May 2, 2009 Hanging out on Moonstone Beach Listening to the Surf

Moonstone Beach, Cambria California, May 2, 2009 I’m sitting in the Sea of Japan Suite of the newly renovated Blue Dolphin Inn listening to the surf crashing rhythmically against the shore just across the two-lane blacktop. Below a sporadic cluster of pedestrians make their way north along the shoulder of the macadam lane toward the Moonstone Beach Bar & Grill. There is hardly any breeze and the temperature is in the upper 50s but it feels like mid-60s. I’m sitting with the window wide open and feeling comfortable in a tee shirt. From where I sit, indistinct bits of conversation waft up occasionally from those strolling by below. It’s half past eight in the evening and the sun has finally succumbed to night after struggling most of the day to break through the dense fog hugging the coastline and spilling over into most of the West Village of Cambria.

The inns along this stretch of road are filled with members of a Porsche car club this weekend. Every space in a parking lot at the inn next to ours is nearly filled with the slick racing machines. The Porsche’s link to the Central Coast was firmly established on September 30, 1955, when James Dean driving west on Highway 466—today’s Highway 46—crashed into a car driven by Cal Poly student Donald Turnupseed that was turning left off 46 onto Highway 41. Highway 46 connects the California Central Valley—Interstate Highway 5 and California Highway 99—to California Highway 1, the Pacific Coast Highway, that hugs the rugged California coast from just south of Orange County to just north of San Francisco. Highway 46 T’s into Highway 1 about three miles south of Cambria. The movie star was driving a rare Silver Porsche Spyder, one of only ninety built in 1955, his mechanic Rolf Wuetherich in the passenger seat was thrown free of the car and survived as did Donald Turnupseed.

Most of the Porsche club members temporarily populating the artist community certainly know of Dean’s unfortunate mishap. If this gathering is in any way connected with the doomed movie star, it’s hard to say. This assembly included a wide range of model years. It’s possible that among those visiting the village there was a rare 1955 Silver Porsche Spyder. However, this group is not unique. Cambria is host to clubs of Corvette affectionados, vintage car buffs—one time there were some many in the village, it was as if we’d been taken back in time to the days of William Randolph Hearst— among many others. The explanation for the gathering is more likely that Cambria is one of many stops club members make as they motor the length of the Pacific Coast Highway.

We’ve just returned from an early dinner at the Black Cat on Main Street in East Village of the seacoast artist community with a population of just under 6000. The Black Cat is one of the newer restaurants in the East Village, having come on the scene in 2002. The place is the creation of Chef Deborah Scarborough. A refugee from television production in Los Angeles, she’s turned the place into one of, if not, the best eatery in the seaside resort. Our meal tonight consisted of a main course of pheasant for me and abalone for my wife IM, preceded by blue cheese and goat cheese salads, respectively all accompanied by a glass each of Piper Heidsieck Champagne—the only way to celebrate a Saturday.