and staring out at the water for hours . . . and then looking around in wonder at the dozen strangers dotted along the beach who were also sitting alone, staring out at the sea. There was the Richmond woman who remembered being violently knocked down by the waves as a child, yet delighting in it, and who still feels so "safe" whenever she is in the ocean. There was the sunny-faced Mill Valley mother who taught her children to thank the waves, the birds, and the dolphins for allowing her family to partake in this beauty.
"It all sounds so hokey," she said with the same slight embarrassment that I saw in several others when they began to wax lyrical about the ocean. But they meant every word.
Besides, as one sensible young San Jose bank teller pointed out, beach-going has its practical side too. He liked the way his tan and personal geography added to his "coolness" factor when he visited East Coast girls. And, as a diminutive Asian-American woman pointed out, the beach even has a comical side. She was fascinated by the contrast between some people's body size and the size of bathing suit they chose.
For me, possibly the most compelling stories were from the busy families who rarely see each other except when they go for a picnic on the coast. Not to mention the crazy dog-owners running down the beach with their crazy grinning dogs. And the young surfers with their dangerous passion. And the old sailors with their sailboats. And the teenage kids with their boogie-boards, their campfires . . . and their friends.
Part way through this interviewing spree, I stood alone on Ocean Beach on a warm, windy weekday. A black-and-white freighter slid past a mound of rocks into the Golden Gate. A haze simmered above five-foot-high waves. People loped by on the wet sand with Great Danes, poodles, and mutts. Girls in bikinis sunbathed. Kids dug channels in the sand. A father played baseball with two boys. The noise must have been considerable . . . but it dissipated into a thin, distant song over that huge open space. The beach was remarkably still, in a wave-crashing, wind-blowing sort of way . . . and remarkably peaceful.
I decided to interview myself.
"So . . . How often do you go to the beach?"
Uuuhhh . . . I've lived here four years and I think this is the third time.
"Why don't you go more often?"
Uh . . . I don't know. I guess it's kind of far. Or I'm always busy working. To be honest, I really don't even think of going.
"Why not?"
That's a good question. I wish I knew. It's absolutely wonderful here. I haven't felt so good in ages.
"So do you think you'll come more often now?"
You bet I will.
"Why do you like it here, anyway?"
Why do I like the beach? Geez . . . that's a tricky one. You know what? Everybody else said it so much better than I ever could. It's all here in these pages. Here, have a look. It's quite something what people have to say about their coast, and the ocean and themselves. Quite a relationship. Quite a dialogue going on.
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