The Beach

 In the summer of 1969, I was 16 years old.  I had my driver’s license and access to my dad’s ice blue 1960 Oldsmobile 88.  The sweltering summer days in inland Orange County demanded a cool retreat, so my friends piled into my car with towels, baby oil, and just enough cash for an order of tortilla strips, and we took off down Beach Blvd. to our spot at Huntington Beach, state side, lifeguard station #15.

 The groovy music from KRLA filled the car and spilled over onto the highway as we sang at the top of our lungs to an eclectic mix the Beach Boys, Creedence Clearwater Revival, The Doors, and John Denver.  We’d never heard of anyone having hearing loss from constant exposure to loud rock music, so our ears rang as our lungs filled with smog and our nostrils drew in grease and tar from the busy highway.  The air conditioning didn’t work, so our lithe, young bodies perspired freely, mixing the scent of our Bonnie Bell skin care lotion with the highway perfume.

Everybody in southern California surfed.  At least that’s what it seemed like.  However, neither my friends nor I could afford a surf board.  Besides, I couldn’t surf because I couldn’t see the sets.  I had 20:3500 vision and wore contact lenses to correct it, but I couldn’t wear my lenses at the beach because the onshore breeze would blow them out of my eyes.  I wore glasses to drive, but wouldn’t be caught dead wearing glasses at the beach.  As soon as I parked the car, my friends sprung themselves from the four doors of our boss chariot, and I tucked my glasses into my beach bag.  Suddenly, the world became an impressionist’s painting with color but no lines.  The fuzzy interpretation of my surroundings freed me of conformity and my senses were immediately heightened.  I lingered behind my friends, caught in a frenzy of perceptions.   The air was clean and crisp.  It almost hurt to breathe.  The fragrance of salt and sea filled my sinus cavities and I was drawn to the tantalizing source.  I loved sensing the ocean.  I felt its beckoning waves drawing me closer.

As I submerged myself in the foam and brine, the heat melted into a liquid, throbbing coolness.  My long, sun-streaked hair glistened like seaweed on the fleeting lather as it floated away from my shoulders.  My strong, muscled arms propelled me smoothly into deeper water as I dodged the breaking waves by diving under them.  I joined my friends in the crazy catch-a-wave game of body surfing, using ourselves as our surf board and riding the wave to the beach.  Then, pulling ourselves out of the tugging water, we turned again to the sumptuous allure of immersion.

Finally, completely spent, I plodded through the ankle-snappers and the soggy silt to the dry, deliciously warm sand by my towel.  I flopped down, allowing the beach to engulf me just as the water had.  The briny taste of the sea floated down my throat as the saline spray dribbled from my eyelashes and I tilted my chin upward toward the warmth of the sun.  My sandy water-bed surrounded me as the pulsing, rhythmic surf fused with the call of the gulls and the heady scent of baby oil and fried tortillas blended into a whirling harmony of bliss and passage and peace.