Malibu

Malibu Pier is set in a beautiful landscape just below the rugged Santa Monica Mountains and not far from Billionaires Beach. We are there on a December morning, just as low lying clouds creep over the hilltops. From the pier we can see beach-side homes built on stilts to allow high-tide to roll beneath their decks. The solitude of Malibu is peaceful. The chaos of L.A. traffic and sprawling freeway and skyscrapers and millions of people feel a world away. In truth, they are only on the other side of the bay, but from where we are, they can be neither seen nor felt.

We walk to the end of the pier and up the balcony where we take pictures and breathe in the sight of the ocean. The clouds are thick and gray and the water is dark and deep. Not many people are on the pier this morning and those who are wear jackets to keep them warm. Some wear knit caps over their ears. A Mexican man in a straw hat and long-sleeved flannel shirt works with a fishing pole of the edge of the pier. A cart with watermelons piled inside sits idly outside of a restaurant. Everything is closed right now. People are just beginning the days work.

I will admit that one reason we are here is to satisfy curiosity. We want to see how the rich and famous live, and perhaps run into Charlie Sheen, Courteney Cox, or Mel Brooks. Also, I am always looking for new places that are beautiful. But the primary reason we are here is to commemorate my daughter, Brittany, who died exactly one year ago yesterday. She would have loved to be here in such a pleasant place, “mingling with the stars.” We have plans to remember her, but that will come later in the day.

After the pier, we walk up the street toward the Adamson House. Along the way, we notice several cars pulling to the side of the road and people unloading surf boards onto the sidewalk. They begin to pull on black wet-suits, stretching them over their bodies, and zipping them up to their necks. Some of the will-be surfers are unabashed to change in front of passing pedestrians, even when disrobing down to their underwear. We pass by nonchalantly, wondering why so many surfers are showing up at once, but not daring to ask.

We arrive at the Adamson House to find that the interior is closed, but grounds are open to the public. The house, built in a Spanish Colonial style in 1929, overlooks Surfrider Beach. The home is very elegant, with several tiled fountains and large patios. The Spanish tiles on the roof and the white-washed walls give it the quintessential Spanish look.

But it is the location and history that fascinate me. Many years before the house was built, the land was the location of a ranch and country home of the Rindge family. When they owned it, Malibu was truly a wild place. No billionaire homes, no roads, no pier, no other people. Not as far as far as the eye could see. It felt remote. It probably looked as it did when the Chumash Indians lived there or when Juan Rodríguez Cabrillo landed nearby in 1542.

The thought of living isolated along a coastal beach, in a tropical setting, with wild verdant mountains stacking themselves behind the ocean, and a nighttime sky that would be so clear that the Milky Way would radiate like a large luminous band, gives tingles along my back. It sounds like a true Swiss Family Robinson adventure. Maybe I am making it a little more romantic than it really was, but I would love to beam myself back in time and spend a few months living among them.

While roaming the grounds at the house, we watch the beach, and watch the surfers who are now paddling into the water, about thirty of them. Some kneel and others lay on their boards, stroking with their arms and kicking with their feet. They paddle into the ocean a couple hundred yards where they form a large circle and hold hands.

Many onlookers watch from the beach. Most are friends and family of the surfers, not just random tourists like ourselves.

While holding hands and attempting to keep their circle while waves and the drift of the water toss them around, some within the circle speak to the others. We can't hear a thing, but it is obvious from their gesticulations and the attention heeded from the others in the circle, that words are being spoken. Within a few minutes, the circle is broken and they paddle back toward the shore. Upon arriving on the sand, some pack up and return to their cars while others head back out to the water to try their luck on the waves.

After finishing at the Adamson House and walking back along the sidewalk toward the pier, we pass a young man who is next to his car, dripping wet with salt water and slipping out of his wet-suit.

“You were with the group of surfers that formed the circle, weren't you?” I ask.

“Yes,” he affirms.

“What exactly were you doing?”

He goes on to explain that they were taking part in a “paddle-out” ceremony. One of their very own, a twenty-three year-old surfer, had died last week from a brain hemorrhage. This was their way of memorializing him. They carried flowers in their teeth or around their neck as they paddled out, then held a small ceremony, then left the flowers at the site.

This is a special privilege for us. We feel that it is no mere coincidence that we traveled over five hundred miles and happen upon a memorial service on the beach. We thank the surfer for his helpful insight, and tell him that we are in Malibu for the same reason, to hold our own memorial celebration for our daughter.

We arrive back to our vehicle and now it is just a few miles west along the Pacific Coast Highway to Latigo Canyon Road. We can't pass up Malibu without gawking at least one celebrity home. I prepped the kids well for this. Back at home, we all gathered around the computer to watched my favorite Guns N' Roses video, Estranged. Many of the clips in this video were shot in and around Axl Rose's home, including a few areal shots. The last scenes of his home show Axl dressed in a white t-shirt and white shorts, getting into a white limousine, and being driven down the winding hill from his home, with extensive views of the ocean in the background.

That winding road is exactly where we are now, only we are traveling up. I studied this well on Google Maps before we came, knowing exactly how many turns in the road there would be and at which point the home would come into view. I knew that we would only see a portion of the southern wall, a chain-linked fence and several of the trees around his property. We would also see his white-gated driveway.

The kids are all excited as we approach the property. “Those are his trees,” I say as I point to the left. A few seconds later I point again and say, “That's his fence and there's his house! Look, look!” All the kids are gawking, and Kaitlyn has her hand out the window with her phone trying to take a video. I am surprised at how dilapidated the roads are for being in the neighborhood of celebrities. That is about all I can focus on with the road being as windy as it is. We drive past the driveway, noticing it, but not expecting to see anyone there. I already checked the tour dates for G-n-R, and Axl Rose is on the road.

We drive a little bit further on Latigo Canyon Road, then turn around for one last look at the mansion before we head back down to the coast. The kids don't seem as excited on the way down. I guess that the novelty has worn off. I am very impressed, however, at the view of the Pacific, large and blue in the distance. I can't help but imagine Axl Rose sipping a beverage, holding a smoldering cigarette, and watching the view out the window as he descends this same road in his limousine.

Malibu is twenty-one miles long. With the exceptions of a few side-roads like the one we just took, most of its residents reside in close proximity to the Pacific Coast Highway, which runs adjacent to the coast for the entire length of the city. Our next stop is several miles away and is a grocery store to buy snacks for dinner. I don't see any grocery stores and we have to ask a mail-lady for directions and then we backtrack a couple of miles.

We find our store on Heathercliff Road, and manage to buy our snacks without seeing any celebrities. That's alright, because my mind is more preoccupied with sunlight than celebrities. Our short December daylight is winding down.

We speed west on the PCH and arrive at our final destination, El Matador State Beach. I wasn't sure what to expect when I researched this place, other than I knew it would be beautiful. I wasn't expecting the parking lot to be located on a butte, high above the beach. We eat quickly in the vehicle (because of a cold breeze outside), then slowly make our way down to the beach.

We carry with us six glass bottles, each with a tearful message that we wrote for Brittany this morning while in our hotel room. The path down to the beach is dirt, with steps along the steep parts. The beach is located at the foot of some impressive rugged cliffs.

The sun is slanting close to the horizon now, illuminating the rocks and sand with a golden hue. Jordan quickly finds a starfish washed ashore and picks it up to show us. We take off our shoes and socks and feel the foamy tide as it washes across our ankles. The water is a little chilly, as would be expected in December. Coming off the sea with the waves is a slight breeze. We choose to keep our jackets on. The sand beneath the soles of my feet feels like little Styrofoam balls.

We find a secluded section of beach with no rocks projecting from the surface of the water, and one-by-one, we chuck the bottles as far as we can into the ocean. Jenelle kisses her's before she throws. The two little girls have a hard time getting distance, so I pick up one of theirs and sling it further. Kaitlyn has no problem and throws her's out like a center fielder.

The situation, being very emotional and tender, turns comical when we spot one of the bottles, fifty yards up the beach, already washed ashore. I run and retrieve it, tossing it back, only to spot a second bottle marooned on the sand. I hurl it back into the ocean also. We all begin to laugh. Three more bottles wash ashore and we decide to keep them with us and attempt to throw them out another day. I guess that this land-locked family learns a lesson in physics.

We gather for a family portrait on the shore before heading out on our own exploration of the beach. Mine is a solo quest, and I leave with camera and tripod in hand. The sun is within minutes of being buried beneath the Pacific. The world I find along the beach is full of coves, arches, and sea stacks. My bare-feet feel the kelp and large pebbles on the sand. The hue of sunset reflects on the thin veneer of water left on the beach with the ebb of the current. Sea birds perch and wait atop egg-shaped rocks in the ocean. Some of the large rocks look like they were formed from a caldron of boiling pebbles, left to harden like Roman statues.

I am not the only one with this same idea. Other photographers vie for prime vista locations. But, there aren't many bad locations. The entire beach is of another world. It is surreal. It could be out of a Dalí painting.

I snap several pictures and watch as the shade of the ocean turns a darker gray and sea stacks turn to silhouettes. I return back to my family, who have also been admiring God's great wonder. In my mind and in my heart, I feel that all my family is here this evening.