The coastline from corner #2 to southern California is a near continuous mountain ridge of cliffs and sandy and rocky beaches. In many areas the mountains and coastal sea cliffs are volcanic in origin. When the lava rose along the sea coasts, hot and boiling, great blow-holes formed, and hardened to make caves. These are exceedingly beautiful formations.
There are kelp-beds along the shore, and the combination of deep water, kelp, and small fish is what makes the near shore seas and coastline so rich and bio diverse.
During past journeys along the Pacific Coast Highway, the riders saw acres and acres of sea mammals lolling about beaches and sea rocks, dozens upon dozens of whales trekking north or south on their annual migratory pilgrimages.
The color of the seas was almost always indigo blue, clear as crystal. Ever a fascinating thing for them was to park their bikes, sit a spell and watch the waters and shorelines for new and different vegetation, strange marine creatures, and the odd assortment of west coast human life that was so different from that found in the rest of the country.
And the watching was always rewarded.
Often they would rest high up on a cliff, in the lee of a rugged rock when it was windy. These perches could be rust-stained and gray-lichened with deep cactus-covered canyons to one or both sides. Their observation posts could also be long, gentle, yellow and sloped with wild sea oats and grasses all the way down to a narrow rocky beach. It was these places where they would find the perfect space to observe majestic and grand ocean white rollers move in graceful heaves along the deep blue to the rocks well below their feet. These shorelines were at times curved gravelly beaches interspersed with jutting rocky points. They loved the creeping white lines of foam adjoined further out by green water spotted by beds of golden kelp. Beyond were the depths of the deep blue.
At times from these places, they had been within a whisper’s reach of seals, otters, heron, all of whom were blithely ignorant of human presence. Watching the great whales play offshore always was a special treat. When they were lucky, they were enchanted by the spectacle of whales rolling and dipping their enormous bodies, lifting huge, glistening tail flukes which were as wide as a house. A few times they saw sharks cruise the surf waters and take their meal at the foamy buffet.
They loved watching the fish leap. Some were round, glistening and awkward. Shark leaps were like submarine launched ballistic missiles. These monsters were announced by their prey’s frantic attempts to escape. A few times they were lucky to catch a swordfish leap. These purple monsters tail dancing atop the exploding whitewater took their breath away. Only slightly less amazing were the two sightings of several killer whales dorsal fins cursing the waters just beyond the surf for a meal.
Once a big black bird, perhaps a raven, soared by with dismal croak. The wind then rustled the nearby sea oats. There was no other sound but those of the sea – deep, low-toned sharp boom or the occasional long crash.
They saw the monarchs of the air — the great white headed bald eagles in their native haunts. One time there were two adults chasing out a nestling with shrill, piercing screams. The trio disappeared in an adjacent canyon, while a lonely gull flew into view as it glided just above the swells. This life was beautiful, particularly this elemental life.
Small brown hawks would rest motionless in the wind with quivering wings, poised to strike prey as they looked down for some luckless lizard or rat. Seemingly suspended on wires, once alerted they would descend like a brown flash in a sure swoop that meant a meal was about to be served.
There was rapture on the white tipped ocean waves, rapture on the lonely shore, and indeed rapture high above it all.
The American Pacific coast had been consecrated millennia ago to the sun and the sea. It was barren for the most part with lonely prospects for the lushness of the Atlantic coast nearshore only seen here and there. Its flat plateaus above the beaches were an empire of the sun, where heat veils rose and mirages haunted the eye. But at sunrise ocean fog rolled up and in. So, if the sun blasted the life on the coast, the fog would save it. So there was perpetual war between sun and fog, the one that was the lord of day, and the other the morning savior.
In uncounted coves of various names, the beauty could be infinite. Great curves would indent the sloped coastal plain, at each end of which low, ragged black rock lines jutted out into the sea. These bare amphitheaters had no growth save scant cactus and patches of grass. A careful observer could see the almost imperceptible long lines of shelves where Pacific sea-levels had been in the past.
Life in, above and along the wild Pacific Ocean and coast was strange, complex, ferocious, and wonderful.
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