Beach Connoisseur Finds Serenity Not Far From the Madding Crowd

Ever since I tried to jump off the ocean liner that brought my family from France to the New World, I have had a love affair with the sea. Vacations always mean a trip to a beach. I look for something secluded and quiet, with as few signs of civilization as possible.

A citified spot like San Buenaventura State Beach has its merits--more than 2,000 sunbathers spread their towels there each day during the recent heat wave. But for true beach connoisseurs, I have a different idea. South county.

There is a winding stretch of pure Beach Boys fantasy between Mugu Rock and the Los Angeles County line. No crowds, no houses, no concession stands. It’s the Santa Monica Mountains on one side and the blue Pacific on the other. Screeching gulls, the scent of drying sage, and a horizon that softens into infinity.

The start is inauspicious. Pacific Coast Highway, that fabled seaside route, jogs inland through Oxnard. This is followed by a brief stretch along a divided highway that eases you back to the beach at Mugu Rock. Flanked by the Navy Firing Range and watched over by an orange lookout tower, the rock looks somewhat inhospitable.

But keep going. The road narrows and the coastline curves. The mountains pitch into the sea. On the land side, 13,000 acres of Point Mugu State Park stand untouched. Grasses, yucca and sage cling to the hills. Hawks ride the updrafts and rabbits hide in the chaparral.

To the west, it’s a million unnamed shades of blue. On sunny days, you can see rainbows in the spray where the waves meet the boulders below. Save for the smooth gash of roadway chipped from the sheer rock, this is California as it looked a century ago.

There is a handful of beaches between Mugu Rock and the county line. Some are small pocket beaches with neither restrooms nor lifeguards. You rock-hop down the bluff and take great care when swimming. The rip currents can be killers. Literally.

Thornhill Broome, a wind-swept beach campground, has fire pits and showers. At night, the smell of burning wood mixes with the rising fog and perfumes your car, even with the windows closed.

The road cuts through a long, golden dune here, where people ride cardboard boxes and even ski down the sandy slope on the land side.

Farther south is Sycamore Cove Beach. Tucked into the trees, it sits opposite a mountain campground and is the widest spot in the road. There’s a ranger station, some electric lights and even a soft-drink machine. Civilization. And then it’s back to the narrow road, the rugged mountains and a sheer drop to the sea.

Most people drive too fast, as though they are starring in a car commercial.

There is another way. Turn off your air-conditioning and roll down your window. You can hear and smell the waves.

Ease your foot off the gas. Your heart rate seems to slow down. Use some sunscreen, preferably a childhood brand that coaxes memories of a carefree summer, and turn off the radio. Just for a minute. You will be amazed at how good you feel.

I travel this road a lot. Last winter, I saw a cluster of cars on the side of the road.

People stood on the bluff and pointed out to sea. A gray whale was shepherding her baby up the coast.

The calf dove and surfaced, blowing tiny plumes of spray into the air. You could hear its soft, soprano exhalation, countered by the deeper whoosh of its mother’s breath. She circled patiently as her calf hugged the shore, swimming slowly north toward the Arctic Circle.

Each week, I saw dolphins hunting fish in the shallows, or, in deeper water, swimming with great speed and purpose in a sprint up the coast. One day, a kayaker was being escorted by a curious pod that arced and dove around his small blue boat. He saw the people watching from shore, threw his arms in the air and shouted with joy.

“This is the life,” said a plumber who had stopped to have his lunch. He spread his sandwich wrapper on a rock and balanced a thermos against his thigh. He grinned at the gallery of gulls watching his every move. A swell rolled in and lifted the kayaker as he paddled around the bluff and vanished from sight.

“You’d never know you were so close to the city,” the plumber said.

He’s right, of course. Unless you make the drive yourself, you’ll never know.