Venice Beach

When I think of Venice Beach, Fletch comes to mind, roving the boardwalk on roller blades, wearing a long Middle-Eastern robe and beard. Some of the scenes in that Chevy Chase movie were filmed between Venice and Santa Monica Beaches, which are only a couple of miles apart. Chevy played an undercover newspaper reporter that was following the drug traffic near the beach.

Now that I've been to Venice Beach, I don't believe that the movie was too far off—people walking dogs, punks on roller blades, and African's hawking their music. The boardwalk is alive. This is definitely a people-watching place.

We were excited to see the infamous Muscle Beach. When we walked by during the early morning, the workout arena was virtually empty, except for a lone black-man, his shirt off, captivated in his own process of pumping iron, the veins in his shoulders and biceps bulging out with the rest of his arm. Muscle Beach is a good five hundred feet from the water and is enclosed by a low blue fence. A small semi-circle of bleachers provides a viewing area for anyone to watch.

Nearby is an outdoor basketball court and next to that, a tennis court. My impression of the day was that all the tall colored people played at the basketball court, while the rich white boys and girls from Santa Monica contested on the tennis court. Not to be stereotypical, but that's how it seemed.

The boardwalk extends about a mile, with a variety of shops on one side, and on the other, there is grass, then sand, then the Pacific Ocean. That combination may vary as there may be a taco stand or racquetball court in the mixture. The shops sell churros, henna tattoos, sunglasses, souvenirs, and yes, medical marijuana. I wasn't expecting that one. “Come and get high,” they advertised.

Artists speckled the boardwalk—some painting, others playing an instrument. One such musician caught my attention. A swarthy man, dressed with a tall turban upon his head and wrapped in a robe (just like Fletch), played the electric guitar. This guy was perfect for a picture—the quintessential Venice Beachite. But he was one step ahead of me. I lifted my camera to my eye and instantly he pulled a black t-shirt from behind his guitar, unfolded it and lifted it up to cover his face, and began a rant that I can't even remember. I just walked away, disappointed that I didn't get my picture, and feeling dumb for getting had.

I should mention that I was with my family this day, and we worked our way away from the boardwalk and toward the beach. We stopped at the waterfront for at least half an hour and watched the surfers as they paddled into the ocean and attempted to catch a wave. They all wore black wet suits and appeared as if they did this every day. Some, I noticed, even rode here on their bikes.

My kids did their usual thing: run into the waves, let the water lap against their legs, then run back to the shore in a frantic trot when the splash became too high.

But the pier is where we intended to go. Nothing fancy about this one. It is no Santa Monica Pier. No roller coaster, no Bubba Gump restaurant, no cotton candy booths. Just a long walk over the ocean on planks of pine wood. An occasional fisherman. Others were strolling to smell the scent of the ocean breeze beneath them.

We reached the end of the pier, where my wife and daughter each pulled out a bottle enclosed with a message. Inside the glass was a handwritten letter to Brittany. One at a time, they launched them westward. We watched for at least twenty minutes at the small glistening objects floating atop a vast blue sea, bobbing up and down, yet surely being carried outward, becoming smaller and smaller by the minute.