Oh I Do Like To Be Beside The Seaside…

I am writing this from Dillon Beach, CA.

There is a house here that we have rented many, many times. It belongs to--bear with me--the family of the first wife (deceased) of my father’s college roommate and fraternity brother. Technically this is the second iteration of this house. The original house finally just got too dilapidated to keep up, so they razed it and built a new one. The new house has all the modern amenities, so there’s not really any reason to complain about it, except that I do miss the smell of the old house. It was kind of ocean-y and slightly musty/mildew-y and dusty and unique, and if you try really hard there’s a certain place in the downstairs hall where you can still catch a whiff of that in the early hours of the morning.

It’s nostalgic. Fight me.

I mean, I also enjoy that slightly decaying estuary smell, so read into that what you will.

The nostalgia goes farther than a smell, though. My parents honeymooned here in 1979. We vacationed here many times during my childhood. I had my ‘Golden Birthday’ here when I turned 13 on the 13th. (All of that was in the old house, natch.) We spent Christmas here two years ago, our first experience in the new house.

I plan to retire here. Not to this specific house, obviously, but to Dillon Beach nonetheless. Just me, and the fog, and the ocean, and a rescued greyhound. Or two. There has always been something about this particular beach that has enthralled me, completely independent of the people to whom I am inevitably shackled when I’m here. It’s moody. It’s insistent. The tides are temperamental. So are the crabs. They stare at you with their little beady eyes and dare you to stick your finger in their little hideouts in the crevices in the rocks.

Don’t do it. Just trust me on this one.

Dillon Beach actually has some amazing tidepools. The unfortunate part about them is that they’re really only accessible and impressive during a zero- or minus-tide. The lowest the tide got for me these last few days was about a 2.5, which is sadly insufficient for proper tidepooling. I was able to ogle some lined shore crabs and plenty of hermit crabs, and tickle a few anemones, but the giant starfish were out of reach. We had dolphins on day one--four or five of them quite close in--but we only saw them that day. Two dead jellyfish, dinner plate sized, were rolling around in the surf. Lots of broken shells, kelp bits, and other assorted oceanic detritus. Birds. Surfers. Fishermen.

Wave noise.

Still, I persisted in going out at the low tides to sit on a rock, stare at the water, and just try to breathe. There’s something about the overwhelming and constant rumble of the waves that lends itself rather nicely to quieting the mind, though we all know from last week just how sparklingly successful I am at that at any given point. It helped, though. Sort of. Until I’d get distracted and start looking for crabs, anyway.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Pacific Ocean in more northern (or southern, depending upon which way you travel from the Equator) latitudes, it is FUCKING COLD. People surf at Dillon, and they swim, but it’s not as though it’s particularly comfortable. Also, you’re taking your life into your hands, as the place is a hotbed of Great White sharks and if they’re feeling curious or hungry, you’re likely to end up as shark chow. No, thank you. I only go in about as far as my knees, usually, and that’s plenty enough aquatic activity for me, thanks. I’m sure as a child I threw caution to the wind and frolicked merrily in the waves, but older and wiser me would prefer to keep her limbs intact.

Since it’s still summer for a couple of weeks yet, the weekend of our visit saw the beach parking lot full to bursting with beachgoers and their kiddiewinks and their dogs and their assorted beach paraphernalia. I honestly don’t remember ever seeing the place so packed. Of course, knowing my parents, we only ever came up during lower traffic times. Dillon used to be a tiny podunk unknown, but the whole little village has changed immensely over the years. The tiny store got a major facelift and carries all the frou-frou-lah-di-dah brands now--all organic and local and whatever. The ‘resort’, which used to be a row of dilapidated cabins interspersed with spaces for trailer or RV hookups available to rent, is now much more uniform manufactured cabins. You have to pay to park at the beach now.

The post office still looks like shit, though.

Even with this (really very mild) gentrification, I love the place. I love its quiet and its unpredictable weather and its layer of sticky salt residue. I love its isolation. I love its quirkiness.
 
It’s my place.