Of course, you can always take Kim Weston's approach: Bring binoculars and leave the camera at home.
"They move," he explained.
Eventually, we made our way south to a sandy area now known as Weston Beach. Edward's ashes were scattered here, as were Brett Weston's in 1993 and Cole Weston's in 2003.
"It's sort of the family cemetery," said Kim, pointing out a familiar rock formation, then another, then nudging a loose piece of stone with his toe.
"That piece used to be up here," he said. "It broke off. Like any beach, it's always changing."
As the conversation meandered, I hovered with camera in hand, trying to catch a shot of foam flying over a well-positioned rock. Weston watched and waited with a knowing grin. Eventually, I got something, and we retreated to Wildcat Hill.
That's when my host pulled out a volume of "Edward Weston: His Life and Photographs," and there on Page 130 was the rock where we had been waiting. Except that the black-and-white rock on the page had been shot from a better angle, the foam flying higher and wider, a wholly different order imposed by nature and the artist, working together, 62 years ago.
Discouraging? Nah. I got to hear stories, taste that salt air and sink my boots into the sand. And my fingernails are still clean.