I’m spoiled with beaches the way I am with swimming pools. I spent summer days lounging around secluded spots in the town where my grandmother grew up, digging my toes in black sand, chasing warm water waves, and swinging on hammocks dangling on coconut trees. Even in Newport Beach, a 30-minute drive that felt like 30 hours as a child, we had a favorite spot that was hardly ever crowded.
It had been months since I’d spent an afternoon at the beach, but Sunday, Rama and I made pasial. “I don’t really know where we’re going,” I warned him.
“It’s okay. Neither do I,” he said, then continued singing familiar melodies with nonsense lyrics.
I read in Los Angeles magazine that there are something like 50 openings to the Malibu coast but most of them are unmarked. We drove up Pacific Coast Highway, keeping an eye out for passageways to secret slices of paradise. But no luck.
We ended up at Point Dume, a relatively small and quiet beach. Several people were already headed home. Rama and I found a nice spot and collapsed on a blanket. We watched surfers and seagulls and wrote silly messages in the sand. Once in a while, the waves crept up to kiss our toes.
I started to fall asleep–I told rama that I was just going to “rest my eyes”–when all of a sudden a big wave came crashing over us. We lept up, laughing and shaking out the water. I was drenched from the waist down.
Luckily, the sun was still out, so we dried off enough before getting back in the car. On the way home, I told rama he could take a nap. “It’s okay,” he said, and almost immediately fell asleep. I rolled the window down, sang along to aimee mann, and watched the orange moon rise over the ocean.