I did not plan on a trip to my favorite beach in Southern California, but it just happened. Earlier in my 'Y" shower I debated: should I take the ten dollars Metro-Link or drive into Beverly Hills to see my daughter She had been bitten breaking up a dog fight and was antibiotics. (Gas now hovered around $4.20 a gallon.)
First I needed to get to my car parked in the Old Town Commuter lot. I saw her filled basket and her torso but did not recognize her hair. I was either a wig or she dyed it. I wished to take a picture and got out my camera.
I focused on the trolley bench and knew a policeman might be in the way. I took the picture anyway. The officer came up to me.
"It is against the law to take pictures on private property!" Well I did not react, but calmly asked about the law. Like most police, he was rather large and carried a large coffee in one hand. He must have had a cold since he coughed a few times.
"Do you mean I can't take pictures of San Diego anymore?"
"That is the law!"
"Can you tell me who I cam speak to about it." He gave me a number to call. He would not take my card and may have been intimidated by it.
The Green Line Trolley approached and Mr. Dickens and I took a side seat. I had been reading Bleak Street and began to believe it compared San Diego with London in the mid nineteen century. I read a chapter until the Old Town stop came up.
My car started up and I felt great after a night of quick step lessons at Balboa Park. Half way to the Oceanside Transit Station., I decided to go for it and drive all the way to Los Angeles. So I took the Five to the 405 and after over one hundred miles of driving needed a break. Besides, nature called.
I turned off on Harbor and swung around to San Pedro. That put me on Torrance Blvd where my old coffee shop or Dino's still was in business. My nasal passages opened up. The South Bay Sea breezes are drier than San Diego.
After a breakfast of ham,eggs, and hash browns, I finished my water and decided to scuff it to Hermosa Beach. I call the main beaches the Three Sisters. From the north there is Manhattan, Hermosa and finally Redondo Beach.
It is not a coincidence that I fell in love with Hermosa Beach. My Dad Harry worshiped this beach and made sure we got lots of sun, punch, and body surfing in every summer. He drove a spanking new Packard in the forties, a time when plumbers made more than doctors. It was great for body surfing since the waves rolled in slowly and did not have a capricious drop, but kissed the sand with a touch of love. In the forties, we all jumped into my Dad's spanking new Packard, parked on Twenty Second Street and helped Edith with our punch container, pails and shovels.
But now I am Harry going for a drink from his famous beach. Hermosa Beach is the drinking capital of the United States. Hermosa Beach is not only known for volleyball and surfing, but for owning more bars than any other city. But how can one resist a cold one after a beach day in Hermosa.
I parked Disabled Dolly in the main parking lot. Of course it wasn't easy. The coffers of the city bring in more money from parking tickets than any other beach city. It may be easy to buy beer but to find a parking space, forget it. A nice denizen pulled out and allowed me to replace him. I opened my trunk and put some sun tan lotion on my big ear, and bigger nose. I did not forget the front of my head or back. I removed an umbrella and strode to the sand.
On the Pier Beach Mall, there was a run for grammar school kids. Off on the sand a volleyball tournament was going on. The back cement wall became my chair. I leaned my umbrella over my head and took in one of the matches in front of me. There were men on one side of the busy beach, and women on the other.
The worst volleyball player I had ever seen practiced before me. Her partner was pretty good. I will call the bad player Flat Ass. Why a stick held more shape than she did. I just could not imagine why she thought about entering the tournament. She could not bump, dig or hit the ball. In know way could they beat the other team. But they did. In doubles beach volleyball, a good partner can usually carry a mediocre one. I should know. The mediocre one was me a long time ago.
At about eleven o'clock it was time for me to go, but not before taking pictures of the Lighthouse, Poop Deck restaurants and of course the big tall iconic clock at the foot of this street mall. It is where I sat before I met Schindler the Great, and the love of my life, Shelly. (not finished or edited.)
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