The ocean breeze in La Jolla, cool and moist, moves over one like a mother smoothing her child's cowlick.
I walk through the tony downtown shopping district and various indigenes pass by: bottle-blonde girls of lithsome gait chirping enthusiastically into cell phones; studiously deshabille surfer dudes whose mincing barefoot steps on the pavement give them a vaguely avian aspect. These dudes have returned from the shore, where they arrange themselves battalion-like upon the breaking waves which run toward the shore in a way that reminds me of spilled cappucinos.
Patiently they float upon the undulating green waves in hope of the perfect ride, these lazy, strange creatures facing the Pacific's rippled, dappled immensity. One breaks off, suddenly a frenzy of action as he paddles furiously to meet the wave in stride, and springs nimbly upon his board, swinging its nose from side-to-side like a shark through chum.
But there are always others waiting . . . waiting.
To sit in a restaurant upon a bluff overlooking the sea and watch such an evening's activity is delightful--I with my drink, they with their boards, as the sun sinks into the sea till we are darkling all.
