High Up on a Hill, Lovers Gather Amid the TV Transmitters

Night has fallen, and “lovers’ lane” is alive. Far below, the city lights sprawl toward distant office towers, which cast a pale glow on the overcast sky. Automobiles are strung along an iron railing and scattered across a rocky dirt field, angled toward the most spectacular views.

Though some cars appear unoccupied, that is an illusion; inside, there are people--and they are very occupied.

A passionate hush seems to have settled over the top of Signal Hill, a rather strange landscape of high palms and no fewer than nine radio-TV transmitters. A bulky water tower stands sentinel above a pair of rusty oil pumps; their singsong whine, soft and eerie, competes with the whir of crickets and the occasional, muffled rumble of the cars moving around, often without headlights.

Brenda Martinez, 18, and Joe Rubalcaba, 19, are holding hands in a parked car at the west edge of the hilltop, listening to the band Sonic Youth on the tape deck. After nine months of dating, the two Cal State Long Beach students are here together for the first time.

“I’ve been here maybe once before--last year,” Martinez says, giggling and adding hastily: “Just to think.”

For a surprising number of the night’s visitors, Signal Hill is more than just a place to practice the physical expressions of amore. The stunning panorama, the deep quietude, the chance to reflect and dream--all contribute to the hill’s nighttime lure.

“You can get away from the city. . . . You don’t get the traffic noise,” says Kevin, 22, a Long Beach resident who has a bare foot on the dash as he chats with Vannee, 23, in a car parked in the deep shadows under a soaring palm. “We’re old high school buddies,” he says. “We haven’t seen each other for years.”

Not far away, Denette Elliott is standing with her date, Dwight Dixon, at the hill’s edge, searching the horizon for the lighted white dome of the Spruce Goose.

“I think that’s downtown Long Beach,” she says

uncertainly, laughing at her futility. “Every time I get up here, I get lost.”

The hill, 300 feet high, is one of the most visible geologic features on the generally flat expanse reaching south from Los Angeles to the sea.

Signal Hill’s colossal oil bubble was discovered in 1921 by drillers who erected a forest of tall derricks, giving it the appearance of a pin cushion. In its halcyon years, oil production topped 250,000 barrels a day.

But as production has dwindled in recent decades, the hill has emerged as perhaps the Eden of the region’s many necking spots. To several generations of young Don Juans, Signal Hill has been the place to lure dates on the pretense of “watching the submarine races.”

Submarines, of course, are never visible on the distant ocean--but other diversions sometimes salvage the trip.

To the surprise of many, Signal Hill police are tolerant of the goings-on behind steamed windows. Oh, sure, the cops may shine a flashlight now and then, but they are only looking for serious problems--such as rape or narcotics use, said veteran Officer Steve Owens.

“You get the same story from everyone: ‘We were just looking at the lights,’ ” Owens says with a chuckle. “But it’s difficult to see the lights with both the seats reclined.”

Usually, Owens said, problems involve nothing more than teen-agers drinking, although several months ago a young man on a date was horrified to see an electrical short develop. The car went up in flames.

“He was quite upset,” the officer said. “It wasn’t his car.”

These days, lovers are concerned; the hilltop is about to change. Southwest Diversified has won city approval to build 525 homes and condominiums on the crest of the hill. Construction would begin next year if a final lawsuit challenging the project can be settled. To some, such as Owens, the project hints at the end of an era. “I would suspect, personally, that in 10 years that will all be gone,” the officer said, “as far as a lovers’ lane.”

Signal Hill Planning Director Gary Jones insists that the views will be preserved with a park and additional parking spaces. “If anything,” he said, “we’ll enhance the opportunities for watching the submarine races.”

In the meantime, they are here--the lovers, the dreamers, the people who want to get away from it all.

Alfredo Abarca, 22, shares a concrete slab poised at the hill’s edge with Jessica Pacheco, 18, whom he met two months ago.

“The view’s beautiful--perfect,” he says, smiling.

Michael Shampine, 33, sits on a tailgate between speakers warbling with new age music. He has been a regular for almost half his life--a “city lights freak” who comes up on dates or by himself. At the moment, the medical technician is staring at a dimly lighted page of electrical schematics.

“Board exams,” he explains.

At the crest of the hill, Jolee Ortegon, 26, is with his wife, Eileen, and two in-laws, sipping soft drinks in a car. While they had been up here “just about every night” before their marriage in May, the Ortegons “still come up here occasionally,” Jolee says, because there are not views like this back home.

A Texan who came West last fall to seek his fortune, Ortegon sports tattoos, a sleeveless T-shirt and John Lennon eyeglasses. He has invented a new kind of bearing--something for skateboards. And he is about to cash in.

“That’s where the money is,” he says with a nod. “Skateboarding.”