What to do instead of sitting in rush hour traffic

Day three of working in Santa Monica. Day three of finding ways to
avoid the two-hour crawl home. I know better than to look for a
short cut out.

Good Friday. Not good enough. At least today the sun broke through,
casting a soft light perfect for my planned adventure. Everyone
heading east, I turn west on Wilshire. I have no destination, just
go to the end and follow the ocean, leaving behind the shops and
shopping of Third Street, winding down towards the PCH. As I drive
north I pass roads leading home and know, Friday with no obligations,
I could just drive and drive.

The sunset tonight is a pale rusted gray, like an old yellowed
photograph. My recently washed car is already dusty from drought
conditions. All the metal and glass, the murkiness of the view
annoys me. I watch a motorcycle pass with envy. An even better way
to drive north, endlessly, holding on as the wind sings to me, me
singing into you as you speed us further to no where we need to be.

Instead I roll down the window and turn up the heat as the cold wind
whips my hair.

I listen for a place to beckon me to stop. Topanga Beach. Surfers
strip off their wetsuits in the cold air behind cars lining the PCH.
I make a u-turn, park, grab my camera, wrap my scarf around my neck,
and head down to the beach.

It's a surfing beach. My next adventure beckoning. When it is
warmer, I tell myself. As I approach the stairs descending to the
beach snuggled between cliffs, I pass two men getting read to put on
their suits. One is old with grey hair and a small pooch belly. So
can I, I think. So can I.

But not today.

No board, no suit, no guide.

Today I just share the space, the peace of the ocean.

Stepping onto the beach, I sink into the sand. Each step in the sand
brings an acute awareness of balancing, as the sands constantly shift
under me, never predictable, never the same.

I observe through the camera, then without.

My first lesson. Just watching. First floating, waiting in the
ocean, white and grey with only hints of blue now. The water looks
calm, but as the surfers ebb and flow, I know its strength lies
beyond visibility. Just because you can't see it, doesn't mean it's
not there. Then, from some source unknown, the ocean swells and the
surfers awake, moving to meet the potential wave. A few time it just
right, the wave breaks, the surfer hops up and then, it looks like
just standing, just letting the wave take you home.

But it's not.

A moment shifts out of the moment, forward or back. The surfer seems
to fling himself into the water. From the beach, it is a silent
ballet, though I imagine the sounds, all inside, of the heart
beating, of breath as the water crashes around your body, the head
going under, all sounds at once muffled and amplified. I fill with
fearless confidence and dread at being the surfer. It seems a place
to start, this beach. (Later, a surfer friend tells me this is
actually a rather advanced beach because of the rocky bottom of the
ocean here).

The sun dips further behind some clouds, the evening progresses from
a sepia photo to pure black and white. I begin my journey back
inland, driving up Topanga Canyon.

I am thankful for rush hour, for pushing me to the ocean, into
myself, challenging me to find my direction, to get up again,
fighting to keep balance, as supermassive black holes spin and
speckle my life but cannot suck the life out of me.