SPECIAL REPORT: Oil on the Beach : True, We Can Wipe Away the Oil, but the Disgust Will Stick for a Lot Longer

I awoke Friday in ghastly defiance. That lasted all of a second. Then Angst overcame me.

Instead of the homey, musky scent of a skin-tingling sea breeze that welcomed most mornings for the past 15 years along the Huntington Wetlands in Newport Shores, a foul pungency filled the nostrils.

The air was redolent of oil. Black Gold. Texas Tea. A crude awakening, indeed.

The disabled American Trader had spewed nearly 400,000 gallons of goo off the Orange County coast. We were about to discover what Santa Barbara and Alaska knew all too well.

First, the Santa Ana winds kept the oil at bay, pushing the spill toward open sea. This was good; it would spare the ecologically fragile Newport Bay and wetlands that adjoin my home. Santa Anas, however, rarely last in midwinter. They are a fall phenomenon, heating the Southern California autumn with dry, arid puffs of air.

Soon, the customary onshores broke through. Defenseless white-sand beaches that had been an accommodating playground for so many years were under siege. The swirling, angry sea turned black and blue.

My thoughts were for the birds: the snowy-white egrets with spindly legs and beady eyes who forage for food in the brackish marshlands; the long-beaked California brown pelicans that only recently have rediscovered my back yard as their habitat; the skittish great blue herons; the California least terns, American avocets. Even the gulls.

My thoughts were for the gray whales who grace the coast during the February migration toward Arctic climes. And the porpoise who playfully join surfers in the local waters. Would they make it through this mess?

I know this coastline intimately. It has been shared by my closest friends. We were a coterie drawn to the sensual waves, the fair days. It was the embodiment of California. The sea. The sand. The sun.

We surfed its waters. We played beach volleyball in its sands. We watched wicked sunsets that recalled crazy Mexican days. We reaped much, but never lost respect.

The coast was a respite from the ivy-like growth that was overtaking the county. Witness the reconstruction of downtown Huntington Beach. And that is only the latest. Someone was always dabbling.

When those offshore oil platforms were planted about 15 years ago, oil gobbets suddenly sprouted along shore. First, it was an inconvenience. But they also reminded us of what could happen.

Those gooey pieces stuck to my surfboard and feet like paste. Beachgoers shrieked with disgust. The scene was baleful. Corrupting paradise always is.

From surfing the waters off Santa Barbara, however, some of us had a reliable oil-removal kit--a jar of mayonnaise. We introduced our sure-fire cure to Orange County beaches, and what a strange surfing accessory it was: wax, leash, wet suit, booties and, please, do not hold the mayo.

Those rare days of oil droplets along shore always left us glum. Riding waves was the ultimate balance between man and nature.

Or so it seemed.

I could wipe away the oil, but not the disillusionment. We thought we were planted firmly on boards that turned those hollow waves into personal canvases. We thought we were etching visions of grandeur.

And all the while, oil consumption increased. The stuff had become essential to existence. Even surfing’s existence. Most surfboard equipment is petroleum-made.

So we too are part of the problem.

In the coming days, debate about this accident involving oil and the environment will rage. How long will it last? Well, how many of you still read the stories about Valdez and Exxon?

Me? When the emergency restrictions are lifted, and the ocean is again deemed safe, I will test the waters. The tangy spray may still tantalize, but it will not wash away the wounds. No. The scars have been indelibly imprinted on the soul.