Ocean

Last week I spoke with a man, a friend of mine, who grew up in California. He talked about his dad's hour and a half commute to work, and I said they must have lived in the San Fernando Valley. Yes, he said, they did. He talked about the weather, how pleasant it always was. He said that people who never lived there told him California weather denied him knowing the seasons of the year. I have heard that claim more than once, and I say pish-tosh.

We shared a few California memories, then he said, "The thing I miss the most is . . . " and we said it together, "the ocean."

I knew it. It's what I miss.

I would guess that most people feel ownership over the place where they grew up. I do about California, about the ocean. I know it's not really mine, but I feel like it is. And if they've moved away, they go back when they can and when they can't go back, they like to remember it. I know I do.

I see my house in Santa Monica. I see the hills as Ashland Avenue ups and downs its six blocks or so to the beach. I loved the beach, the ocean. As a child, I wanted to go there much more often than I did go. As a teenager, I lived on the beach summers and drove along the coast at other seasons. Yes, we did have seasons. It was not perpetual summer. We had Spring, when everything bloomed, and Autumn, when leaves turned and fell, and even winter, but without its bitter cold and without its snow. (But, you know, if you want snow, you can always drive to where it is, even in California.)

In Santa Monica I could look from my house--from the 2^nd story deck off my sister's bedroom--and see the ocean. But other houses and poles and wires obstructed the view, and I always wanted to be closer or higher so the ocean would be all the picture.

Before we lived in Santa Monica, we would drive the few miles west to the beach, drive straight out Pico Boulevard. And each time we reached the edge of the hill above 11th Street in Santa Monica, I would call out that I could see the ocean. Even as a child I knew something of the soul healing the ocean offered.

Here, in an inland state, I have the ocean only in my mind. When I need to, like now, I can put myself in my Mom's '55 Ford and drive again up the Coast Highway. I can hear the pounding of the waves and let their steadiness comfort me. I can breathe deep and smell the sea. I can trace the lowering sun's path across the water.