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8 April 2000
DOG BEACH
It runs beside a mile-long stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu, California, between the local landmarks, Moonshadows and Duke's. The place is aptly named: most, if not all of the residents have at least one dog -- from the aging goldens, Alta and Telluride, to the feisty little terrier named Murphy, who likes to play "fetch" with pieces of driftwood bigger than he; to the pseudo-vicious albino shepherd with hip displasia, who loves to scare the bejesus out of unsuspecting strangers with his loud, lumbering attack; to the sly, aggressive, wolf-eyed shepherd, Railley; to the scores of other "beach dogs," usually friendly, always curious, and ready to dive into the surf in pursuit of one of the myriad, formerly-fluorescent-green tennis balls that litter, along with the dog shit, yet which also are a necessary part of the ambiance that is Dog Beach. Of course, canines aren't the only dogs who inhabit the place.Dog Beach is a wonderful spot for people-watching. There is, of course, the obligatory beach bum, with his straggly grey beard, wandering aimlessly with a mongrel pup. He probably isn't really a bum at all: rather, an Oscar-winning Somebody, but you'd be too polite to ask. Wait long enough and you'll meet an eccentric woman wearing a heavy coat, even in the summer, accompanied by two little furballs who seem to be eternally relieving themselves in the sand. She dutifully scoops-up the remains into a baggie, while talking to you about her glory days, before she had to clean toilets for a living. You'll find packs of human "pups," armed with sand pails and shovels, endlessly engaged in their beach reclamation and construction projects, and watched by hawk-eyed mothers and nannys, dubious of both surf and strangers. There are the dedicated beach joggers, constantly overtaking the more studied pace of the beach strollers, who frequently pause to observe or claim some treasure from one of the tidal pools. Both joggers and strollers are forced to skirt the impromptu games of volleyball, paddle ball or frisbee, which never end but merely change players. From the house decks, sunbathers watch sea lions, sunning themselves while watching the sunbathers.
Just offshore, babes, buffs, body surfers and boogey-boarders frolic. Further out, sea kayaks glide between the swells, paced by obliging dolphins, while off the point to the west, in anticipation of the Perfect Wave, wet-suited "Boys of Summer" (a double mis-nomer), bob year-round on their well-waxed surfboards, hearkening to their own internal drummers and obeying their own brand of pecking order. And it wouldn't be Malibu without the occasional star or celebrity: in this case, a certified former Baywatch Babe, by the name of Pamela, who fits, these days, more into the category of hawk-eyed mother. Some guy named Tommy -- also hawk-eyed, sporting a gallery of tattoos on his arms -- is always hanging around her.
Inside and out-of-sight, lovers mate, producers haggle deals, nobodies plot their stardom, anarchists plot overthrows, domestics clean, writers drink and write and drink some more, starlets bare their charms to mercenary photographers, housewives talk dirty on the internet, gurus enlighten, day-traders make and lose another fortune, partiers revel and puke, musicians toke and compose, recluses recline, has-beens lament the bygone and, every now and then, people raise families.
Until last October, Dog Beach was home to me. Then, God and Circumstance took me away. Short of that miracle for which I pray continually, I'll probably never get back that moment in time and space; never run again with favored dog, Bella, along that sacred stretch of feces-strewn sand, or sit on the balcony, as I often did after a day in the sun, drinking margaritas, looking out to the unknown and unknowable sea and future, while watching the gulls, the pelicans and, of course, the dogs of Dog Beach.
Sometimes I think maybe I should go back to being a cat lover. Somehow, though, it just wouldn't be the same.
-wiz
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