At sunrise I could see a few early risers slowly walking the tide line, heads down as if in meditation. It was cold and they stayed well clear of the incoming tide, hands in their jacket pockets looking like sailors on watch. Maybe that is the metaphor, I thought. Life as one long sailor's watch, constantly on the lookout for danger the intercepting ship, the loose iceberg, the rogue gigantic wave anything that might require a change in course or speed. I was not a good watch man; always the straight course, no deviation, full steam ahead. The brightly painted hotel overlooking the Venice Boardwalk was old, dating from 1929, but renovation had changed it from a flophouse into a"charming beachside boutique hotel". And our room was charming. Large windows provided a spectacular view of the ocean and, about half a mile away, a part of the boardwalk that ended at the Santa Monica Pier. In the early morning light, the pier looked like an ethereal mermaid sleeping on the sea.
The frog, rolling in with the Pasific waves, was different in 1952. It was still pure, not yet touched by the advancing Los angeles smog. In the early morning you walked the beach as if in a maggical world hearing only the muted music of sea sounds. I closed my eyes and let my memory move into the present, feeling the phantom fog on my face and hearing the soft wafes.
