Life Below the High Tide Line

The king tides pummeling the cliffs of La Jolla Cove were the most impressive I'd witnessed in all my years living in San Diego. Of course, I usually head to the beach during the other end of the cycle: the extreme low tides that expose tidal pools filled with crabs, sea anemones, sea cucumbers, and lobster shells shed either naturally or by vicious currents.

But that morning, with everything bathed in a celestial blue thanks to an impenetrable marine layer, we watched serious swells march toward the sandy beaches of La Jolla Shores. Closer to us, an inlet filled repeatedly with frothy waters while a gulp of cormorants (yes, I had to look that up) bore witness to the sea's incessant violence from a safe distance. There must have been hundreds of the black birds blending in with the dark, wet stone and dim light. Pelicans settled in on another cliff, recovering from their aborted flights in gale-force winds. They flew so close we could make out the veins in their webbed feet, feel the woosh of wing flaps.

We moved along a small promenade and saw a stand of photographers, their expensive cameras secured to tripods sheltered by an outbuilding and pair of Monterrey cypresses. They were focused on the birds but as we drew closer to a guard-railed edge, I saw dozens of sea lions being tossed around in the harsh surf, bobbing up and down between surges that pushed them onto rocks.  Were they panicked or playing? It was hard to tell. They always carry an amusing expression as they sway to and fro like Stevie Wonder or Ray Charles playing a piano. They had nowhere else to go, so this is how they ride it out, I supposed.

I knew it was pupping season because the beaches were currently closed. Were the babies safe? Were those their mothers situated higher than the surf, providing their offspring protection as waves crashed closer? Ordinarily, these sea lions occupy a manmade inlet known as Children's Pool. It was built by one of the city's major benefactors and philanthropists, Ellen Browning Scripps, to provide a safe harbor for children to learn to swim. But the calmer waters also drew the sea lions, who quickly claimed the cove as their own. 

The locals don't like the stench and noise the sea lions make, living as they do out in the open. Not to mention the bad press when out-of-towners interfere with mating season. But what kept me fixated on those sea lions was the danger in the air -- for them, not us. Clearly older bulls and cows, as they are technically called, have been through worse. But not the pups. I said a small prayer that all would remain well as we moved up the coast to Wind 'n Sea, which lived up to its name that day.

I felt fortunate to watch this natural event unfold as we walked with our windbreaker hoods tied tight. It was a weekday morning, so the crowds were sparse. Everyone held out their camera to record such a  social-media-friendly scene. A trio of young, underdressed runners moved past us. My friend looked at me. "That would have been you," she said with a smile.

At one point we could hear the churning seas smash against something in a storm drain, then looked up to see unsuspecting bystanders doused in saltwater when a wave breached a barrier.  One victim walking his dog at just the wrong moment told us: "I always tell people this is my church. Today, I got my baptism."

We eventually turned inland in search of Harry's Diner for breakfast. We were a few blocks from the destination, with the three of us deep in conversation, when we came upon a homeless man decamping on a narrow sidewalk. He looked weathered and angry. With the world and with us. He unleashed a torrent of threats liberally peppered with expletives. We shut up and quickened our pace, avoiding eye contact. One of us turned back once or twice to see how far he might follow us. Was he defending his turf, as temporary as it may be? Convinced we meant him harm? He appeared mentally unwell, which made him highly unpredictable.

We made it to Harry's without further incident and returned to a calmer cove to head home. The gulls, pelicans, and cormorants had segregated themselves among the cliffs as they waited for high tide to recede. 

The sun was now out. So were the sea lions looking like their usual unflappable selves, the earlier crisis already forgotten. We took one more look at the other popular inlet and saw an older, lanky woman in a Speedo carrying fins as she descended stairs. Even the boldest of surfers had heeded official warnings to stay out of the dangerous surf. But apparently not this woman. Some might call her fully committed or foolish for engaging in such risky behavior. But after everything I'd witnessed in the past few hours, I think she had the confidence of those sea lions combined with a similar insanity embodied in that homeless man. Like him, she was going to do as she damned well pleased in public and no one was going to stop her. Not us. Not nature. Not today.