First and foremost, I’m a coastal critter. I can’t breathe properly when I am away from ocean ions and the sound of the pounding surf. Growing up with Mavericks lullabying me to sleep created a deep love of the ebb and flow of the tides and the dance of waves coming and going. Watching them is hypnotic, sensing them is soothing and therapeutic, dodging their spray is fun and revitalising.
Mavericks are the amazing waves in El Granada, which is located in the middle of the Half Moon Bay Coastside, 20 miles south of San Francisco. Guarded by two twisty mountain roads, the coastside remained mostly rural for most of my childhood. Agriculture was the number one industry and the beaches, to this day, remain tranquil during the week. On the weekends, they are well visited by tourists and folks from ‘over the hill’ as we call the land beyond our community. I spent a childhood riding horses and ponies with friends, going off for the day with a dollar in our pocket to buy lunch at the local market: a burrito and a can of soda. One dollar was enough. There were no cell phones back then. We played hard, building forts and climbing trees, fought even harder with fists and mean-spirited tongues that would sometimes afflict a burn that would last months. But in the end, there were too few of us to make life-long enemies. We competed on horseback in gymkhanas and on bikes and foot in a variety of races in the vacant streets.
My family house was nestled in the foothills–canyons and folding slopes of pine trees and coyote bush, scotch broom and pompous grass–spoiled for many years by ‘Four-Wheelers’ and ‘Dirt-Bikers’ scarring up hills with the paths they created, and ungracious ‘Dumpers’ leaving truck loads of garbage. There were decaying cars left next to rusty refrigerators, piles of household trash, and lots of discarded drug paraphernalia and empty beer bottles. It was a hot party zone too and the police were regularly called out to disband a risky soiree. This was dry territory and it wasn’t unusual for drunken revellers to light fires or smoke cigarettes and carelessly discard the butts. I can remember one blaze that needed the fire department to put it out.
The land was owned by a large corporation who would not put up fences and gates to keep these violators out. Our fence was hit almost 20 times by trucks speeding down the hill and losing control, crashing through onto our property. The Coastal Commission was protecting the land and that is why it remained undeveloped. Years later, after I had moved away, Golden Gate Parks took it over and put up gates and lovingly repaired it. Rangers moved the garbages out, toiled the scarred path and let nature do its business. It is now a vibrant, wonderful resource for lots of people.
The town of Half Moon Bay has seen a lot of changes since I graduated from the local high school. I can remember, back then, there was a concentrated effort to create more touristy attractions, using Carmel for inspiration. The Waves at Lower Point were suddenly marketed as Mavericks, the Golf Course expanded bringing with it a Ritz Carlton, and boutiques replaced the auto part store and the gas station on Main Street. The farm supply stores went upmarket selling gift items and cleaning off their dusty shelves to fashionably display saddles and bridles, chicks and rabbits became an attraction for children visiting from the more populated areas over the hill, and fabulous restaurants opened up next to the celebrated coffee shops of my youth that held their own with the locals, but added some flower boxes to their front facades. Highway One became and remains an avenue of slow moving cars on the weekends but the addition of the tunnel on Devil Slide (the result of a long contentious battle regarding fixing the slipping coastal road) made the journey from Pacifica easier, and safer.
Every time I came home, Main Street was home to new shops and old businesses were gone but the town never loses its charm. Nor does the Coastside. It will always be home.
Whimspherical 