Tales from Manzanita

 


I fondly recall living there the winter of 1980. Damp and fog with a trace of manzanita woodsmoke. 

You could drive on the beach.  We’d borrow Leo’s beater pickup to drive the seven-mile length of the beach until we couldn’t go any further.  Sometimes we’d all jump out of the moving truck and trot behind it, just for fun. 

I was riding in the pickup bed; the other three bailed and trotted behind the driverless pickup rolling down the packed sand. Deciding to jump, I launched off the tailgate, rising high into a forward flip, curved into a ball, and used the forward motion to land on my feet and stuck the landing. So much for physics.  

Okay, so that didn’t happen.  There is a right and wrong way to exit a moving vehicle. I chose the latter when I jumped off the tailgate (the wrong way for my knees to work as designed), took a massive tumble, and splatted into the cold and wet sand.  

My actions proved hilarious to the others.  They were laughing their fool heads off and nearly lost the pickup to the surf.  



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