Coastline Pilot/LA TIMES

27 February 2004

 

Chasing the Muse

Catharine Cooper 

Lumpy stratocumulus clouds crowd the horizon, surreptitiously stealing the color from the sun's early rays. Goldfinches dance in delicate tree branches, their brilliant yellow breasts in sharp contrast to the prominent green leaves. Mr. Crow and his cohorts wing wildly, announcing to everyone, the start of a glorious new day.

 

So it is on this small segment of the California coast; a continuous unfolding of beauty and grace.  Each day gifts us with new vistas, clouds that roll and thunder or those that simply hang suspended over the water’s edge.  Sea lions dance with dolphins in a frenzied game of leap and dive, while the local cormorant population proudly preens on edges of seal rock.

 

At least one day each week, I join my friend Lynn for a kayaking jaunt out of Dana Point Harbor.  We’ve given our morning paddle the moniker, “water therapy,” to dispel any thoughts that what we are doing might be construed as play.  In truth, our time on the water is cathartic and filled with a sense of renewal.  Lynn and I joke about how each day spent on the water is increasingly more perfect than its predecessor, but in truth, we aren’t joking at all.

 

We begin our paddle with serious work, moving slowly up the inside of the breakwater pulling trash left by unconscious boaters from amidst the billowy kelp.  Beer cans, plastic water bottles, bait bags, spent balloons and empty chip wrappers flesh out the bulk of our gathering.  I can’t help but wonder why folks can’t properly dispose of their waste.

 

A juvenile gull stands on his one and only leg, a sad reminder of more human mindlessness.  Nylon lines, discarded by frustrated fisherman, tangle in the kelp, which harbors food sources for the birds and sea mammals.  We cut the tangled lengths, hoping to prevent at least one injury.  A young seal sloppily surfaces next to our boats.  Around his neck, a fishing line slices into soft flesh.  A small trail of blood oozes from the wound.  

 

The tide is low and the glass-like surface reflects the angular shapes of breakwater boulders.  Brilliant garibaldi dart among rocks, dodging schools of tiny black fish.  In the shallows, a red sponge nudibranch mingles with resident mollusks, akin in shape to an orange colored Twinkie.

 

A great blue heron fixes his hungry gaze on the water’s surface.  Lynn and I encounter him every week and have established a predictable relationship.  He allows us to gain proximity of about twenty feet, and then leaps from the rocks squawking to let us know he is miffed. He wings slightly toward the end of the jetty.  We overtake him again, and repeat the game.

 

Standing apart on a rocky perch, a lone Osprey holds court.  I hold my breath for a moment in disbelief.  While there is a resident pair in Newport’s Back Bay, this is the first I’ve seen the statuesque raptor in this harbor.  His regal body, covered in dark feathers, has long white streaks across his face and bears a razor sharp hooked beak. 

 

As if the Osprey isn’t enough of a treat, a Belted Kingfisher flits from rock to rock at the end of the breakwater.  He emits a dry kind of rattle sound that causes us both to laugh.  He reminds me of a fuzzy woodpecker, but over water.

 

There is absolutely no tidal surge on the backside of the breakwater and we are able to paddle at the rock edge.  Low tide has exposed hundreds, maybe thousands, of ochre sea stars, which cover the rocks like a bountiful flower garden.  Grey crabs skitter in the dark cracks, and everywhere, gulls feast on exposed mussels.  

 

Lynn and I float silently for about thirty minutes, enveloped in a water-meditation.  Warm sunlight caresses our backs, and the beauty of the moment transcends words. Fish of all sizes and colors swim amidst the long tendrils of the feathery boa kelp.  Seals ‘nap,’ fins in the air, heads rising and falling for breath.  We float next to them, watched closely, but not deemed threatening.  I giggle as a baby shoves and splashes his mother.

 

Now, if only one of those migrating whales would surface!

 

Catharine Cooper loves wild places.  She can be reached at ccooper@cooperdesign.net and 949 497 5081.