Photograph by Tony Webster

I love the surprise of occasionally seeing clouds hanging over the beach.

At the end of my street is a grassy area overlooking the ocean. The view is not as perfect as, say, La Jolla, with its drama and its caves drawing millions of visitors a year. It’s a simpler, more honest kind of perfection, in which every little space along this coast is accounted for. This is Carlsbad, where the city planners understood how to welcome locals and tourists alike, preserving the historic buildings while embracing projected postwar growth.

Before I moved to this beach town, I used to live in another beach town. I like being lulled by the hypnotic rhythm of the ocean into believing I live in a quaint neighborhood snuggled up against the sand. There is one street near mine that’s like that: single-family houses, all different but all harmonious, like kids holding hands at the playground. The houses make me happy and not at all envious, even though my street does not look like that. The truth is, my street won’t easily take you to the glorious Pacific Ocean. In summer, tourists creep past, hoping for a parking spot, eager to get out and get to the water. They are almost always disappointed. They hit the dead end, down by the rotting pumpkins and cigarette butts, and they have to turn around.

So yes, I live just a block away from the beach. But for the past couple of years, I have not been able to walk there. Soon after I moved to this spot, I injured my feet. Once they healed, I developed a condition near my stomach that made me so short of breath that I had to give up on my daily beach walks. Happily, a recent surgery made the huffing and puffing disappear. Today — I’m writing this in winter — I began walking to the beach again, a prayer of thanks running through me. I love the smell of ocean air, tinged with the garlicky aroma of nearby restaurants. I love the surprise of occasionally seeing clouds hanging over the beach.

I wanted to play seriously in the water, all the way through life.

After setting out, I crossed the highway to the cliff overlooking the water. I noticed a family of tourists. They looked sweet with their brand-new matching wetsuits and turquoise towels. Then the dad was nearly struck by a homeless man on a skateboard who was carrying two huge bags on each shoulder. He zig-zagged through cars and pedestrians with alarming confidence, a confidence shared by the five tweens on e-bikes following in his wake, their eyes on their phones as they rode. They made me anxious. I wanted to warn them. I heard my ex-fiancee’s voice in my head, the way he used to mock me during our beach walks in that other town. “Citizen on patrol!”

As I walked down the beach-access ramp to the sand, I thought about my own family. My father grew up near here, body surfing and playing beach volleyball. My mother in Escondido brought her dog here whenever she could, leaving the pooch on the sand while she swam out of view. When my teenage son was a toddler, he ran through these waves and joyfully wrapped seaweed all over himself. I dreamed of him being a surfer or lifeguard. But my dream was not his dream: I have come to accept him as he is: a dude who swims with a friend a few times each summer.

The day was cold, windy, and cloudy. I loved it — every year, I look forward to May Gray and June Gloom. Tourists behind me stopped to film a whale out in the distance, and I felt a wild urge, despite the cold, to jump up over the wall and run directly out into the waves and join it. I was so stoked to be there again. Of course, I knew I couldn’t jump into the water the way I did as a child. My fear of drowning is too strong. I was sixteen the last time I swam in the ocean. I had sent myself to the beach to swim, alone, and was pulled under by a riptide. Eventually, I was dragged to shore. Since then, I have stayed on the sand, watching my three younger sisters swing when they come to visit, watching surfer boyfriends catch waves and wipe out, watching my son on his boogie board, watching my cousin and aunt’s ashes being paddled out and sprinkled on the water. Both were surfers.

My aunt once told me about her teenage days on the water. “They were perfect days. Great fun waves, and great sunny days. We were one-on-one with the ocean, playing. But I probably would not have surfed so much if it weren’t for the brave women who got into the sport before me. Most people take surfing kind of seriously, because it’s so personal.” She inspired me to be a beach girl. I wanted to play seriously in the water, all the way through my life. I just missed the moment.

I felt at home. I like to pretend that I have always lived here, but in truth, this is my second residency in Carlsbad. I detoured for a while, living in Vista, Oceanside, Encinitas, and also Barrio Carlos for a few years, when I was a rookie mom, pushing a stroller all over. I came back for the peace of the place, a peace that seems to stretch all the way back to the Native Americans who truly founded this spot. They mainly fished, and when they butted up against their neighbors, they compromised rather than falling into violence. I love that. I believe the past reminds us that it is crucial we all make a consistent effort to get along with others, even when we would rather not. I love seeing this effort continue today. I love interacting with the eager merchants at the Wednesday night farmers market. I love the respectful way the police present themselves to the public. I love the church ministry on the corner, serving the homeless community with an open heart.

It was the day before my son’s 16th birthday, and I decided to go back to the market that my mother called “our old stomping grounds” for the most delicious salsa verde on the planet. Then I walked home along the bike path, heading toward the beach. On the cliff at the end of my street, a gaggle of tourists and locals were waiting to watch the sunset. A man juggled fire batons next to a Jehovah’s Witness who was handing out pamphlets. Everyone stood together, watching their pink and gray cloudshow over the ocean.