I’ve watched the Mediterranean Sea lap onto the shore of a tiny Greek island while I swam in the surf at sunset. And I’ve strolled along a quay on the south coast of England, gazing out across the Channel toward France. But my favorite place to experience the coast is Atascadero Beach in Morro Bay, California. It holds a simple magic, and I believe it can help me be brave.
Morro Bay is a mix of old-fashioned fishing village and trendy resort area, sprinkled with a pinch of funky beach town. Today the harbor sparkles in the winter morning sunshine. Two elderly women in silver and gold track suits, matching jewelry tinkling, walk along the wharf, paying no notice to the craggy fishermen struggling with the rigging on their boats below.
Atascadero Beach is similarly ignored. Around the corner from the high school and down the street from a concrete plant, this beach appears to be nothing special. I can’t even see the water, hidden by lumpy hills of sand, until I reach the path beyond the parking lot. But then a glimpse of the waves teases me from between the dunes, and I know there is a bounty behind this unremarkable facade.
I’m here hoping to find the same kind of depth inside myself, the guts to transform a dream I have from longing to actual experience. My feet sink in several inches as I trudge up the sandy hill. Ice plant supporting a scattering of yellow and purple flowers lines the path, and it feels like the yellow brick road, leading to Oz.
At the top of the dunes, Morro Rock comes into full view, hardened lava rising over 500 feet on the south end of the beach. The Rock is a dramatic local landmark and a holy place for the Chumash Indians. It looks rough, with deep crevices and is greying on one end. I can relate.
My thoughts are buried under the sound of the surf. I feel the salt on my face and take a deep breath of sea-life freshness as I notice my hair slow dancing around my shoulders in the wind. The ocean has created geometric patterns in the sand, making it look cozy like a textured blanket. The sky looks like a blanket too, of white gauze worn through in the grey parts, and with bright streaks of blue like it was put in the wash with the wrong thing.
I watch a Long-billed Curlew hop around the water’s edge and then splay its grey-brown wings before plunging its beak deep into the sand. A family of smaller birds rides the waves like a bunch of little surfers. They are wiped out by a big swell, and then one by one they bob back up and float to the shore to ride again.
The waves are the essence of this place. They collide together and then, folding in, relax. They collide and relax, over and over. They’re at least six feet tall now, and my eye follows them from their highest part, almost too white, to where they grey and then turn the color of an aquamarine jewel before blending with the muddy sand. They never stop, never say “I’m not up to it today, I’m too tired, I’m going to sit this one out.” They just roll with it, let gravity be their boss. They work hard, but seem to enjoy it too, the way they bubble up, stretch, and hum. And with the slight vibration coming up through my feet, I feel their music.
I realize strength and bravery aren’t always about the extraordinary. They can be about coming back, continuing, like the waves. Life rises and falls. There is difficulty, but then there is relief.
This beach is known for sand dollars, and I spot one, perfect, with no holes. I take it to keep as a symbol: wholeness. My hair and face are sticky from the salt, but my thoughts are clear now. I say thank you to this blessed beach and its simple magic. As I turn from the water and head back up the hill, the sand feels lighter than when I came. I step with ease through the deep dunes.
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