Zmudowski State Beach

A snarling cold wind rattled our windows at the beginning of this week and didn't let up for three days. Cars got sand blasted, seaweed was wrenched from the ocean bottom and tossed like old rags on local beaches and flags all around the bay were shredded to bits.

Now it's sunny and cool. Shreds of fog are floating lightly offshore. We are breathing normally again.

The Sea Otter Classic is going on over at Laguna Seca Raceway. Cyclists mark April as a high point in the year for racing. I've heard 50,000 members of the cycling tribe have converged to compare derailleurs, dirt and helmet dings after their races. That's a lot of spandex and spokes in one place, and the scope is hard to imagine unless you actually see it.

At the far other end of the Peninsula, in another world really, is Pebble Beach. There, a Food and Wine Festival is underway. This is a take-no-prisoners haute cuisine event with chefs, sommeliers and gourmands impressing each other in a sort of gourmet gauntlet. I don't know anyone personally who plans to be there because I am not rich nor are my friends. I care a lot about fresh food well prepared, but this sort of event is not for the faint of heart when it comes to cash. Pebble Beach = lotsa money, no matter what the event or venue.

Gary and I drove north to Watsonville this morning. The route skirts Moss Landing where highway 1 is two lanes wide, one in each direction. Rush hour gets pretty clogged during the week for those making the trip to and from Santa Cruz. You're smart to get going early most days to avoid the conga line it turns into if you're traveling later.

We took the Zmudowski State Beach turnoff to a narrow lane tracking west through strawberry fields, following a frequently distracted birder. I could tell she was a birder because I'm also a birder, and I knew exactly what she was getting excited about, but since I was behind her I was paying a lot more attention to her than to the birds her head was swiveling to see. She was driving a powerful sedan 15 miles an hour, lurching and weaving in front of oncoming trucks, skimming close to parked field workers' cars. Eventually, an estuarine pond brought her to a complete standstill. I saw her gesturing and craning to see the reeds and shoreline. With no room to go to her left, I was stuck. I felt irritable and impatient with her oblivion, wanted to crunch her car, blare my horn, shoot something! She moved finally and thus her life was saved.

Zmudowski State Beach is wide, flat and very long at low tide. Today, there were frequent mushy little waves blowing in and just as many rip currents going out. Sand dollars, mollusks, and kelp bits dotted the tide line. The sand is much darker on that beach than others around Monterey Bay because the silt-laden Pajaro River empties out a mile away where it deposits its load of dirt and debris. Horsemen ride along this shore; few people, sure footing and a few miles of limitless beach make it equine heaven . The waves make a constant muffled roar, a white noise that's both soothing and exciting.

The ferocious blasts of wind earlier in the week had sculpted smooth dunes to the east of the waterline and left rippling patterns in the surface of the sand. They looked intricate and sere.

Sandpipers dashed back and forth on legs that spin lickety split in a blur. They escorted us, rushing and pausing in their zig-zagging search for bugs in the sand. Godwits wielded their long beaks like little swords held before them. The birds skittered along, kept pace, hesitated, stabbed the sand, and resumed their helter-skelter paths back and forth.

As we walked northwest to the river mouth, we noticed a wide expanse of barren sand flats off to our left, formed by high tides and flooding. There was a mist rising off the river that drifted low to the ground. It veiled figures in the distance like a mirage on a desolate landscape. Hell, it was a desolate landscape. A half-buried gull carcass dessicated by the wind lay next to dried bull kelp and weird crusted formations of sand. Sparse, spindly plants were sand blasted and stunted. Trash was blown away to the dunes and estuary beyond. Gary found a few bottles, bits of plastic, crummy stuff. Best - or worst, depending on your viewpoint - was a large flesh-colored dildo.

We walked in a wide arc exploring the river's edge. Conversation seemed unnecessary and we felt satisfied with the walk, the ocean, even the wind. California has a lot of problems, and I complain about them, but when I walk a mile or two of its 1,000 miles of coastline, I get pretty humble and very grateful.