Thankful for Real

It's finally happened. No matter how many times I've faulted others for doing this very thing, I did it myself. I told someone that I'd love to hang out with him, even though we both knew we would never see each other again. It smacks of the sort of southern-California fake-ness that has bothered me since I moved here a year ago....

And that's why I found myself on my favorite beach today. Not the white sandy beach that is 5 block from my house, but a rocky beach 30 miles away in Palos Verdes.

It is my patch of real and has been for most of my time in California. It is a place where real people go; people who have not been tucked, lifted, or implanted. They go as families with their children and their unpampered, unpedigreed pups. And I obviously needed "real" reboot.

The beach is mostly mounds of smooth, multi-colored river stones; the only sand being right at the waters edge. You hear the waves crashing into the stony piles, followed by the rumbles of loose rocks tumbling down, coaxed away by the lingering slips of waves. While they are pulled away into the belly of the ocean, they will return some other day, by some other wave.

It's not easy to traverse this beach of rocks. You must step carefully or risk a twisted ankle or a fall. And it is not always beautiful, as these rocks trap trash and other discarded items, but it is real, so such things are accepted for what they are and then overlooked. Instead you focus on the flowering plants rooted in some invisible soil deep below.



Or the mosiac stone pictures of hearts, turtles, and swirls created by some previous visitor.


If you are fortunate to be there at low tide you can visit the tide pools filled with hermit crabs and anemone. There the children jump from rock to rock with squeals of excitement or disgust when they pick up a thick, black creature called a sea hair.

This beach is a restful place where families talk and walk; children laugh and play; and their dogs run free. But as always there came a time for me to leave, to return to the land of make believe, with the hope that my visit will help me stay real.

I hiked back up the steep trail to my car, and passed through the Donald Trump golf course that borders this mecca of mine. The golfers in their well-pressed attire seemed an odd sight after my time at the beach, but it would seem they were only following the rules.