Camp Pendleton was where Keeper became a water man.
Or at least he took the first step in that direction.
I cut the description short in my previous post, but this
really was a nearly ideal beach campground.
Not only are the sites on the sand itself with full hookups (very
difficult to find), but you have one of Southern California’s better surf beaches
mostly to yourself due to its being on a military base.
Keeper, if you remember, was reluctant to do much in the
water during last year’s trip down the coast.
He got there eventually, but it was slow going, with a good bit of trepidation
and some back slides along the way. We
did end last summer with some unforgettable boogie boarding sessions in Coronado,
but there was still a tentativeness in the waves that he was working through.
On day one in Pendleton I made a visit to the Marine Corps
Exchange and discovered that they had spring suits (short sleeve/legged
wetsuits, aka “shortys”) for sale at a very reasonable price. Thinking this would allow Keeper and I to
spend even more time in the water, I bought us both one. At California’s latitudes, the Pacific never
really warms up. I don’t think I’ve ever
seen water temps out of the 60s, nor have I seen a surfer in the water without
a wetsuit, generally a full one. I figured
this was a great investment for us, and returned to Davista excited.
Keeper was less so, at least initially. This being his first experience with a
wetsuit, or more to the point with anything designed to fit skin-tight, he was
decidedly not a fan upon first trying it on.
My putting mine on to demonstrate to him that yes, this is exactly how
it is supposed to fit and my reassurances that it would be much more
comfortable in the water did little to quash his skepticism. “Thanks
but no thanks” was basically his position on the matter. Disappointed, I agreed to return his, but fortunately
something softened in him before I did, and he decided to give his one try in
That’s all it took.
He’s a convert now.
Not only for its ability to fend off the chill, but for its unexpected
non-skid qualities. Apparently one of
his biggest frustrations with boogie boarding had been difficulty in staying on
the board without slipping. Suddenly
that was easy, and he was off to the races.
We did two sessions a day at minimum, with him turning the tables on me
and asking me on multiple occasions if I’d be amenable to stopping what I was
doing and heading out with him.
I can’t tell you how happy this makes me. It’s a small thing, but going out with him
and catching waves together makes me giddy.
And he’s gotten much better at it; his confidence in larger surf bears
no resemblance to last year’s tentativeness, and he has a good sense of his
The girls are making a good start as well. On Woodsprite’s first wave last year (a tiny
bit of near-shore white water), she managed to slide off of her board face
first into the few inches of water and proceed to have the leash wrap itself
around her neck. That put her off waves
for a while, but this year she managed to put that behind her, and gamely heads
into the white water with Firebolt for some shallow rides onto the sand. And Firebolt has begun to push her boundaries
as well – still on whitewater only and no more than waist deep, but she catches
some decent little rides and makes them fun for everybody by hootin’ and
hollerin’ all the way in. She’s never
been one to hide her enthusiasm.
On one of our last days in Pendleton, Woodsprite, Keeper,
and I went out for a pre-sunset session.
Actually it was just the kids – I followed with my phone/camera as I had
a sense that the sunset was going to be a stunner, and I wanted to get some
I was right.
So happy I bought those wetsuits. I’m going to look for some for the girls
Though my earliest memories spring from Southern California of the ‘70s and early ‘80s, i.e. the Center of the Universe, I was never able to square my impressions of the place I grew up with its popular image. Other than a handful of reasonably well-known musicians, Downey claims almost zero celebrities as home-towners. The entertainment industry’s center of gravity hovers further north and west, and the surfer beach culture tends to cling pretty tightly to the coast. So that sort of laid back, warm-night-with-wind-in-the-hair-surrounded-by-the-beautiful-people decadence was always more something I heard about in songs or saw on screens than something I experienced. Evidently Don Henley found ‘70s Southern California to be a fitting metaphor for a one-way descent out of innocence. As I mostly retained mine while growing up there, I often wondered at the time where (and if) all that was taking place.
That vision of where I was raised has always intrigued me —
more so with distance, even as I grew to understand how it came to be and in
what enclaves it flourished. It was never my scene, yet in some odd way I
identified with it, or at least appreciated the idea of its being a part of
home. Spending another late summer /
early fall flitting among various beachside campgrounds (starting in Malibu)
brought some of that back to the fore.
More than that, though, it was just really, really nice to live
barefoot on the beach for a while again.
Malibu manages to feel both remote and small-townish while
bordering LA’s sprawl and housing many of its most famous residents. Our stay there this time was short, only a
few days, but particularly pleasant, giving us the opportunity to get back in the
ocean and re-introducing us to the summer that we had just about closed the
book on back in Washington.
After Malibu we headed to Carlsbad in northern San Diego county, and thereafter onward to Coronado, where we decamped from Davista once again and moved into one of NAS North Island’s beachfront cottages. Though the temperatures only just nudged into the 80s this time and the waves weren’t as sporty as during the previous year’s late October heatwave, we spent a good bit of time in the water.
I also got rid of the “time off” beard. Like I said, a bit leprechaun-ish.
Down in San Diego, we returned Davista to the repair shop, as, surprise surprise, the intermittent flashing Check Engine light had come back in full effect, taunting us with its yellow randomness. I guess the issue wasn’t a loose belt after all. This shop’s personnel seemed a bit more receptive to our input than the last one’s did, but they weren’t especially optimistic about rooting out the cause, particularly when I told them that we needed to depart in four days.
Their pessimism turned out to be well-founded, as when we returned
to pick up our home and drive it back north, they had discovered nothing. Shoot.
In the interim we did manage to bag another set of Junior
Ranger badges for the girls at Cabrillo National Monument at the end of Pt.
Loma. One of the more interesting
aspects of that visit was learning about the Navy personnel stationed there
during WW2. Apparently their job consisted
almost entirely of looking out for Japanese submarines trying to sneak in and
blow up San Diego. They didn’t see any, and
by all accounts it was pretty good duty – who wouldn’t want to hang out in San
Diego rather than one of the active war zones?
Post Coronado we headed back north to Camp Pendleton, where
there’s another beachfront military campground (actually there are two). Having not heard as much about it as about
Coronado, my expectations weren’t high.
I couldn’t have been more incorrect.
This is ideal beach camping – sites on the sand itself, with full
hookups, and an impressive surf break to boot, without the crowds that such a
break would normally draw. We only had a
few days there before heading to Seal Beach, but I was in waterfront
There’s a friendly rivalry between the Marines and the Navy
wherein we tend to make fun of each other, us for being stereotypically a bit
soft around the middle and far from the pointy end of the warrior spear, and
them for being, well, Marines. The high
and tight haircuts, the braided belts with shirts tucked into their shorts, the
“OOH-rah” cadence punctuating what should be normal conversation with random
syllable emphases. We got a kick out of
the name of the little surf shop at the campground… instead of just calling it
a surf shop, it’s called “BEACH Services” (exaggerated cadence and excessive
volume mine). I don’t know, it just
seemed funny. It still does. But you probably had to be there.
After Seal Beach (not actually in sight of the beach, but a
nice campground nevertheless, and on a Navy base to boot), we headed back south
to Newport Dunes in Newport Beach, which is arguably the nerve center of what’s
now known as The OC. Well earned, too,
as Newport Beach is a beautiful place with a lot going for it – beach, harbor,
islands, waterfront property, ridiculous amounts of wealth… Newport Dunes on the other hand — well, it’s
ok I suppose. It sits on the bay just
inland from Newport Harbor and is somewhat shoehorned between the water and
some bluffs, upon which a few of Newport’s busier boulevards run. And it’s quite expensive. Had we hit it before the off-season we’d have
had a good bit of company, but midweek in October it was a bit tumbleweedy.
That said, it’s fairly central and hotspots like Balboa Island
and the Newport peninsula’s beaches are easily reached via bicycle. Keeper and I took a ride or two to explore.
Tacco had another Navy commitment back in DC during this
time frame, and as my work schedule overlapped hers somewhat, we opted to drop
the kids off at my parents’ house for a few days while she was gone, leaving me
solo in Newport.
At this point I should explain the big change in my work situation. Throughout our travels, I remained domiciled
in Boston for my airline. In other
words, any trip I flew originated and ended in Boston. There are multiple reasons I remained Boston-based
while we were traversing the country, but they’re fairly uninteresting to
non-airline folk. Trust me, though, it made sense. Once we opted to stay in the West, however,
changing my domicile back to Long Beach / Los Angeles made for a much more
convenient work situation. October was
the first month in the new base, and I had decided to “bid Reserve” for the
month, which essentially means that instead of flying scheduled trips, I had
about 18 days in the month on which I was in a standby status for a part of the
day, ready to fly if I was needed due to sick calls or unexpected schedule
changes. Being on Reserve can be a mixed
bag, as it’s generally nice to know exactly when and where you’re going to fly,
and often the trips that get dropped to Reserve pilots are the ones nobody
wants. On the other hand, there’s a
chance you’ll hardly get called at all, which is what I was strategizing for.
Well, it didn’t quite work out as planned. First of all, I got called to fly quite a bit,
at least in the beginning of the month, and Tacco expressed frustration in my
having to be “at the ready” so much of the time. It was as if I was there participating with
the family but at the same time not available, and difficult to plan around. Then, later in the month, when we sent the
kids away so that Tacco could go to DC, I didn’t get called at all, and consequently
spent an inordinate amount of time alone, trying to entertain myself at semi-deserted
Newport Dunes. That’s far from the worst
fate, but I don’t think I’ll be bidding Reserve anymore.
We did get to check out a few more beaches though. Corona del Mar sits just south of the entrance to Newport harbor, and sports a combination of flat sand and tidepools, with some fun waves in which to play.
On one of my “solo” days I took a bike ride to The Wedge, out at the end of Newport peninsula. I had heard that there was a sizable swell coming in, and The Wedge is a famous surf / bodysurf spot, at which the combination of the jetty leading to the harbor and the shape of the beach makes for resonances that kick up the waves to just about double the height of their brothers just a few hundred yards down the beach.
Though I’ve been in the water there before, I’ve never done
so with a big swell coming in. In those
conditions it’s absolutely expert only, and even among the experts there’s a
good bit of carnage. Evidently EMTs just
hang out nearby on big surf days. It
makes for exciting spectating. When I
arrived, the shoreline was almost shoulder to shoulder with gawkers (whom I
joined), and there seemed to be nearly as many photographers braving the
pounding shore break with their GoPros as there were surfers and body boarders. I saw quite a few spectacular rides and even
more spectacular wipeouts, to include one guy whose board snapped in half right
in front of me. Fortunately his board appeared
to have taken all the impact, as he walked off the beach.
After Newport it was back up to Malibu, where we intended to
soak up a little more good life prior to hitting Pt. Mugu, at the far western
end of the Malibu shoreline and just into Ventura county.
Our plans were unfortunately thwarted by connectivity, or
lack thereof. As rarefied as Malibu is,
its geography subjects it to spotty cellphone coverage, and the Malibu Beach RV
Park’s wi-fi signal is on par with most RV parks’ wi-fi, i.e. sketchy at
best. Normally I wouldn’t care, particularly
with an endless view of the Pacific, but Tacco is taking online classes for her
Doctorate, and one of our first Malibu days was not only a class day for her,
but one in which she was scheduled to give a presentation to the class. Having been lulled into a false sense of semi-cautious
security by the previous day’s coverage, she started the class, only to have
her audio cut out, followed by losing connection altogether right at the
beginning of her presentation. She pinged
directly to full crisis mode and frantically sought me out to have me drive her
down to the Malibu Colony Starbucks where she could finish her class with a
reliable signal. Well, as it turned out,
I had picked that exact moment to leave Davista and go looking for her in order
to see how her class was progressing, internet-strength-wise. Not finding her, we began one of those Keystone
Cops circular searches in which both people keep passing the same spots at
exactly the wrong time and end up effectively chasing each other. It helped even less that that same lack of
signal caused her texts screaming “WHERE ARE YOU!?!?” not to be sent/received,
and it’s safe to say she was a bit heated by the time we converged and executed
Plan B (Operation School at Starbucks With the Stars).
Everything worked out eventually and her blood pressure returned
to normal as she completed the class, but it was enough to seal Malibu’s inclusion
on Tacco’s “Places I Do Not Like” list.
As she had another class the following day, we decamped prematurely and
made the drive through LA back to Seal Beach.
I should mention that driving Davista / Toad through LA is far from enjoyable. Unless you’re driving between about 1AM and 5AM, there will be traffic. And even if there happens to be none, frequent lane changes are unavoidable due to the tangle of freeways that going pretty much anywhere in LA will require navigating. Here’s what you absolutely should not do though, and I had already learned this lesson, or so I thought, over a year ago: DO NOT FOLLOW WAZE/GOOGLE MAP DIRECTIONS THROUGH SIDE STREETS IN ORDER TO SAVE FIVE MINUTES. Or even twenty. Not liking the red line that my phone was depicting as the Santa Monica Freeway, I followed its recommendation and headed south into Venice instead. I knew immediately both that I had made a mistake and that I was fully committed anyway – there was no easy way back to the freeway. The streets got narrower and narrower. Frankly, I’m lucky we didn’t get completely stuck and have to stop in the middle of a residential street (blocking traffic, of which there was plenty), disconnect Toad, and then squeak our way out of the situation separately. It was extremely tight, with some Google recommended turns that we had to ignore entirely as we simply didn’t have the space. Lots of “Rerouting…” Don’t be me; stay on the freeway.
Let me return to Malibu, though, as it really wasn’t a bad
experience at all, the previous anecdote notwithstanding. We got more beach time in, we soaked up even
more classic SoCal, and we even got to have dinner with Tacco’s cousin and her
family on the Malibu pier, sitting outside with the waves crashing beneath
us. We actually did that from Pt. Mugu, another
lovely beachfront spot, once we returned there after our unplanned Seal Beach
diversion (and another drive through LA).
All told, what I’ve discovered is that I’ve got quite a bit more
Southern California in me than I knew. Once
again I’m swimming in the ocean daily and once again I feel absolutely
fantastic. It may be all the Vitamin D I’m
soaking up, it may be the ocean, it may be that my subconscious registers this
as home, I don’t know. But just like
last year, I’m in my element. Even if I
don’t want to live here (and I don’t – camping on the beach for a month and a
half at the end of the summer is a far different thing than living in an
expensive suburb inland, and they’re pretty much all expensive), I’ve come full
circle on my Southern California roots and realize that on some level I love the
place. I’ll never partake in the laid
back decadence, but somewhere inside me is that tanned, aging beach bum who
wears loose clothes, surfs every morning, eats breakfast burritos with avocado,
and never gets worked up – you see several of him in every SoCal beach town.
Alas, this is not a trait I share with my family, I’ve
discovered. Though they all like the
beach to varying extents, they don’t love
the beach. Keeper has become a boogie
boarder in earnest (more on that in another post), and I’m certain that our
times out in the water together will age into some of the peak experiences from
our travel time. The girls enjoy playing
in the waves as well. But we may have
reached peak beach for real this time.
Tacco is definitely ready to move on, and the kids have indicated the
same. Fortunately that coincides nicely
with the time of year, as October is getting long in the tooth and the temperatures
are dropping. It’s time to head back
north and start thinking about Winter.