Gazos Creek

By the time Gazos Creek meets the sea its shallow and serene waters have left behind their point of origin where fingers of distilled fog have coalesced under dark redwood duff, coursing downward through forests of fern, laurel and tan oak, with enough vigor to push their way under Coastal Highway One through deep sand.  Quite often the water never reaches the Pacific leaving only a damp stain just yards from its intended destination.  But today the stream is flowing vigorously, coming in clean and clear across the broad beach, taking a sharp turn to the north before curving again just as sharply to the south in a fluid oxbow before making one last arc into the briny tide.

This is our rock of ages, the place we have returned to again and again for over sixty years.  In our lifetime the soft cliffs have eroded back several feet.  Sea stacks have dissolved into piles of rubble.  And the fields of brussell sprouts and artichokes above have now reverted to thickets of wild radish and mustard, protected by the state of California.  And the four of us have gone from crazed adolescents into senior gentlemen who hit the old trail with walking sticks, eyeglasses, prescription drugs and a slightly more measured gait.  There is no hurry.  Plenty of time for plenty of stops, and the sound of familiar voices lilting in the wind.

  The tide is ebbing, revealing the rocky underpinnings of this coastal strand.  A few harbor seals bask on exposed outcrops, unphased by our presence.  A line of pelicans skims along the strand.  At the end of the beach we scatter.  Steve squats down to study a tidepool.  Stan salvages some old fishing line and a hook from the base of the cliffs.  Dave steps carefully over kelp-covered stones to get a closer look at a seal.  And I head around the point to find the Cave. 

The Cave has been a destination for us since Stan and I first came upon it back in 1962.  A natural tunnel punched through a narrow point by the incessant surf, accessible only at low tide, a one-time treasure trove of tidal life...starfish, nudibranchs, crabs, eels and even an occasional small octopus.  I scale the last obstacle of slippery rocks and scramble down to the west-facing entrance.  The tide is not quite low enough to enter but I can see the iridescent purple walls, the lime-encrusted ceiling, the shimmering pools within.  But mostly I am struck by the paucity of tidal life these days.  No big gumboot chitons or darting sculpins.  Not a single starfish.  Just a smattering of turban snails, a few small sea anemones, and a scrambling shore crab or two. 

The Cave still stands firmly against the surf but its interior has succumbed to the vicissitudes of time, to fifty years of changing climate, indiscriminate collecting and the transition of our oceans from a mysterious world of wondrous creatures to a convenient vast garbage dump.  That is the discouraging part of it.  But I get some measure of satisfaction at still being able to revisit this secret place so much a part of my childhood memory and makeup.  The stuff that fantasy and adventure are made of.

 And the one thing that has not changed over the years is the bond of friendship with these other gentlemen who share the shoreline with me today  As we gather up our walking sticks, our packs and a few mementoes of shell and driftwood, we reverse course and slowly saunter back toward our cars.  Back along the fractured cliffs.  Back into time.  Spinning out the stories of our long, individual journeys.  And I take it all in and embrace every minute of this time together because, in the back of my mind, always bubbling up  like a tidal swell, is the thought that this could be the last time for us.  The could be the last communal journey along Gazos Creek and this amazing edge of the continent.