Surf City, USA

I grew up in Huntington Beach. Surf City. The waves are consistent and the tans impeccable. There is a certain smell of salt and a hint of fish around the city, and the wind seems to blow the same way every day. The sun shines about 360 days out of the year, and the rain on the other five days is so refreshing. Its like rubbing chilled aloe on a sunburn; the rain amidst so much sunshine.

I was proud to be a Huntington Beach-ian. I played in the water in the never-ending summer days. I tanned. I went to the beach. I didn’t know any different. I rode my bike in the blazing street. I bleached my hair with lemon. I greased my skin with oil. I would sail down the slip-and-slide, carelessly, and end up in the too-small baby pool at the end, and nobody cared. Activities would ensue with no worries and no conflict. I would play with my friends, or not, and there was never any drama. We seemed to always just do what we wanted, when we wanted, and no one really worried about it.

My street was half filled with kids, and half filled with older people. The kids always played outside during the days, when we weren’t at school. We played together. We got along. The girls against the boys. We’d hide together and talk about the boys and giggle, and the boys would be loud and obnoxious and run by to moon us. And we’d scoff and giggle some more. All the kids went to school together and all the adults knew each other. Neighbors would deliver cookies. We’d look out for each other’s loose dogs. It was the ideal community. And the elementary school was just around the corner.

Lake View was where all my neighbor friends and I attended elementary school. Most of us walked to school, since the neighborhood was so safe. Most people left their cars unlocked, and even their front doors. I, however, was not allowed to walk to school. My mom, I guess, after the experience of raising five other kids, decided she should make sure I actually made it to school. Walking home was a different story. Until I stopped communicating clearly with my mother, I was allowed to play at the park for about an hour before the hike around the two corners and back home. We would tear that park up, until our imaginations couldn’t think of any other use for a spiral slide. No longer could we imagine the now referred to “swiss cheese wall” as a spy bunker hiding us from the enemy. It was time to go home.

As the pre-teen years crept up, we began being bused to middle school, where the kids were far less forgiving. The easy-going, nearly grungy style of Huntington Beach was no longer acceptable. It was all about name brand jeans, expensive shoes, and of course, a trendy and no less fancy shirt. Sure, surf trends were still cool, but only if they were sold on Main Street, at HB Surf and Sport or Tilly’s. I, personally, didn’t fall into this stereotype, somewhat keeping me out of the reality of teenage tensions, but it was always apparent. Sports were a prerequisite, and good grades a necessity if you wanted to fit in.

These adolescent years were spent tormenting Main Street and the beach daily. Whether it be organized ditch days, or just ditch days I took for myself, the volleyball courts would be played, the waves would be body surfed, and the sun would burn my skin to a lobster shade. All the surfer boys would be flirted with. The 10 o’clock curfew would be broken, and the police would try to scare us straight with the threat of driving us home to our parents at 10:15pm. That same smell of salt water, the sound of music and waves crashing, and the incessant need to be around everyone else drove us.

I didn’t know much past school and after school. I didn’t go to any specific church, although I’d attended many nearby. All seemingly the same; God, Christ, and the chosen relatable lesson. I played after school sports, but those were all held on school grounds. My high school, in fact, had no tennis courts or football fields. All of our home game football games were held at a nearby high school. Kind of defeats the purpose.

I’ve moved other places as my life has progressed. I’ve lived in South County. I’ve lived in Pasadena. Fullerton. All with their own wonderful aspects, but none with the nostalgia the scent of salt water and fish bring. The busy hustle of Colorado Street is different than that of HB’s laid back consistent flow of pedestrians. Fullerton’s curvaceous streets were the opposite of Huntington Beach’s graph paper like, grid layout. The surrounding mountains and greenery were found no where around the home city, except for the well-manicured lawns of public parks and libraries. Otherwise, I missed the dirty sand-trod streets. I missed the heavy air. I missed mostly, the waves crashing on the beach in a familiar and persistent form, when I was away from my nesting grounds. I wasn’t able to cruise the streets when I was distressed, because, what I found in other places was traffic and freeways. There was no easy way to the peaceful solitude of the beach. There was no possible way to drink in the moonlight in stop-and-go traffic. The relief of my hometown was miraculous in that it happened only there. The visits to my childhood home. The many nights of prayer at the Jetty. This salty, fishy, grungy, persistent, predictable, fun, easy-going, place was my home. It is my home. It is my life.

I still reminisce in the nights I stay in Huntington. I’ll do a sleepover at my parent’s. I’ll take a drive along the coast. I’ll drink in the sunlight. I’ll drink in the moonlight. The 80 degree weather in January will remain a mystery, but will nevertheless be taken advantage of. The pier, in all of its young, fleshy flare, remains harmless. A place where bums and the wealthy meet in a practically non-judgmental way. Where people can catch their dinner or elegantly dine. Where health is taken seriously, but so is socializing with a cocktail. This is where I grew up and I am still proud to call Huntington Beach my home.