Sunday Musings

My favorite snapshot is tacked to the refrigerator door. My eleven-year-old, then an eight-year-old is standing with his arms spread in front of the ocean that he had just seen for the first time.



I was born near the beach and lived within twenty minutes or so of it until I was sixteen. Money was always tight and the beach was close and free to use, so it set the standard for family entertainment. From late spring until autumn and sometimes even well into the winter we would be at the beach for part of the day. We were there almost all day during the summer. I had quite a tan, probably one that I’ll some day regret but it looked pretty good at the time.



When Dad got a new job in some place I’d never heard of named Palo Alto, we moved to a city called San Jose, it being just barely familiar to me and solely because of a song in which Dionne Warwick keeps asking me where it is. Once we got there, I found I rather wished dad hadn’t known the way, but that’s a different story.



There was one advantage to the Bay Area so far as I was concerned and that was there were no beaches. I couldn’t believe anyone in their right mind would swim in the bay itself, and Santa Cruz was over the hills and through the woods, and the beaches while quite nice were next to an ocean that was quite cold. After sixteen years of coastal existence and sand-encrusted food, I had experienced my fill of beaches and would have been content to spend the rest of my life satisfied with images of them on wall calendars.



Marriage and our first child came along and when he was about four it was decided we should go to the beach. I didn’t really want to go and I recall my wife having suddenly found herself saddled on a long drive with two four-year-olds, one chronologically, the other psychologically.



A coworker had suggested Moron Beach near Santa Cruz, a name I thought perfect for this excursion. It turned out its name is Moran State Beach and it is frankly, a nice little beach. We spent the day there even though it was a cloudy summer day and the water felt close to freezing. The only excitement was after the waves and the water kept receding in that way that draws you out farther and then a rogue wave arrives to knock you down and pull you out.



This happened to our son and between the two of us, my wife being a lettered swimmer in high school and me being mostly in her way, we managed to rescue him and also reunite the family in a common purpose, this being that it was time to go home.



Twenty-four years passed with nary a whisper of an inclination to go to the beach again. In fact, we had since moved north and east to Sacramento and brought forth two more children into a world fraught with many dangers. Fortunately, those requiring a visit to the beach may as well have been on the other side of the world.



Then one day I heard them talking in the kitchen. An inspiration had blossomed into a conversation and was now rapidly becoming a conspiracy. The youngest had just manipulated his mother into agreeing that it was genuinely reprehensible that he had never been to the beach. I considered ways of getting out of what I knew was inevitable. Thoughts of toxic waste and stories of sharks began to percolate down through my cerebral cortex. Yes, I can get out of this.



Two weeks later we arrived at the tiny parking lot across from Moran State Beach. The trip was uneventful and I kept my inner-child in check, resigned to the inevitabilities of a beach visit including warm sodas, crunchy sandwiches and sunburned legs and shoulders. Sigh…



It was a nice sunny day, with a light breeze. We were there quite early so we were able to park in the lot and avoided the mile walk required of most visitors since the lot can’t possibly hold more than fifty cars.



Our oldest, the one who had a run-in with a wave not far from where we stood had long since moved away. Our autistic daughter was also here for the first time and she was her usually happy self, content to be at the beach, in the car or sitting at the kitchen table.



Our youngest though…he is experiencing something completely new and totally foreign to him, and I’m beginning to see this and relive something I had lost a long time ago. TV and calendars do not do justice to the ocean. You can smell the sea air and feel its breeze. You can hear the waves rumble like thunder, but you can also feel the impact tremors of the waves as they crash on the shore. And the best thing about Moran State Beach, at least today is that you can’t see the ocean until you get over a rise twixt lot and water. Then suddenly, there is the Pacific Ocean in all its power and glory. My son was so excited that he couldn’t contain himself.



He ran up and down the beach with his arms spread, dancing along, shouting and singing praises. He had wanted this, but it so vastly exceeded his expectations that he was literally overwhelmed with joy. And I stood there, spellbound at this. Not just that I’m having a great time, which I surely am, but also I keep trying to remember if this ever happened to me. If it did, I mourn its loss and rejoice in its resurrection because it is back now.



We have returned to the beach every year since and the trips are good ones. But some things can only be experienced once to such a full effect and this is one of them. I suppose that’s life.



I just don’t want him to lose it for so long like I did.



Have a great week. I have some numbers from the governor’s office. I just have to figure out how to make spreadsheets interesting.



Bruce

My favorite snapshot is tacked to the refrigerator door. My eleven-year-old, then an eight-year-old is standing with his arms spread in front of the ocean that he had just seen for the first time.



I was born near the beach and lived within twenty minutes or so of it until I was sixteen. Money was always tight and the beach was close and free to use, so it set the standard for family entertainment. From late spring until autumn and sometimes even well into the winter we would be at the beach for part of the day. We were there almost all day during the summer. I had quite a tan, probably one that I’ll some day regret but it looked pretty good at the time.



When Dad got a new job in some place I’d never heard of named Palo Alto, we moved to a city called San Jose, it being just barely familiar to me and solely because of a song in which Dionne Warwick keeps asking me where it is. Once we got there, I found I rather wished dad hadn’t known the way, but that’s a different story.



There was one advantage to the Bay Area so far as I was concerned and that was there were no beaches. I couldn’t believe anyone in their right mind would swim in the bay itself, and Santa Cruz was over the hills and through the woods, and the beaches while quite nice were next to an ocean that was quite cold. After sixteen years of coastal existence and sand-encrusted food, I had experienced my fill of beaches and would have been content to spend the rest of my life satisfied with images of them on wall calendars.



Marriage and our first child came along and when he was about four it was decided we should go to the beach. I didn’t really want to go and I recall my wife having suddenly found herself saddled on a long drive with two four-year-olds, one chronologically, the other psychologically.



A coworker had suggested Moron Beach near Santa Cruz, a name I thought perfect for this excursion. It turned out its name is Moran State Beach and it is frankly, a nice little beach. We spent the day there even though it was a cloudy summer day and the water felt close to freezing. The only excitement was after the waves and the water kept receding in that way that draws you out farther and then a rogue wave arrives to knock you down and pull you out.



This happened to our son and between the two of us, my wife being a lettered swimmer in high school and me being mostly in her way, we managed to rescue him and also reunite the family in a common purpose, this being that it was time to go home.



Twenty-four years passed with nary a whisper of an inclination to go to the beach again. In fact, we had since moved north and east to Sacramento and brought forth two more children into a world fraught with many dangers. Fortunately, those requiring a visit to the beach may as well have been on the other side of the world.



Then one day I heard them talking in the kitchen. An inspiration had blossomed into a conversation and was now rapidly becoming a conspiracy. The youngest had just manipulated his mother into agreeing that it was genuinely reprehensible that he had never been to the beach. I considered ways of getting out of what I knew was inevitable. Thoughts of toxic waste and stories of sharks began to percolate down through my cerebral cortex. Yes, I can get out of this.



Two weeks later we arrived at the tiny parking lot across from Moran State Beach. The trip was uneventful and I kept my inner-child in check, resigned to the inevitabilities of a beach visit including warm sodas, crunchy sandwiches and sunburned legs and shoulders. Sigh…



It was a nice sunny day, with a light breeze. We were there quite early so we were able to park in the lot and avoided the mile walk required of most visitors since the lot can’t possibly hold more than fifty cars.



Our oldest, the one who had a run-in with a wave not far from where we stood had long since moved away. Our autistic daughter was also here for the first time and she was her usually happy self, content to be at the beach, in the car or sitting at the kitchen table.



Our youngest though…he is experiencing something completely new and totally foreign to him, and I’m beginning to see this and relive something I had lost a long time ago. TV and calendars do not do justice to the ocean. You can smell the sea air and feel its breeze. You can hear the waves rumble like thunder, but you can also feel the impact tremors of the waves as they crash on the shore. And the best thing about Moran State Beach, at least today is that you can’t see the ocean until you get over a rise twixt lot and water. Then suddenly, there is the Pacific Ocean in all its power and glory. My son was so excited that he couldn’t contain himself.



He ran up and down the beach with his arms spread, dancing along, shouting and singing praises. He had wanted this, but it so vastly exceeded his expectations that he was literally overwhelmed with joy. And I stood there, spellbound at this. Not just that I’m having a great time, which I surely am, but also I keep trying to remember if this ever happened to me. If it did, I mourn its loss and rejoice in its resurrection because it is back now.



We have returned to the beach every year since and the trips are good ones. But some things can only be experienced once to such a full effect and this is one of them. I suppose that’s life.



I just don’t want him to lose it for so long like I did.



Have a great week. I have some numbers from the governor’s office. I just have to figure out how to make spreadsheets interesting.



Bruce