“…In the old days, I remember a wind that would blow through the canyons. It was a hot wind called a Santana and it carried the smell of warm places. It blew the strongest before dawn across the Point. We would sleep in our cars and the smell of the wind would wake us. And each morning, we knew this would be a special day.
The summers passed with each year. I don ‘t seem to remember them anymore. I remember the fall and the coming of winter. The water got cold. It was a time of the west swell. A swell of change. A swell you usually rode alone.
The north swell was cold and lonely and dangerous. It was a powerful swell that marched down the coast in the winter. We used to ditch school, go down to the Point and watch it break.
There were light breezes and low-tide afternoons. I remember the rocks and the clear, cold water.
But now it all seemed to be behind us. The change wasn ‘t in the beach or the rocks or the waves.
It was in the people. Some got married, some moved inland, some searched for a new spot and some died.
Who knows where the wind comes from? Is it the breath of God? Who knows what really makes the clouds? Where do the great swells come from? And for what? Only that now it was time and we had waited so long.”