A Drive to the Coast, Part 2.

Part 2: The Coast of Los Angeles

by Armando Ortiz

The edge of the Pacific is like the tentacles of a giant octopus and rushes at the boulders that clutter the coast, reaching deep inside the catacombs where rats live, mixing with the yellow piss of drunk weekend visitors.

Soap bubbles come alive with every crash, like champagne bottles striking rocks. The sparkling water fizzles out, leaving behind tide pool swirls, and drying washed rocks.

I see the shore of LA, unnatural and beautiful, curving like the hips of a goddess, stretching south to Hermosa Beach.

Cars roll along Highway 1, swishing south with motors humming, and others zooming north as the rubber tires rubbing asphalt, and from where I sit looking at the water’s edge, on the boulders, the ocean becomes a giant treasure chest of broken wine bottles.

The tide is rising, the moon is lifting, the night turns bluer, and my soul ascends. Granite rocks, rough and warm to the touch are scoops of petrified chocolate chip ice cream frozen in time. These boulders become the front row seats to a grand amphitheater.

The wind and water make a symphony of white noise as the steady breeze lifts the smell of stale beer from the crevices, merging with the ocean mist.

Swarms of pelicans dive into the water and pierce the waves like kamikaze soldiers, catching wriggling fodder that glistens under a veil of water.

Uninvited, the seagulls stand mute, watching the frenzy of dive bombers feasting on their silvery prey. In unison they turn to see the day-visitors play ball, in their play forgetting about their bags.

Rats come out from inside the boulders, observing and inspecting the view, searching for what the two legged beings have dropped on the ground, always giving their back to the rare eyes that see them crawling about.

People linger behind catching the last rays of the warm ember sky, while someone strikes the last serve.

Other beach goers take pity on gulls and open leftover bags, hurling stuff up to the air, and the scavenging birds stab the bread at once.

The wind is like a swarm of honey bees, and waves disappear into the green body that slowly turns into a deep virgin jungle. The organic seashell comes alive when we visit the coast and listen carefully with our ears.

The edge of the pacific is but a few inches from where I sit, where wave after wave slowly sways like a mother cradling a child.

On the other side of the earth are other people invisible to our eyes, sitting by the edge, looking towards our side, everyone sits on the sand and looks out beyond the mind. We see the sun dip into the horizon, while a bloody red dot emerges on theirs.

We share the same thoughts as we bask under the golden sun and see the rays that reflect from every temporal ripple. The shadows of sleeping Buddhas are the same here as over there.

Surfers perform their daily ritual of riding the waves courageously and ceremoniously caress the ocean, hypnotizing the sun that sinks under the horizon, only to return in the mornings to welcome it from its slumber. They get engulfed by spirals, and come out of the tunnels reborn, like the breath that emerges from deep inside a conch.

Pelicans navigate the waters with ease, skillfully feeling the transparent breath of the ocean, gliding over turbulent waves as people dive into them hoping to make it out the other side.

At a distance is the pier where childhood memories were made by the fishing docks, where the crazy drunk jumped into the waters to swim and where churros were sold for fifty cents.

Waves slowly crawl towards my toes, and the sun stains the water with California poppies.