Sam Elliott, A Favorite

Sam Elliott is one of my favorite actors. Although he has done outstanding work in Western films, I first became a fan after watching the 1976 Lifeguard. Elliott had the lead role in this coming-of-age film. He dominated the screen, but I really liked his character because I identified with his beach bum mindset.

I grew up in what is called the South Bay area of metropolitan Los Angeles. The South Bay was an odd collection of beach cities south of the upscale Malibu and Santa Monica. It was a perfect time to grow up in a perfect place. Surfing, friends, bikini-clad girls, and a little school on the side. I spent more time at the Second Street street-end in Hermosa Beach than I did at school ... sometimes at my principle’s invitation.

Lifeguard was filmed in the South Bay, so I had an immediate connection. Elliott plays a lifeguard who is constantly harangued about getting a real job. It is a nicely crafted script, and great performances by Sam Elliott, Anne Archer, and Kathleen Quinlan lifted a low-budget film above the commonplace. This was shrewd casting, since they all went on to become stars.

What brought all this to mind was an interview with Sam Elliott at A.V. Club. The interview is comprehensive, with film clips, lots of Hollywood insider stuff, and it ranges all over his remarkable career, including his Westerns. (Warning: It’s also sprinkled with F-bombs.) 

I had forgotten about Lifeguard until he mentioned the film, and the reference brought up a host of pleasant memories. It also reminded me that I once owned a tee-shirt that read, “There is no life east of Pacific Coast Highway.”

If you have never seen the film, pick it up and take a gander at a unique moment in time when Southern California beaches were uncrowded and life was truly simple. It’s also a great story.

Waist-High Bliss

San Diego

San Diego has a lot going for it. It’s a great city with a world-famous zoo, great museums, fun harbor areas, a vibrant downtown, and the neat and tidy U.S. Navy strutting its stuff.  Like every large city, San Diego has districts with distinct personalities. My preference is Pacific Beach … and not just because I surf. I like the atmosphere. It’s a bit rowdy with college kids, surfers, and beach bums, but it’s a fun crowd. In fact, fun might be their sole objective.

USS Ronald Reagan (CVN-76)

Pacific Beach

The surf is pretty good, as well. I’m at Pacific Beach now and had a good morning surfing. The day was gorgeous. Sunny, warm, with a slight wind that just rippled the surface of the ocean. The waves were small ... knee to waist high, and you had to wait for the waist-high waves. Nice shape, though. I thought I did well, with two really good rides and no embarrassments on my other waves. 

The whole day reminded me of my youth. What my mother thought was my wasted youth. I never believed that. I was having the time of my life, and how could that be a waste. When I see teenagers in the water, I wonder if they know how lucky they are to live the Southern California beach lifestyle. We knew way back then, and I bet they know today. (My favorite tee shirt read, “There’s no Life East of Pacific Coast Highway.)

What does all this have to do with writing? Not a damn thing. I just had a good day in the waves and wanted to blog about it. This is what happens when Steve Dancy is in proofreading. When the character’s away, the writer plays.

There is no life east of Pacific Coast Highway

A few posts ago, I described meeting an old high school friend at his mountain retreat in the Sierras.

Mountain Sanctuary

When we were freshmen and sophomores, we rode bikes to the beach towing our surfboards behind us using jerry-rigged trailers we had cobbled together out of two-by-fours, carpet pieces, and old wagon wheels. It was a great time of life. The good news is that we knew it. We had lots of fun and many friends. We really did believe that no life existed east of Pacific Coast Highway (PCH).

Best of the batch of yours truly

On rare occasions, my friend would bring a twin-reflex camera to the beach and try to capture moments of surfing prowess. He had a darkroom in his garage and I can remember spending hours trying to finesse a recognizable image. No such luck. Without a telephoto, we only got  grainy pictures of neophyte surfers riding tiny waves. In other words, nothing we could pass around the school cafeteria to secure a date or a couple moments of fame.

On my visit last month, my friend gave me an envelope of black and white negatives. His idea was that in the big city, I might find a lab that could still process two-inch, fifty year old negatives. With a few phone calls, I succeeded. However, modern technology still can’t out-perform an enlarger in a garage. In fact, back in those days, we may have had the edge in technology for this ancient medium. Despite not finding Surfer Magazine-worthy material, we did have fun seeing these photographs once again. They brought back pleasant memories of long-ago summers. Unfortunately, they also reminded us how much time had gone by. Darn. Nostalgia just isn't what it used to be.

My Pinterest board on surfing

Me and an impolite friend

Mountain Sanctuary

Yesterday, I visited a high school friend I had not seen for at least thirty years. Before diverting north, the trip started through the Carson Pass in the Sierras. It was a beautiful drive and I thought anyone should feel privileged to view these magnificent mountains. Then I remembered Genoa, a way station for 49ers. I was cruising at 60 MPH in climate controlled comfort, while the early pioneers were lucky to eke out 10 miles in a long, determined day. The view probably wasn't uppermost on their minds.

My friend owns an isolated forty acres next to national forest. Getting there required him to come down the mountain to lead me through trails that would challenge a city-bred sedan. Although he had owned the land since the early seventies, he didn't move there until semi-retirement in the nineties.  Now his wife descends the mountain every day to work, while he struggles to make his home self-sufficient. He may want to be independent, but he’s a distant cousin from the long-gone, mountain men who lived off the land. PG&E provides electricity to supplement his solar panels, propane is delivered to his door, a tractor can carve out roads and plow snow, and cell phones keep civilization a touch screen away. Technology is a wonderful way to make a rustic existence comfortable. I even noticed a Verizon Hot Spot winking away on a book shelf to bring the entire World Wide Web directly to his mountain top. The pioneers could only wish they were so lucky.

We had a great afternoon wallowing in nostalgia for our younger days. We have lived very different lives since high school, but reconnected easily. We had been neighbors in high school and had peddled bikes towing surfboards to the beach nearly every day. We learned to surf with a couple of other friends and spent untold hours lazing about the beach; sunning, talking, playing volleyball, and flirting with girls. Growing up at the beach in the sixties was a singular experience and a great way to meander our way to adulthood.

Pacific Beach, San Diego

My wife has flown to Omaha to do some tasks that have to do with spa colors, soothing music, and aromatherapy.  She’s helping my daughter open a pedicure spa. Since I can’t contribute anything but bad advice, I’m driving today to Pacific Beach to get in a little surfing.

You might want to visit my Surf Pinterest Board. There are some great shots and a couple videos.






Three people have asked if I will continue to work on The Return or just surf all day. Boy, does that make me feel good. In truth, two hours is all I need suit up, surf, and shower. At my age, you no longer make a day of surfing. Since six hours is a full day of writing for me, I think I can catch a few waves and still make progress on the next Steve Dancy Tale. Besides, I write better at the beach. Who wouldn’t be inspired by something like this?