mini-vacation at costanoa, part 2 - crawling the coast

This post is the second in a series. To see more photos near Costanoa, click here.

On my second full day of vacation, I moved along this magnificent coastline at the pace of something that crawls, and slowly. Why would I speedwalk when I had all day to take pictures here, and nobody with me to sigh and look bored while I spent half an hour photographing a tangled clump of kelp? I savored every bit of this beach. The weather was sublime, with warm sea-scented air that lifted my hair and whispered against my skin. A bright blue sky complemented the brown and gold tones of the rocks. And oh, the sand! How soft it was where the wind had piled it up into dunes. How intricate its shapes and patterns where the water and rocks had sculpted it.

This land, a short walk across the highway from Costanoa, is part of the Año Nuevo State Marine Conservation Area, a protected stretch of beachfront adjacent to Año Nuevo State Park and Natural Preserve. You can walk from Pigeon Point lighthouse all the way down to Cascade Creek on this beach, if you're willing to do a bit of scrambling over rocks and dunes. I saw no one else for hours on the day I spent there, not a single human soul, until I reached Franklin Point and turned to glimpse one lone surfer, far off in the direction of the lighthouse.

Every few steps I found new objects of beauty. Seaweed in many colors, flecked with shells and living creatures. Smooth stones and rough stones arranged by the tides. Cliffs gouged by water and other forces I didn't understand. Tiny narrow ponds of seawater in the shadow of boulders. The ocean flowed in gently, over and over again, each receding wave leaving shimmering tracks. On this strip of coast, the beach was quiet and insulated, flat and calm.

Left by water returning to the sea after the swash of a wave up the beach, these branching patterns in the sand are called rill marks.It was here that my body, mind, and spirit all acknowledged together that I was deeply exhausted and had been for many months. The admission of fatigue on this warm, welcoming shore caused my mental and physical tension to suddenly release. This was a place where humans and their timescale lost all meaning. I was now truly free to rest in this endless late morning light. I'm dead, and this is heaven, I thought, smiling.  

After a while – who knows how long? – I reached sand dunes where a rope-lined path beckoned. I clambered up the sand to a board walkway. This ended at a lookout spot with benches: Franklin Point. I sat for a long time and looked out at the ocean. To my right, on the north side of this point, was the tranquil area I'd just traversed. To my left, on the south side, cliffs and jagged boulders braced against rougher seas. Franklin Point stuck out into the ocean beyond the rest of the coastline, a locus of crashing water and sharp rocks, with dunes collecting behind it to the east.

The trail through the dunes continued on the southeast side of the platform. Now I was walking above the beach, not on it, for the sand had disappeared except for small bits of it here and there. I looked down at jagged rocks where waves pounded and splashed foam high in the air, making a deafening racket you don't hear on the north side of the point. I remembered how I had come here once before this trip – I think it was in 2009 – and I'd been amazed by the difference between the serene north side and chaotic south side. It was still amazing to behold. On the south side, where the water was so much wilder, more sea plants grew on the rocks. More animals lived in the tidepools. The calmer north side felt empty and ghostly in comparison.

The word ghostly and the idea of resting here in the afterlife are strangely appropriate considering the history of Franklin Point, of which I knew nothing on that day. I later learned that the name comes from a clipper ship, the Sir John Franklin. This ship ran aground on rocks offshore in January 1865 and was completely destroyed. Twelve people died, including the captain. Only six of the bodies were recovered, and four of them were buried right on the point. A monument was placed there to honor the other Sir John Franklin passengers whose bodies couldn't be found. Franklin Point later became a burial ground for bodies recovered from other wrecks in the area.

No wonder time seems to stand still there. It's not just a beach, it's a cemetery.

What a wonderfully poetic place to be buried. Thinking about it now, I love the way the tangible division between the north and south sides of Franklin Point reflects the contrast between the drama of the last moments of life for those poor doomed passengers and the tranquility of their final resting place. The site bears the imprint of their transition from terror to peace. It is a soothing place to wander and rest in any state, ghostly or living. All things can be reconciled here, all painful contrasts healed, for a few hours anyway.

After my Costanoa mini-vacation, I read widely about this area, and learned of its fascinating geological position and history. But I'll wait for a post about a different trip, maybe one to Año Nuevo's main park, before sharing that information. Geology was not the main focus of the short holiday period I spent wandering the environs of the Costanoa resort. Relaxation was the goal, with unexpected results. The more I relaxed, the more I could sense the less physically obvious stories of the place. From what I have read, many other visitors have been able to do the same.