Our upstairs bedroom with all the windows open on four sides of our tiny Abbot-Kinney built cottage is like the crow's nest of a ship, with the far off, train-travel sound of waves from the beach and the great salt smell of the sea moving across the breeze.
At night now there are already tiny firecrackers and some hissing, spark-spitting illuminated things down the block for the Fourth. Venice rules in summer when the black kids and Hispanic families and tourists worldwide take over on the weekends and give the whole place a holiday air of surfboards and inflatable toys and cool outfits and the unveiling of some truly impressive tattoos.
This too from the L.A. Times on SoCal's world famous, platinum record-selling waves:
"In the near future, when the parks and rec departments in Detroit, Chicago and other cities commission artificial surfing waves in giant indoor gymnasiums, they will model them on Malibu. On Rincon. On Trestles. They will model them on the waves of Southern California. Long, racy point breaks. Warm water. Easy paddles. Gentle take-offs and playful sections. Lifeguards watching. Bikinis baking. Concessions open. This is the dream. This is what the Beach Boys went platinum over."