Waves

Waves

I spoke of waves on a beach in California.

I remember a few times at the beach.

In LA after a weekend concert, Bob Dylan was playing with the Dead that weekend. It was an incredible weekend. The weekend we dumpster dove and the manager brought us a cart load of broken cookies. Same parking lot there was a shooting, everyone hit the deck and I was just standing there oblivious waiting to get plugged.

Dylan was awesome. They called him Spike. It did not see too long since the Traveling Wilburys and everyone had a sort of alter personality on stage. I vaguely remember Clarence Clemmons for some reason but I am not sure if he was playing that weekend or not.

After the show we were heading back up the coast to Santa Cruz. We had picked up a couple and their dog and they had a bunch of high test LSD. Since they had no cash we all got dosed. We were not long up the coast, just out of LA traffic really when it came on. Starting to peak and the rock of the road was starting to set a peaceful tone. We had to stop for gas. It was a cool little station. Old time feeling place with white trim and stucco walls. Maybe a Texaco or something. Like a little old surfer gasso. We pulled in and piled out. Fresh air. The dog barking. Light. The sounds of the highway strong but not overpowering. The ringing of the music of the weekend still in the ears.

There was this beach. Strange now to think but it seemed to be on the wrong side of highway. A beach none the less. Stephen White and I started to trapse off to the beach. Big beach comber was Stephen Temple White. Grand Island days on the Cape. He lived on any given beach given enough time. Tar paper shacks filled with treasures of temples. Mile Marker 108 on the big island on the way to Hilo.

This beach was small. A roadside nook. Unknown it seemed to all but weary travelers wanting to strech legs and walk dogs. Railroad tie posts and steps. Warm large grained brown sand. Down this small hill so not to be visible from the street and the noise of the road continued overhead instead of down to the water. Warm ocean water with waves hardly coming to the shore. Standing in the surf. The water would come in and coat the feet in tiny white fizzy bubbles. The waves, not really waves as they were small would come in and gently roll away. When the water came up the sand around the feet would lift. Individual grains rising up. Floating, Effortless. Movement then away. The outward pull of the moon would swirl those grains of sand. Like small whirling dervishes, twisting the peaking opposite directions on each side of both feet.

Silence broken by horns honking and yelling now. The White man standing beside me saying something about they are going to leave us behind if we don’t get there. A bus load of long hair freaks concerned about the coming of night and travel on the highways and the couples baby back at home and the colors coming in and the big spliefs rolled and waiting and barking dogs, and almost dread moving from warm winter sun of the south to the fog covered hills and cool days to the north. That may be it the beach in Santa Cruz a grey dark place. Filled with beauty, sand thicker and cold. Warm fires on the shore while practicing for the polar bear club. A Beach where grandfathers take their charges to mine the morning shore for round agate rocks waiting to be split open to reveal the inner treasure of quartz. Return to Santa Cruz where hippy kids aren’t hassled just for hanging out on the corner. Santa Cruz where citizens toss you spare change to fee the dog and wine in gallon bottles serves as a meal.

Return to that place. Waking out of the universe of sand swirling at my feet. Waking to the fact I am a rider on a trip that is not my own. The hollow reverberation of the sea leaving my ears to now be filled with tires and road and laughter and bootleg tapes reliving of a show just witnessed.