The name alone was enough to get me to pack my bags, kids, and some tunes and make the hour’s drive north. Moonstone Beach—is that not the coolest name? It sounds so mystical, so special, the kind of place that touches your spirit and aligns your chakra, or whatever you have that needs aligning.
I had got it in my head that I wanted a beach glass pendant—all yellow and frosty and smooth—but unlike an ordinary sane person who would simply buy one, I was determined to find some glass and make it myself. Then it would be special. Only I found out that because of increased recycling efforts, beach glass is hard to come by. If I was going to find it, someone said, Moonstone Beach was my best bet. You don’t have to tell me twice to go to a beach. So we headed out.
I have this prejudice against any beach north of Avila: They’re all cold and windy, at least in my mind. So I was a little hesitant to leave a surprisingly warm Santa Maria day. Plus, with the husband out of town I would be towing my three boys, their beach gear, and their whining. Determination and the thought of a delicate, dangly piece of handmade jewelry got the better of me, and we hit the road.
I had been to Cambria once or twice about 20 years ago and remember none of it. I was surprised to drive down a coastal road lined with tall, skinny pines. It seemed so Northern California-y and reminded me of our snowboarding trips in the Sierras—only without the snow. Then I thought, “Duh, the city is called Cambria Pines-by-the-Sea. Makes sense.”
The drive was so pretty that I started to get into a Northern California groove (even though the area is still considered to be on the Central Coast). The thought crossed my mind that I wear a little too much makeup. And layers: Really, is there anything so wrong with layers?
Those thoughts dissipated as we took Moonstone Beach Drive and spied the sparkling Pacific and giant pieces of driftwood scattered on the beach like a scene from some romantic movie. A well-built trail follows the coast along the drive and presents benches and lookout points every few feet, as well as beach access.
We parked alongside the trail and unloaded strollers and jackets and snacks. I shoved a red pail in Jake’s hand and a Winnie-the-Pooh pail and shovel at Chase, from which he recoiled like it was going to bite him.
“I don’t want that thing,” he said.
“Just take it for the baby then,” I insisted.
But really, I was planning on putting them to work for me finding moonstones and beach glass. Selfish, I know. I only hoped this didn’t fall under child labor laws. To be sure, though, I made it a game. We walked the trail, and then skipped down to the beach.
“Mom, did you bring my board?” I heard as soon as we hit the sand.
“No, we’re not going to surf today. Today we are on an adventure. We are going to find some really pretty moonstones and beach glass.”
And I showed them what they were looking for.
My boys groan whenever I say “adventure.” They know that word really means “Mom’s having another Lucy Ricardo idea and Ricky is working late at the club.” Or whatever the modern-day equivalent of such a TV-land metaphor would be. The point is, they acquiesced, thankful I wasn’t making them wear little Indiana Jones-type hats.
The beach was rocky and hot. I strapped on Sebastian in a backpack and the rest of us got to work digging in the sand, walking a few feet and digging some more.
“Is this one?” Chase asked, holding up an ugly piece of tar.
“No, like this,” I said showing him another example.
“What about this?” Jake asked, holding up a rock that was very plain—but in an interesting shape.
I was frustrated. We found two itty-bitty shards of green beach glass, a good deal of moonstones, and, I think, a hardened piece of chewing gum. Yellow sticky note: There is no beach glass at Moonstone Beach.
Defeated, we headed over to the Moonstone Beach Bar and Grill across the street for an early dinner and to watch the sunset. It was still a beautiful place, although there were very few kids around. In my board shorts, swimsuit top, and flip flops, my hair wild in the breeze, carrying a baby on my back with two sandy boys in tow, I was a unique sight. I caught that fact from all the stares we got as we were seated in the restaurant—not on the outdoor deck—away from all the other casually dressed, combed, and primped patrons.
Next time, I’ll just bring my husband. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s going to have to carry the Winnie-the-Pooh pail.
Arts Editor Shelly Cone is ready to pop a soda bottle into a rock tumbler. Contact her at scone@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Jul 23-30, 2009.