SURFIN' SAFARI SUMMER ONE - DAY NINETEEN - August 25, 2019

 

"And remember how the Earth delights to feel your bare feet, and the winds long to play with your hair."      The Prophet

It was almost a case of Surferiderus Interruptus. Our map pointed us in the direction of beautiful Laguna Beach in south Orange County; 80 miles from Los Angeles, famous and fetching. We were going to a spot we’ve never surfed called "Brooks," and  Lori Kahn said her brother reported how it was “going off” and, as such, so were we. But we had to take the French horn, which mysteriously broke in the rehearsal room minutes before Wesley had an audition (Colburn School was ready with a replacement) to be repaired. French horns are hard to come by and his rental is from Pasadena, 40 minutes and a million miles away. Once dispatched with, we jumped on Interstate 5 south with visions of palms, rusty canyons, and limpid blue waters in our heads. We have had great luck this Surfin’ Safari Summer with traffic, but it ran out on Day 19. “The Five” was a shade-less bleaching sunbright expanse, exhaust, and eight lanes of north/south human misery. Anna was getting anxious so I lurched toward the Olympic Blvd., exit, a main artery that runs out to the beach. We were headed for our fallback at Marina del Rey, not fully grasping where we were, which was fairly deep in East L.A., the Mexican half of town. This city is vast and there aren't tons of reasons to go out that way.

I know parts only because of Chicana girlfriends past, which may be why I've always loved it, and why I wrote "Sammy Beneath the Freeway" (see comments) many years ago. We crawled through there, into downtown L.A., then Koreatown and Beverly Hills and Beverlywood. We stopped at a taco spot on Venice called Cerveteca, which is a little pricey for a stand, but popular with the hip Latinx crowd probably because it's run by a hip Latinx crowd. Anna stuck with the summer's theme by ordering salmon tacos. After our cruise through the "caloroso" core of our Spanish-founded city, I went for an “L.A. Street Dog,” which used to be called a Mexican hot dog. They are wrapped in bacon and, instead of being covered in sauerkraut or onions, get topped with grilled chilis or guacamole and such. It was too big to eat, so I took a picture of it. We felt gassed. We’d been on the road two hours and were only about two miles from our apartment. It was windy inland, so the waves would probably be lousy and I knew it would be high tide at the Marina, which is not a good situation, typically. So we called it quits. But as we limped home, our tailpipe between our legs, I took a sudden U-turn back toward the coast. If we gave in to our lassitude, Surfin’ Summer Safari would be over; we’d be content with what we'd done and blow the last week of summer off instead of viewing it as a chance for more safaris. And you know, once that board is lashed onto the roof, there ain’t any taking it home until dipped in saltwater. It was the right move. There was no wind. Waves were small, but shapely, breaking in-close to shore; perfect for people who want to surf, but keep staying alive their top priority. I had great fun carving for two hours, ran to the Venice Pier and back, that soft sand and barefoot lope at the water's edge the best salves for body and soul alike.