It’s a gorgeous little town, nestled at the base of Morro Bay. Los Osos means “The bears,” named for the animals that roamed here freely, cohabiting with the Chumash. The namer was Father Juan Crespi of the Portola expedition; the year 1769. Perhaps it did not occur to the good padre that this place already had a name, a people, and a civilization that predated him by centuries.
We land at the Back Bay Inn just in time for sunset. This is a lovely little inn situated in the Baywood Park neighborhood, right at the waterline on the inner most reaches of Morro Bay. At least it’s the waterline at high tide. Twelve hours later, it’s a tidal marshland; a wide expanse of mud and pickle weed, bisected by frenetic rivulets of water. Thousands of shorebirds strut and peck, looking for dinner. The slick sheen of sea running over the surface of the mud flats reflects the fiery red of the setting sun.
As the night turns a dusky violet, we leave the shore, turning inland to walk the lovely neighborhoods. The streets wind through craggy, wind-shaped cypress trees dripping with moss. Sand dunes and ice plant hug the roads; that tang of the sea hangs in the air. Colorful flowers and intriguing yard art bloom everywhere. The houses are quaint and charming and eclectic in style--coastal, cape cod, shingled, modern, ancient—not a McMansion in sight.
It seems every third or fourth one doubles as an artist’s studio, with some small sign advertising creative wares for sale. Baywood is beautiful and unpretentious. Think Carmel without the wealth and gentrification.
I spent a good deal of my childhood along this stretch of the coast. But I had never seen Los Osos or Baywood. I feel good here. Comfortable. At peace. Not sure why. But it’s a welcome feeling. This Christmas, we planned this trip to visit with my fisherman cousins in Shell Beach, and then wine taste in Paso Robles. It’s a protective device, this trip; designed to combat the sadness I feel at holiday time. Each year, we seek new ways to defeat old ghosts, If we cannot banish memories, at least maybe we can disembowel them.
This year’s effort works. We have a wonderful visit with the fisherman cousins. We walk tidal marshes and broad beaches. We wander coves and cliffs. We drink steaming mugs of coffee at the Nautical Bean, a quirky haunt of the locals. We sip wine, gazing out over the mudflats to the Pacific, and into infinity.
It was on the second night that it started. A small feeling of unease. I couldn’t name it or explain it. But it nagged and persisted. As Cal watched an old movie, I tried to read, and failed. I tried to sleep, and pretty much failed at that, too. In the morning, first thing, I checked. The unease was still there.
For that day, we planned a hike at Montana de Oro. Then we’d drive up Highway 1 to Cayucos and Cambria, before turning inland on Highway 46 to Paso Robles.
Montana de Oro is one of the prettiest places along the California coastline. On sunny days, the views are forever, down dramatic cliffs to huge fields of sea rock covered with birds and seals. We run the dog at Spooner Cove, and Cal does his normal beach combing thing—stockpiling materials for the sea treasures he creates. We head up to the campground high on the bluff, overlooking the ocean. The fog is too thick today for the glorious views you normally get here. But it’s still beautiful, in a moody, haunting kind of way. Back in the car, we head north—backtracking through Los Osos and Morro Bay, winding up the coast road. My unease is growing. Turning to foreboding; dread, almost.
What on earth is going on?
As we near Cayucos, I see a shell shop, and a memory suddenly materializes. We went in there about 10 years
ago. It was one of those ratty, run down stores with an astonishing collection of junk. I found a funny little sea creature made of shells. Carson will get a kick out of this, I thought. I bought it to send to him. After the shell shop, just up the road, we pulled off to look at a beach that was covered with sea lions—flopping, wiggling, barking, smelling. Carson, my animal lover, would love this, too, I thought, taking pictures to send him.
I would never get to send either. The last time I was on this stretch of road, I realized, was the week before Carson died. When we went into that little store and visited that beach, he was still in this world. I was still thinking up ways to make him smile.
Suddenly the foreboding of the past two days made perfect sense. I didn’t remember. But my body did.
I let the misery descend, and the tears come. Pushing them away never works, not in the long run. I’ve learned this.
As a grief counselor, I spend a lot of my time helping clients cope with these blindside attacks, almost all of them manifestations of PTSD. They are hideous in the early months and years. With time, they become less frequent. But in my experience, they don’t really lessen in their intensity; the quality of the emotion doesn’t change much. And they never totally disappear. When they hit, almost always when you least expect them, they take your breath away. This day in 2024, on the road between Morro Bay and Cayucos, it is almost a relief to know where the foreboding came from.
I read that our minds receive about 11 million bits of information per second from our bodies. Of those, we can consciously process between 40 and 50 bits. When it comes to what we really know, our conscious minds are slackers. They contribute almost nothing. And despite my misery on this day, I think: isn’t it amazing how this works? If it weren’t happening inside me, I would find this a fun, fascinating puzzle to solve. What do I know about this experience from my body? From my subconscious? Why do I listen to those things so little, when they can be so powerful in helping me understand?
Cal and I drive on, passing beaches and bluffs; dunes and lagoons; derelict fences melting away into the sand. Sea birds call and sea grasses wave. The fog drifts—great, ghostly, billowing waves of grey. We creep up the coastline, headlights piercing the gloom.
At Green Valley Road, we turn east, into the rolling green farm country. The fog persists, and we drive slowly, climbing up over the saddle that separates the ocean from the vineyards. For a time, the road is shrouded in mist. But near the top, we round a bend and suddenly break free. Down below us is the gleaming green valley, resplendent in the sunlight.
I would like to re-claim this stretch of the California coastline. I would like to remember it not for the horrific association of 10 years ago, but for a nice trip Cal and I took at Christmastime in 2024.
But I don’t think I re-claimed it today, and I’m not sure I ever will.
What I do know? In my mind and in my body? At some point on this day of ghostly darkness, we drove out of the fog and into the light.
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