I never should have gone home. Before my trip back east, I was content with my situation in LA. I had settled into a comfortable routine and had met some nice people. However, after a cross-country red eye flight, I was thrilled to find myself back in Cape Cod. Within several hours of landing, I was skimming across Muddy Cove in a 14-foot skiff. The sun shone majestically during the day and the gentle patter of rain lulled me to sleep each night. The days were spent sailing, playing tennis, kicking around the soccer ball, and visiting with family. I was reminded that of all of the beautiful places that I have visited, none has surpassed the loveliness of home.
Onset holds a special place in my heart. I was born there. I spent all of my childhood summers there. I have returned there each and every year of my life. Throughout the many relocations that my family and I have gone through, Onset has served as a home base. In the small community there, I know most everyone and most everyone knows me. During my most recent visit, I was returning to Onset to celebrate my 30th birthday. Even my less lucid elderly neighbors may not remember my name, but they usually remember my birthday (7/7/77).
I arrived in Boston early on July 4th and boarded the first bus of the day bound for Cape Cod. The familiar skyline of Boston gave way to rolling sandy hills and tranquil cranberry bogs. My parents, fresh from Italy, picked me up at the bus station and drove me back to their cottage on Muddy Cove, where my brother, Brian, was just waking up. After a necessary cup of coffee, I joined my Dad and a distant relative for a refreshing run along the scenic waterfront. The short vacation was to prove full of fun activities enjoyed with family and friends. Suspended between my parents’ generation and that of my younger cousins, my brother and I alternated between entertaining children and relaxing with adults. On the evening of the 4th, with a steady rain falling, we opted to skip the excitement of the fireworks in Boston in favor of a nice meal and rejuvenating sleep. Although I have always enjoyed being in Boston on the 4th for the Boston Pops concert and am moved when all of the bells in Boston ring in unison during the 1812 overture, my desire to avoid the crowds might be the first sign that I am getting old.
On Thursday evening, following another wonderful day, Brian and I took five of our younger cousins to watch a Cape Cod league baseball game. The neophytes seemed to be expecting more of the amusement park environment that has infiltrated major league ballparks recently, but were instead treated to a purist version of the sport devoid of jumbotrons, fireworks, or many other fans. Sadly, the Wareham Gatemen fell to the visiting Falmouth Commodores in a dull pitching duel. Utilizing the only negotiating tool that we had at our disposal, we maintained a precarious control over our restless charges by holding out the possibility of a visit to Kool Kone after the game. As a brief background on Kool Kone, the alliterative ice cream stand has played an interesting role in past business dealings between Brian and myself. Back in the mid-90’s, a 24-foot Ensign sailboat that my parents owned was damaged during Hurricane Bob. The boat was eventually laid up in a boatyard and ownership, or assumption of ownership, somehow transferred to Brian and I, as long as we would undertake the effort and expense of repairing it. Brian decided to cut his losses and shrewdly negotiated to exchange his share of the yacht for an ice cream at Kool Kone. This apparently lopsided deal miraculously turned out to be in his favor as the boat never saw the water and my parents eventually gave the boat away for presumably more than an ice cream cone. In any case, following the baseball game, Kool Kone did not disappoint and this proved to be the highlight of the night as all of the children breathlessly reported the type of ice cream they had when they returned home, completely glossing over any reference to the three hour game they had endured.
Friday afternoon, my parents and I went out for a brisk sail on my Uncle Scott’s Morgan 38. Departing the mooring at the Point Independence Yacht Club in calm conditions, we beat upwind in Buzzards Bay. Passing the maritime academy and Mashpee Island, we raced out to Wing’s Neck before heading for home. It was pleasant to sail through the familiar cruising grounds and the comfortable conditions and attractive scenery reminded me why I am proud to call Onset my home port.
On July 7th, I celebrated my 30th birthday in the company of friends and family in the same town in which I was born. The day was relaxing and understated, as is the custom in my family. My friend Joe Campopiano, who I grew up with in Connecticut and who has joined me on adventures in LA, Atlanta, and the Galapagos, visited for the day. In the evening, my family organized a large party on my grandmother’s deck that hosted 40 of my relatives. An indestructible piñata and plenty of cake entertained the group, many of whom have attended many similar gatherings in the past. All in all, it was a great way to spend my birthday.
After embracing vacation mode and growing accustomed to being surrounded by friends and family, I was jostled back to reality when I returned to the Los Angeles. With no out-of-town trips planned, I spent a few days wallowing in self-pity before remembering that I was living in a perpetually sunny, vibrant city.
And so, as I settle into my fourth decade of this lifetime, I find myself assimilating nicely to life in Southern California. Though my adventures are not as exotic as they used to be, I am comfortable in my current surroundings. Despite my initial ambivalence, it is nice to be surrounded by people with similar backgrounds to myself. Santa Monica is full of young, idealistic, well-educated individuals that have converged on this oasis of pleasure from all parts of the country. It seems that everyone has an interesting backstory and it is easy to meet likeminded individuals. The restaurants, bars, and local events are naturally geared towards catering to this specific type of personality and, as a result, it is easy to fall into a comfortable routine.
Yet, Santa Monica is not without its drawbacks. Considering how diverse Los Angeles is as a city, there is precious little diversity to be found in my neighborhood. People may be transients and originate from different locations, but the socio-economic differences are minimal. Likewise, despite everyone’s attempts to look unique, somehow everyone ends up looking the same. Even events that pose as cultural gatherings lack authenticity. For example, each Sunday morning I go to the farmer’s market a couple of blocks away from my apartment. Aside from the fresh vegetables, fruit, and breakfast options on display, there are pony rides and a live band to entertain the crowd. Typically, the band is playing traditional African music, which is nice. However, as hundreds of people sit around enjoying traditional African music, the faces of both the band and audience are as white as snow. In Santa Monica, even the ironies are rich.
Despite the occasional hypocrisy, there is much to recommend this part of the world. Perhaps nothing is more attractive about southern California than the healthy lifestyle that it seems to encourage. Each morning, runners and bikers enjoy the long, flat, and scenic path along the coastline. On weekends, swimmers and surfers are numerous. Boats sail up and down the coast. In the parking lots, games of roller hockey emerge from between the film trucks. On the beach, different groups gather for volleyball, rugby, soccer, and dodgeball. For a new arrival in the area, it is hard not to notice that everyone seems to take time to simply play.
Of all the interesting things that I have found to do in Los Angeles – and there are many – nothing has provided a greater sense of belonging than by being surrounded by people who enjoy sports. Whether participating or watching, there is an exhilaration in the youthful glee of running as fast as possible along the beach, purely for fun. The thrill of competition in a completely meaningless game of volleyball is impossible to describe. The transcendent moments of creativity that result in something beautiful and unexpected during a friendly soccer match is what makes life worth living. Such joy is not often what is considered when assessing the attractiveness of a city. Jobs, housing, restaurants, relationships, and a lot of other factors normally take precedence. Yet, in the same way that sailing allowed me to release my inner child when caught up in the thrill of adventure and the sense of wonder at my surroundings, so too does my current life in Santa Monica allow me to escape from the overly planned ambitions of daily life and to take pleasure in the pure happiness derived from simply playing.