On our drive north from Pasadena and Los Angeles to San Francisco we stopped at the ocean just to see it. Actually I went down to the water and touched it. I had to. It's the farthest west I'll ever reach. Fredrico Balboa and the New Peace Ocean. I wished I had brought my Spear of Discovery and jammed it into the sand to claim it all for us.
We saw some surfers in wet suits, but they didn't go into the water. Too cold. A different ocean current flows here than the warm one just to the south. The problem with surfing in cold water is not the temperature, it's that the black wet suits make the surfers look like sea lions, the favorite food of the Great White Sharks. But the surfers go anyway. Couldn't you just paint your wet suit blaze orange?.
You already saw a picture of the surfer place. It was the second picture in this whole series, and was entitled "The West Coast." It showed the ocean and a neat pillared beachfront concession stand. It was closed for the winter.
This picture is father up the coast where we stopped in the early evening, hoping to see a sunset over the ocean. Waiting for that I found this. I love headlands and beaches. I especially like the reflections of wet sand. I can see why there is a whole realm of art devoted to "Seascapes." It's a real trick to paint that hypnotic and illusive curl of the breakers. To be "on the strand" and to hear it is never to forget it. I still hear Lake Michigan sometimes late at night. Dougie and Aria heard breakers, albeit small ones, for the first time on a windy day at Lake Lanier, and were as spellbound by the sound as I had ever been.The Bible describes the surf as the waves "clapping their hands." I sometimes clap along. And with the gravel of the road and stones of the walls of Jerusalem I too, with such voice as I have, cry out our Maker's praise and his coming.
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