Sunday in Oxnard

The morning dawns gray.  It looks like a stay-at-home day in our Oxnard apartment to me.  Michael agrees.  Not because of the gray day, but because of the expected holiday crowds. Afghans, news, and books become our world.

Brunch

At noon Michael decides to fix us brunch, Eggs Benedict, and to accompany them, he quickly slices fingerling potatoes into coin-sized rounds on the mandolin purchased from Williams Sonoma for our summer travels.

Suddenly I hear, “@#$%&! I knew that would happen.”

It takes a long while to stop the bleeding, and we have only two adhesive bandages in our portable first aid kit. Undaunted, finger secured, Michael continues preparing the perfect poached egg with classically made hollandaise sauce. The tiny potato rounds have been sautéed and seasoned. When traveling, I can’t compete with his speed and creativeness in the kitchen, but I can do the dishes. Feeling the pain that is his finger, I turn on the hot water and squeeze soap onto plates. It feels right to be here, being domestic.

A Trip to Silver Strand (surfing) Beach

Never believing in doing nothing for too long, we head to Silver Strand (surfing) Beach, a whole five minutes from our doorstep; we stop at Von’s on the way to rent a movie and buy more BAND-AID’s.

Of course, there isn’t a place to park, we halfway expected this, and I am ready to give up when a car pulls out, and we pull into the vacated space. This beach edged with houses seems wrong to me.  I think it should be wild and free. However, once we carry our beach chairs, borrowed from Heather, onto the sand and face the water, the world in back of us disappears.

This is the busiest beach I have ever been on, especially on a cloudy day in 63-degree weather.  I’m in jeans and a sweatshirt — over a long-sleeved t-shirt; Michael wears a jacket. Most beachgoers run around in bikinis or cut-offs and tank tops.  I wish for a martini or a glass of wine, but am happy at least to have chairs, oh so low to the ground, with backs to lean on.

People Watchers at Silver Strand Beach

The water is full of surfers, looking like tiny black punctuation marks on the blank slate of the sea. Suddenly one of those periods grows arms and legs, upended, suspended in air, disappearing between the waves.  I can only hold my breath and hurt at the thought of it. A tiny sprite runs like the wind, north and south, then west, toward the ocean; two small boys see the danger and run toward her, blocking the tiny wild thing from entering the water.  A distraught mother appears, catches her, and scoops the pink-suited child up into her arms. A surfboard twirls in the air, sans rider, before it kisses the foam beneath.  In the haze, sailboats look like ghost ships.

Michael and I are happy to be here and settle in.  People watchers.

Back at our Oxnard apartment, as we pull into the parking lot, a young man walks in front of us.  He is wearing cut-offs, a tank-top, flip-flops, and on top of his head — a ski cap.  We shake our heads in wonder.