Beachcombers

Some PILPers fled the sudden Friday deluge and wound our way up the coastline towards Santa Barbara, stopping to find a solution to the whirring surfboard strap (we tied on a cushion), snacking on grapes, and playing car games. Soon, the rain was behind us, and ahead only mountains and clouds and the sea. Thanks to traffic, and our tardy departure, we were still driving at 7, and decided to stop in at Applebee's for dinner (real campers, we are). Post swiss cheese/mushroom burger and beer, and quick stop-in at Food Co to gather supplies - donuts, bananas, sandwichy things - we hit the road again, winding back and forth along an unlit road, the motion-sickness broken only by the sudden spotting of an owl in flight and a deer scampering under a fence and taking off across a dark slope ('BAMBI!').

The campsite is as close to the beach as it could be without campers being at risk of being washed away by the tide in their sleep. There's no cell phone service, so we were completely off the grid, and deliciously alone. The moon was so bright that we could see without our torches, and crashing through everything was the roar of the Pacific.

Most of us arrived together, to find Zina, Geneva and Christiana waiting with a lit fire and chili in cans, ready to be warmed on, sorry, IN the fire for those silly enough not to stop in at Applebees (not I). We huddle as close to the campfire as we could without melting our shoes - you think I kid? I don't, the soles of my sneakers have a lovely stripe across them where they melted a bit - and played hot seat and ate smores.

(Hot seat: you sit around a campfire and ask people probing questions, anything from 'have you ever pooped your pants' to 'what is your greatest fear' to 'what do you love about South Africa' to 'what is your favourite thing about falling in love'. There's something about the campfire that makes one contemplative and eloquent.)

After that, we went down to the beach. The moon was bright and the night light, and the air crisp and the waves loudly crashing. We ran around for a bit, and contemplated swimming (again, not I, because it was bloody cold), and some did swim and the rest made camp and curled up in welcoming, enveloping warmth of sleeping bags inside tents, and slept.

I woke up early on Saturday and found a lofty bench overlooking the beach. I certainly wasn't the first person awake. There were fishermen and surfers spotting the cove, and gulls of course, always gulls. After breathing in the quiet free of traffic and sirens, and soaking in the vision of the bluffs and the waves, and the flat horizon, I moseyed back to the campsite and partook of donuts, coffee and conversation for breakfast. The rest of Saturday was spent lazing on the beach, splashing in the surf, exploring the tidal pools, and painting. We found a whale carcass decomposing in the sand, feasted upon by gulls. It reminded me of a poem I recited for a poetry eisteddford once, although one's sense of tragedy I think is inverse to the smell of rotting.

It was strange to leave the sea behind. The world feels empty without the ceaseless beat of the waves on the shore. I still have sand in my shoes.