We’re officially old . . .

. . . and this is how I know it.  Whilst we were playing in the surf, holding hands and being a bit pummeled by waves breaking, a woman approached us with concern.  She cautioned us about the uneven sea bed and offered to assist us.  After we assured her that we were alright, we just looked at each with the understanding that . . . sure enough . . . we must be old. 

Despite that, what a really lovely time we had at Mission Beach, even in our dotage!  The beach is as the beach is always, and that knowing has sustained me through many difficult times.  When I stop to think about the waves lapping at the sand, the breakers crashing, the never-ending rhythmic movement, and know that it is all a part of the timelessness, I am soothed.

Over that are the people scuttling around - our activities frenetic in comparison to the Earth's strength.

I watch as we all observe our parts in the dance.  One beachgoer took the dance analogy to heart: for a verrry long time, she clapped her hands to a tune heard only by her, moving her hands and and arms to the soundless tune, occasionally even rising for a spell of sand dancing.

And there was the bubble lady . . .

 

. . . the metal detector . . .

the gulls guilty but unabashed at stealing bags of chips from under a towel . . .

 

. . . the parasailors . . .

 

. . . there were tents, umbrellas, shade screens, and shelters of every kind imaginable . . .

 

. . . and even the nefarious vendor of snacks.  I didn't photograph her lest I become involved in some kind of illegal beach doin's, but there was an air of crime movie shenanigans about it.  The woman dragged a partially broken-wheeled wagon through the sand, evidently offering the sale of items within via a small cardboard sign.

Now this a true story: I watched as she paused to take a phone call, at which point, she quickly got behind a group of people, lowered her sign and covered it and the wagon's contents with a towel, and changed her appearance!  It was exactly like in the movies!  She removed her hat, shook loose her hair bun and took off her outer garment - voila - a different person!  No idea what it meant, but it was amazing to watch.  I didn't take her photo to protect the possible innocent.

Fishing, of course . . .

The señor, too frugal (ahem) to purchase California fishing licenses, discovered a few localities that offer "free" fishing.  I was a bit cautious, especially when the purveyor of bait had never heard of such; however, in the end, I went along, hoping that we wouldn't end up in the hoosegow with our truck confiscated.

The chosen spot involved climbing jumbles of gigantic boulders, up one side and down the other, in order to offer frozen shrimp to the denizens of that stretch of salt water.  No broken bones nor sprains ensued, I am pleased to report; unfortunately, there was a dearth of fish interest in what we had to offer, but that did not prevent me from whiling away the time by filming the tiny crab congregation just below my perch, and being mesmerized by the musical water currents as they danced the vegetation just at its level.

 

What . . .

. . . in tarnation is that crazed fella doing out there!?  We figured out later that he was propelling himself across the water on a hydrofoil kind of contraption.  Seems it required him to get the forward speed going by pumping the board and paddling like a mad fiend, at which point, the board lifted out of the water and away he went, except that it did not continue unless he kept at his labors, so I'm not sure what was the point.

Being tide pool aficionados . . .

. . . we took advantage of low tide to peruse the pools at Point Loma.  It's all very subtle, but once a person slows down and looks carefully, it's quite fascinating to find the anemones, limpets, crabs, and other denizens that patiently await the return of ocean water to cover them.

 

Cabrillo National Monument . . .

. . . high on Point Loma features a statue representing Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo, who was the first European to reach the west coast of what is now the United States.   That was in 1542.  His landing place is below that viewpoint, as it offers a vista toward San Diego's Coronado Island and the city beyond.

One of the features of Coronado is the home port of the U.S. Pacific Fleet, the largest Navy base on the West Coast.  This view from Point Loma is toward Coronado.

 

Crystal Pier . . .

. . . a unique lodging over the water was fun to check out, especially after friends had told us about staying there.  I don't know the history of how it came to be, but I'm intrigued with the concept: individual cabins lining both sides of the pier near its dryland connection.

As we pass the cabins, we see beach beyond and below.  On the further reaches are the usual pier fisherpeople hoping for a good catch.

I revel in the senses aroused near the ocean: water everywhere I look, the scent of salt air, perhaps most of all - the always-there roar of the surf.  

As a desert rat by birth, I prefer inland for my abode; but perhaps because of that, I am drawn to water, and most especially the ocean, thus achieving a sense of balance.  A way of being for those near the sea is completely unknown to me, and I love the sense of discovery when I venture there.