In front of the Beachside Hotel a
skirt of
Bermuda grass flows gracefully toward the Pacific ocean before hemming
the edge
of a sheer cliff. The plunge to sea is covered in the yellow grass
children
nibble for the sour insides. Tight against the talus, a railroad moves
up and
down the coast, embracing the shore in places, traveling inland to city
centers
in others. The track here is as close to the ocean as the train ever
comes. A
chain link fence guards the thruway from sunbathers chasing errant
beach balls,
while a foot path--hard-packed--enables visitors to stroll, run, or
skip along
the way. Some chat while holding dogs in check; a few move alone,
elbows
working as hard as feet. Palm trees planted decades before give the
tableau an
exotic air, whispering "leave your troubles behind, behind, behind."
Close
to the water
families spread their blankets, tacking the corners with flip-flops and
plastic
coolers. As mothers unwrap jelly sandwiches brought from home, seagulls
sneak
forward in a child’s game of red light/green light, hoping to
snatch a stray
crumb, while children run to play in the shore break, greeting each
wave with a
quick turn away and arch of the back until the water feels warm as a
hug.
Older
hotel visitors
enjoy the scene from Adirondack chairs placed at the edge of the lawn.
To their
right a wood pier tiptoes into deep water, its long gray legs looking
too
fragile to handle the constant pounding of the ocean. The jetty stands
sturdy
enough, however, inviting fishermen to the rails. Along its length
adults and
children drop their lines. Some fish for dinner, some for fun, some for
the
wanton pleasure of sun on bare shoulders.
The
vast ocean is the
drawing card here, producing air as tangy as the lime margaritas served
on the
guest patio. From its lace edge and white petticoat surf to deep water
blues
the immortal sea dominates the senses. Wave upon wave speak the
language of
birth, life, death, the drum beat to shore drowning out everything but
its own
magnificence. Even the click-clack of passing trains is muted by the
force of
nature.
At
the foot of the
wharf the lone fence opening for miles allows walkers to cross the
tracks.
There is no train station at this quiet spot. Engineers aware of the
foot trail
sound a whistle seconds before rushing by. It’s no surprise that
one time out
of thousands where excited children are allowed to run ahead to the
beach or
sent back to the hotel by harried mothers and fathers a whistle should
be
missed or heard late. It’s no surprise that the timing would be
so imperfect as
to have child and train meet at the same spot at the same moment,
sending a
small unblemished body into open air as it would a discarded trash bag
or
desiccated palm frond. It’s no surprise.
Darcy
Alvey reads with gusto and writes short stories and essays with equal
relish from San Diego, Cal. She has been published most recently in
"Wilderness House Literary Review" and "Write This."
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The
inspiration for this piece is a lovely Spanish-style hotel on a bluff
over the Southern California ocean. The setting is serene, idyllic,
transformative, little altered as decades of visitors have come and
gone. Juxtaposed to this is my certain knowledge that life can change
forever in an instant by act of nature or act of man. I like the image
of the hotel sitting unmoving decade after decade, watching people come
and go, absorbing their pain and joy into its very brick and mortar.
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