A Walk in the Park
I parked at 18th street, at the curb outside of a realty business on the east corner of 18th street and Pacific Coast Highway (conversationally abbreviated to "PCH" by the locals). The storefront is a craftsman style, two level building painted in two shades of light blue with white trim at the windows, doors, and overhangs.
To the south on PCH, the street was lined with three story houses, tightly packed into narrow lots facing the ocean, with maximum glass area and multiple balconies and patios. One of these houses was under construction.
On the north corner of the intersection was a seven foot high wall of concrete masonry with barbed wire at the top. The wall hid half of a square city block from view of drivers and pedestrians. Occasional markings warned away trespassers. A chain link sliding car gate, covered in black, had a small white sign with black letters which pronounced the mysterious property as an "Oil and Gas Production Facility" owned by Aera Energy, LLC.
I looked both ways and crossed the street. Jaywalking surfers are common to this stretch of PCH in the morning. Carying my surfboard, I jogged to the ocean side of the four lane road. Parking meters lined the side of the street. From the curb, a ten yard wide landing strip of grass seperated street traffic from walking traffic on a six foot wide asphalt paved walking path. The path has a painted yellow line running down the center and is lined on both sides by high palm trees. Bicyclist, joggers, and walkers trafficked the path in all but the dreariest weather.
Beyond the walking path was a second, smaller strip of mixed landscaping. Areas of grass, bushes, flowers and ice plant form the edge of a twenty foot sharply sloped cliff of landscape and open concrete block. Along the length of the cliff is a painted metal safety rail. Directly opposite 18th street, was a concrete bench, painted with the city's "HB" logo, overlooking the surf.
I walked to Seventeenth street where there was a traffic light, a crosswalk, and a staircase to the beach. I walk down the concrete stairs brushing my hand on the metal handrail and feeling the texture of chipped paint and rust.
At the bottom of the stairs, there was a level path of hard packed sand and dirt which lifeguard and service vehicles used to access the beach. To the right of the staircase stood an outhouse. Beyond the hard packed sand path was a line of telephone poles and a concrete retaining wall, which varied in height. At the base of the staircase, the retaining wall was less than a foot hight. I stepped over it and walked onto the cool sand with my bare feet.
In front of me, a metal sign bore the title "City of Huntington Beach". It carried lists of cautions, precautions, and beach regulations. The majority of the sign was unreadable. The paint had worn away. The sign had been marked with graffiti and stickers.
I walked across the sand, passing the brown, green and white lifeguard tower. The structure consisted of a metal deck supported above the sand by a steel brace frame. Atop the metal deck sat the lifeguard station: a small, single metal room with three windows formed by removable metal panels. The tower was unoccupied so the panels were bolted in place where the windows would be. Each window panel was stenciled with a cautionary note warning me there was no lifeguard on duty. The platform and station were covered by a metal roof painted white. In front of the lifeguard tower, a mound of sand was built up to the level of the platform, providing a runway for lifeguards on duty.
The light brown sand was devoid of people. It stretched from my point in both directions, dotted with bright blue, round, plastic trash cans, wrapped in brightly colored advertisements.
At the shoreline, there was evidence of the overnight high tide line. A line in the sand was formed by a collection of natural and man made trash. Piles of driftwood, bamboo shoots and kelp were littered with fast food wrappers, plastic and Styrofoam cups, plastic drink and bottled water containers, straws, candy wrappers, bits of unidentifiable plastic or paper, and the occasional shoe or sandal.
In the autumn and winter, when rain came to orange county, trenches formed in the sand at the outlets of the round concrete storm drains in the retaining wall. The trenches were twenty feet deep, exposing the cracked and chipped face of the retaining wall, with scarred patches of rusted steel rebar. The storm water also brought trash. The runoff trench was littered with miscellaneous debris from household trash to patches of industrial materials and a backpack.
Reading a surf forecast on the Internet one day, I read the forecaster's theory on beach trash. He proposed that if every surfer picked up one or two pieces of litter every time he or she got out of the water, the beaches would be clean.
Of course, we'll never know if this theory is true, but it seemed to me a small tax to pay for all the beach gives to me. I decided to do it. I can't claim that I remembered to pick up a piece of trash every day. I went through periods where I remembered more days than not, and vice versa. When I did remember, I found a certain satisfaction in it. Picking up a few pieces of trash on my way out of the water felt pretty good.
To any surfer reading this: give it a try. Or, better yet, give it a try and pass the word along.
More Later
-Travis
copyright 2004 Travis R. English
To the south on PCH, the street was lined with three story houses, tightly packed into narrow lots facing the ocean, with maximum glass area and multiple balconies and patios. One of these houses was under construction.
On the north corner of the intersection was a seven foot high wall of concrete masonry with barbed wire at the top. The wall hid half of a square city block from view of drivers and pedestrians. Occasional markings warned away trespassers. A chain link sliding car gate, covered in black, had a small white sign with black letters which pronounced the mysterious property as an "Oil and Gas Production Facility" owned by Aera Energy, LLC.
I looked both ways and crossed the street. Jaywalking surfers are common to this stretch of PCH in the morning. Carying my surfboard, I jogged to the ocean side of the four lane road. Parking meters lined the side of the street. From the curb, a ten yard wide landing strip of grass seperated street traffic from walking traffic on a six foot wide asphalt paved walking path. The path has a painted yellow line running down the center and is lined on both sides by high palm trees. Bicyclist, joggers, and walkers trafficked the path in all but the dreariest weather.
Beyond the walking path was a second, smaller strip of mixed landscaping. Areas of grass, bushes, flowers and ice plant form the edge of a twenty foot sharply sloped cliff of landscape and open concrete block. Along the length of the cliff is a painted metal safety rail. Directly opposite 18th street, was a concrete bench, painted with the city's "HB" logo, overlooking the surf.
I walked to Seventeenth street where there was a traffic light, a crosswalk, and a staircase to the beach. I walk down the concrete stairs brushing my hand on the metal handrail and feeling the texture of chipped paint and rust.
At the bottom of the stairs, there was a level path of hard packed sand and dirt which lifeguard and service vehicles used to access the beach. To the right of the staircase stood an outhouse. Beyond the hard packed sand path was a line of telephone poles and a concrete retaining wall, which varied in height. At the base of the staircase, the retaining wall was less than a foot hight. I stepped over it and walked onto the cool sand with my bare feet.
In front of me, a metal sign bore the title "City of Huntington Beach". It carried lists of cautions, precautions, and beach regulations. The majority of the sign was unreadable. The paint had worn away. The sign had been marked with graffiti and stickers.
I walked across the sand, passing the brown, green and white lifeguard tower. The structure consisted of a metal deck supported above the sand by a steel brace frame. Atop the metal deck sat the lifeguard station: a small, single metal room with three windows formed by removable metal panels. The tower was unoccupied so the panels were bolted in place where the windows would be. Each window panel was stenciled with a cautionary note warning me there was no lifeguard on duty. The platform and station were covered by a metal roof painted white. In front of the lifeguard tower, a mound of sand was built up to the level of the platform, providing a runway for lifeguards on duty.
The light brown sand was devoid of people. It stretched from my point in both directions, dotted with bright blue, round, plastic trash cans, wrapped in brightly colored advertisements.
At the shoreline, there was evidence of the overnight high tide line. A line in the sand was formed by a collection of natural and man made trash. Piles of driftwood, bamboo shoots and kelp were littered with fast food wrappers, plastic and Styrofoam cups, plastic drink and bottled water containers, straws, candy wrappers, bits of unidentifiable plastic or paper, and the occasional shoe or sandal.
In the autumn and winter, when rain came to orange county, trenches formed in the sand at the outlets of the round concrete storm drains in the retaining wall. The trenches were twenty feet deep, exposing the cracked and chipped face of the retaining wall, with scarred patches of rusted steel rebar. The storm water also brought trash. The runoff trench was littered with miscellaneous debris from household trash to patches of industrial materials and a backpack.
Reading a surf forecast on the Internet one day, I read the forecaster's theory on beach trash. He proposed that if every surfer picked up one or two pieces of litter every time he or she got out of the water, the beaches would be clean.
Of course, we'll never know if this theory is true, but it seemed to me a small tax to pay for all the beach gives to me. I decided to do it. I can't claim that I remembered to pick up a piece of trash every day. I went through periods where I remembered more days than not, and vice versa. When I did remember, I found a certain satisfaction in it. Picking up a few pieces of trash on my way out of the water felt pretty good.
To any surfer reading this: give it a try. Or, better yet, give it a try and pass the word along.
More Later
-Travis
copyright 2004 Travis R. English
posted by travinator @ 8:21 AM
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