The salt air

Yesterday Angela and I headed to Malibu with our friend Angela. We drove and drove down Sunset Boulevard then cut north to the Pacific Coast Highway, the PCH here in California. We drove and drove and drove some more and finally found the much heralded Zuma Beach.

Clean sand (no rocks like down in Santa Monica and Venice), blue-ish water (except when the waves through the sand over), lots of waves (it's a big surfer area), Baywatch-type lifeguards in red uniforms, loud music, lots of families with canopies and too much food, and us.

It was a gorgeous day, not too hot (though we all returned a little pink in areas the sunscreen didn't make it too), a little breezy, cool water and relaxation. Sometimes I forget that's what the beach is all about. As we stood there, watching the waves, anxiously awaiting the dolphins to pop back up again and give us an encore, it was all that mattered at that moment. The ocean. The beach. And is there really anything better than the drop dead tired feeling you have upon return? I slept for nine hours last night, hard and fast, and woke up refreshed this morning. Yes, the salt air does agree with me.