by Jonathan Slowik
April 10, 2008. It’s been 612 days since I last sat on this beach at night. I wrote a letter that night too, but to a different recipient. Much has transpired in the meantime—not all of it entirely surprising, but I certainly didn’t think that at this point in my life, I would still be trekking to the beach at night, alone.
The Ferris wheel has undergone a makeover since that spring night. Instead of flashing your garden variety carnival lights, it now screams a long, intricate, and positively psychedelic light show from the pier. Amusing, I have to admit. But I’ve always preferred the view to the north—brake lights snaking along the PCH, stretching to the twinkling lights of Malibu, where the Santa Monica Mountains meet a confused sky.
The Los Angeles stratosphere can never really decide what color it wants to be at night, but usually ends up settling on some shade of barely visible pink. In Santa Monica, where Ocean Avenue resorts meet the black nothingness of the Pacific, all bets are off. Pink, black, gray—it’s all of these things and none of them. With diminished competition from sodium vapor lamps, dozens of stars meekly peer from behind the fabric, unsure if they’re invited.
The beach, at night, always seems like a good place to get some questions answered. I think the solitude, the calming, rhythmic crashing of the waves, and the crisp ocean air facilitate the kind of free associations we don’t normally make. Sounds like just the elixir for a night like this, since our minds don’t seem to wander as much as they used to.
Tonight’s ocean, however, is not fielding questions. Rather than that rhythmic crashing I so often find, the scene I encounter is decidedly unfriendly—a constant barrage of waves crest far from the shore and then spit foam for as long as the rising sand will allow. Bathed in moonlight, the menacing water is quite haunting, like something from a spooky scene in a children’s movie. I begin to wonder if a younger me would be frightened or delighted, and realize I’m making some free associations after all.
After a time, an oldish man approaches and stands facing the water, gazing longingly at the waves. It appears to be a good time to call it a night. He seems like he has some questions for the ocean, and perhaps he will find it more receptive than me. I’m content to trudge back across the cold sand, blanket in hand, no conclusions made—except that, improbably, it’s a beautiful night, and we should do this again sometime.
photo originally published here
