January 19, 2006 - Sojourn into the Past - The Return Day 4

January 19, 2006 - Sojourn into the Past - The Return Day 4

For my wife IM and me, Friday December 30th, 2005 began with the sound of waves breaking against the gray sands on Moonstone Beach about two-thirds of a mile south of Leffingwell Landing Park in Cambria, California. The park was named after William Leffingwell Sr. who built the area’s first sawmill shortly after settling here in 1858, when Cambria was an active seaport and whaling station, 24 years after Richard Henry Dana shipped out as a seaman on the brig Pilgrim to live the experience he would document in his classic Two Years Before The Mast—likely passing this stretch of the Central Coast in his voyages. My wife IM and I had an early night and woke a little after 7:00 as the winter sun cast long shadows westward. Outside patches of fog diffused the light producing a dreamy effect looking southward along Moonstone Beach Drive.

A morning run in Cambria is one of the highlights of my day in the coastal resort town. From our ground floor room at Cambria Landing, I jog north on Moonstone Beach Drive toward its junction with California Highway 1, also called the Cabrillo Highway. As I amble out the Moonstone Beach Bar & Grill on my right is getting ready to serve breakfast and I notice the wait staff preparing to receive guests. Along Moonstone Beach about the only activity are early morning walkers and the occasion car disturbing the Debussy-sounding rhythm of waves lapping the beach—though today, stirred up by the Pacific storms that have lashed California the last four days, the abnormally high waves hit the coast with an increased fury. The two-lanes of Moonstone Beach Drive are trapped on the left by the pounding Pacific, slowly eroding inches of bluff every year and on the right by a line of bed and breakfast motels: Cambria Landing, Castle Inn, Sea Otter Inn, Best Western Fireside Inn, the upscale Blue Whale Inn—the most expensive in the area, White Water Inn, and Windrush, all with ocean views across Moonstone Beach Drive. The one lone exception is the San Simeon Pines Motel, which sits at the top of a gentle rise where Moonstone Beach Drive dead ends into Highway 1. Its view is obstructed by the wind-sculpted pines overlooking Leffingwell Landing.

When I reach Highway 1, I continue north a mile and a half, toward Ragged Point, a collection of motels and businesses a couple of miles south of San Simeon. The stretch of two-lane blacktop starts at the top of a rise and then descends into a valley cut away by a hundred-years-old-plus stream that continues to carry run off from the Coast Range Mountains. (Hearst Castle sits atop this range a couple miles north and several miles east up a winding mountain road, where it commands an incredible view that extends from Morro Bay in the south to Big Sur in the north). Today the stream is still running fast carrying the remnants of the storm that deluged the mountains earlier in the week. At the bottom of the hill, a concrete bridge—the length of a city block and a good 15 feet or more above the canyoned-out ground below—arcs the canyon and its fast moving stream. The bridge has a narrow shoulder that I cross running against fairly light, on-coming traffic traveling at a good 60 MPH, their wake ruffling my Rohde & Schwartz running suit. On the eastern side of Highway 1 on the north bank of the stream is a public camp ground, part of San Simeon State Park. It’s filled with RVs, trailers, and tents, the transient abode of brave souls some of whom weathered the earlier storm and are now being treated to a beautiful morning—the sun’s rays deflected skyward over the rim of the Coast Range. Just beyond the camp is the entrance to the state park and I’m now running up a slight grade. On the left is a small multi-building estate with an unobstructed ocean view sitting atop the bluff that parallels the highway. The ocean is a good 10 to 15 feet below. Most of the bluff on the ocean-side of the highway is colonized by ice plants that spread like ivy. On the eastern side of the highway, the treeless sloping foot hills of the Coast Range are covered with winter grazing and a handful of cows widely spaced from one another are having their early morning fill.

About a quarter of a mile south of Ragged Point, the grade I’ve been climbing levels off and I cross the highway and start my return. I would normally have carried on and made my turn at Ragged Point, but I’m lazy today. As I begin my return I pass the strong distinctive odor of skunk that I missed on the outbound leg, as the wind was blowing on shore. The animal was hit and thrown to the side of the highway, though I can’t see its carcass. I make it back to Cambria Landing and complete my shower just as breakfast is brought to our room—two rolls, sliced fresh fruit, orange juice, and coffee. After breakfast, IM and I sit back and watch Moonstone Beach come to life, with a steady stream of walkers, joggers, bicyclists, and cars passing our floor to ceiling window and sliding glass door giving access to a wood deck with two white plastic outdoor chairs. It’s a bit too cold to sit outside and we hide behind the glass and watch the world go by.

The routine in Cambria is as regular as the constant pounding waves. Each morning, walkers take to the wooden boardwalks the city has installed on the ocean side of Moonstone Beach Drive to minimize the damage to the fragile ecosystem on the slowly eroding bluffs that guard this valuable beach-front property from inundation by the Pacific. The flora must not only contend with the fury of nature—windblown salt spray from crashing wave, the ever present fog that visits overnight most evenings, the punishing storms that sweep the coast during the winter months—it must also endure the footfalls of sightseers who ignore the signs to stay on the boardwalk, the antics of pets, mostly dogs, and the ever present carbon monoxide exhaust continually sprayed by passing cars during the daylight hours.

The walkers are an interesting collection of aging baby boomers—like IM and me; same-sex two-somes; young families with one or two adolescents; the occasional newborn wrapped snugly against the brisk morning breeze off the ocean; and romantic couples of all ages strolling hand in hand, oblivious of the world about them—they’ve found paradise for a day and they’re going to ring every ounce of pleasure from it before sunset and even then watching till the last ray of sun sinks into the distant horizon (on a good day with no fog).

The rhythm of this couple-mile stretch of Pacific coast is tuned to the metronome of the constant rolling waves. At night, IM and I love to sleep with the window open listening to the steady beat of successive waves. There is no place in the world that makes you more keenly aware that the earth vibrates to a constant frequency, each rotation marking the continuous passage of time in a never ending progression, one revolution following another.

The sound of time passing has just reminded us that the year 2005 has just over 37 hours left and we’re anxious to return home and do all the things we haven’t quite finished in 2005. Just before 11:00 we load up the Chevy Trailblazer, drop off our room key and head back to San Jose.