The American West (Coast)
“He had eyes only for California.”—Sam Shepard, from Nuevo Mundo (1994)
The predominant conversation I have with peers these days is about “where to go.” Everyone (myself included) seems to be longing to “leave.” California. The West Coast. America. Planet earth, etc. We’re all “out of here.” I’m reminded of Lou Reed’s scene in “Blue in the Face” where he says he’s been leaving New York for 35 years. And he’s “almost ready.”
I’ve decided to take the weekend off from that. I’m going to appreciate everything that comes with a red hot American summer holiday at home in California. And yes, I’ll likely be “leaving” again by Monday — especially after living through a red hot American summer holiday at home — but for the weekend, the 249th birthday of the U.S.A., I’m going to enjoy where I am from and where I am: Home in Southern California.
This morning I loaded my plain white, 5’8” x 18 ⅛ x 2 ⅛ surfboard with black grip into my car. I made a commitment this year to exclusively ride “championship boards.” No more gimmicks. No more retro. No more small wave wizardry. Give me rail line and drive. I want to qualify. Chris Brown wraparound. I tossed the driest of my three black wetsuits in the car and drove to the beach listening to Numero Group’s incredible "Early Emo” playlist. An American man from Southern California in his element.
I turned on to Pacific Coast Highway as the June Gloom thinned and the subtle Southeast (rare!) breeze made the newest leaves on the olive trees look like they were sparkling. Jacarandas rained purple petals on the newly slurried pavement and date palms stood sentry all the way down the street. By the time I arrived at the beach the sky was bright blue, the sun vibrant, the waves….well fair, but we love fair.
Just inconsistent enough to have some deep thoughts between sets. Consistent enough to keep this session under 45 minutes and still productive. Humanity was out and jogging. Walking. Surfing. Sandcastles and metal detectors. The sky kept getting bluer.
The abundant woodland creatures around here have been mutated into some kind of parking lot vermin who nip at bike tires and open-toed shoes. Nature, I guess. Today I simply saw them as the animal kingdom in all its glory under those cerulean California skies. It was a perfect California day and I was home. Yikes, is that a crow eating a woodland creature?
After my session I stepped on a tar ball and the traffic to the house was thick so I had time to enjoy the view. There’s the water treatment plant. Oil derricks and oil rigs. A shopping center with “everything you need” including an H&M. A deserted patch of oil rich wetland. An Arby’s. A fender on the freeway and a tow truck flashing its lights. 18-wheelers hopscotched with box trucks and the graffiti on the Home Depot caught my eye long enough that I drove through a massive pothole, totally rearranging my car’s alignment.
The overgrowth of shrubbery off the freeway is impressive — a weed that’s become canopy-sized totally shrouds the homeless encampment. I can see the Port of Long Beach and the Vincent Thomas Bridge from the 405 — a circulatory system of American industry at work. Jaywalkers dart in and out of my lane running from strip mall to strip mall. A food cart smokes as fresh pollo asada is tossed on and the line at the carwash is as the same length as the one at the cash advance place.
I pulled into my driveway, hung my soaking wetsuit up in the backyard. I had a peaceful moment as I watched it drip dry backed by the Spanish roof tiles and bougainvillea in the backyard. My daughter just yelled “Daddy!’ as I walked through the backdoor and the red hot American holiday weekend has begun. I just got an email from the city saying my beach parking pass won’t work till Monday. Somebody get me a domestic light beer. I have eyes only for California. But let’s definitely talk again Monday.—Travis Ferré
Above art: Made in California, 1973 by Ed Ruscha.
