Commentary: The hills hold the horizon — Laguna’s enduring soul in a changing world

There are mornings when memory arrives before the sun.

The marine layer would settle over Cliff Drive, softening the hills and turning the ocean almost silver. I remember standing on the porch in autumn 1998, looking toward Picnic Beach, an old army jacket nearby, and feeling the pull of a place I had once left behind.

In 1992, I left Manhattan Beach and moved to Laguna Beach. In 1993, I left Laguna to join the Army. After receiving an honorable discharge, I eventually found my way back to the town that had begun to feel like home.

Laguna had already taught me that change can come suddenly.

In February 1995, Simindokht Roshdieh, the owner of the Baskin-Robbins on Main Street, was murdered and her husband, Firooz Roshdieh, was wounded in a botched robbery. For a small community, it was the kind of tragedy that reached into every neighborhood, storefront and conversation.

When I returned to Laguna, I found myself drawn back into its rhythm.

During my 1998 campaign for Laguna Beach City Council, my mornings often began with a run from Cliff Drive, past Heisler Park and toward Laguna Canyon Road. Years earlier, I had stood with Mayor Lida Lenney and thousands of others protesting developers and earthmovers threatening the canyon. The Tell mural had become a symbol of that struggle.

By 1998, development had changed portions of the landscape, but the rebellious soul of Laguna Canyon had survived.

So had the people.

I surfed Brooks Street whenever I could. Once I was in the water, campaign signs and political arguments disappeared. There was only the board, the waves and the coastline.

That mixture of surfers, artists, musicians, veterans and longtime locals was part of what made Laguna different. It was something worth protecting.

Politics was never far away. Wayne Baglin, my opponent in the 1998 City Council race, and I would debate politics over bakery counters and espresso machines. We were political opponents, but we were also part of the same small community.

Baglin lost that election to Toni Iseman, then returned to the council after winning in 2000.

Looking back, there is something very Laguna about that.

People could disagree fiercely and still see each other the next morning at the bakery.

A political opponent could still be your neighbor.

That was Laguna.

At night, I worked at C’est La Vie overlooking Main Beach. I was a veteran, runner, surfer, baker, security guard, car detailer and city council candidate.

But underneath all of that, I was simply a local who loved his town.

In 2012, I stood at the Heisler Park gazebo in pastoral attire, helping a young couple make a commitment to one another. Looking over the same coastline I had known for years, I realized life had somehow come full circle.

In 2013, I moved to Central Texas.

Today, my work is rooted there. After the tragedy at Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, I helped found the Uvalde Foundation for Kids, which has since grown into the Youth Peace & Justice Foundation. Our mission reaches communities nationwide through youth advocacy, crisis support, violence prevention and emergency assistance.

The connection may seem unlikely, but to me it is simple.

Laguna taught me that communities are worth standing up for.

The same instinct that once drew me into the fight to protect Laguna Canyon now guides the work I do for children and families across the country.

The places change. The work changes. The horizon changes. But the values that take root in us do not disappear simply because we move away.

Laguna has changed, as every living community does. Storefronts change. Businesses come and go. People grow older. New generations arrive.

Yet something remains.

The hills.

The canyon.

The ocean.

And the people who still believe the town is worth protecting.

Laguna was never about keeping everything exactly as it was. Its soul was about people caring enough to stand up for what mattered.

That is why the hills still feel like home.

The coast was a chapter written in ink upon my soul. No matter how many miles I travel or how many years pass, I can still hear the waves at Picnic Beach.

Some horizons move.

Some never do.

— The writer is a former longtime Laguna Beach resident and 1998 Laguna Beach City Council candidate, and is now the founder and National Director of the Youth Peace & Justice Foundation in Temple, Texas. A veteran, author and youth advocate, his work focuses on youth advocacy, violence prevention, crisis response and emergency assistance.