Ray Ford: Daybreak at East Beach

It’s 5 a.m. and I’m summoning the energy to get out of bed, brew a cup of coffee and gather my gear. The brew is French Roast from Costco, fine ground, steeped in an unbleached filter and served hot. How I start most of my days.

Coffee in hand, I’m in my van and heading for the beach. It’s now close to 6 a.m. and the sky is beginning to lighten. There are clouds on the horizon, which means when the sun comes up the lighting will be dramatic. It gives me a few moments to enjoy the last drops from my cup.

What makes dawn so special is the quiet that accompanies it. This morning I’m on the east side of the Cabrillo Pavilion looking out over the volleyball courts toward a prominent peak known as Rincon Mountain. There are few people on the beach and aside from the light breeze, I have it almost all to myself.

It’s a perfect daybreak. There are two other early risers silhouetted against the gilded waters and glint of boats anchored just offshore. The low clouds are beginning to reflect the sunlight toward the sky and all at once the world turns to gold.

For those who swear by Santa Barbara sunsets, for me there is nothing like first light on the beach. I spot a few others soaking up what is turning into one of the best sunrises I’ve ever seen.

An old salt emerges from his decades-old camper van, blanket in hand, and like me stands quietly, caught in his own thoughts. He reaches his arms out as if greeting the morning light in full embrace.

Even on those days when the sunrise isn’t quite so spectacular, it’s the quiet time that makes it special. My favorite stretch is from Stearns Wharf eastward to the far end of East Beach. There’s usually no trouble parking along Cabrillo or near the wharf, and in the early morning there is none of the commotion that takes over later in the day.

Like my dad, the fisherman, used to tell me, “I’m not out here to catch fish but to have a few hours to myself.” For him the best way to do that was with his fly-fishing pole in hand, barbless hooks on the end of the line, sharing time with the creek.

For me it’s a morning at the beach. No crowds, no noise, just the light crunch of sand underfoot and waves breaking nearby.

I often begin near the lower edge of the Wharf, where the light from its lampposts creates surreal, ever-changing patterns on the ocean surface. Nearby, at the point where Mission Creek reaches the ocean, is a small lagoon populated by various shorebirds — gulls, sandpipers, plovers and my favorite, the brown pelicans — which at one moment can be floating quietly in the lagoon and at the next taking flight, darting in and out and up and down in synchrony.

Spending time watching the interplay of the birds is enough to occupy me for hours, especially when the pelicans come out to play. But most of the time I just wander along, immersed in nature’s way of calming the mind.

There’s plenty of time to think — and to reflect as well. I’ve been lucky to spend most of my life in Santa Barbara, where we are blessed with both seashore and mountaintop as companions.

Off to my right is the shimmering outline of Santa Cruz Island and to my left the steep slopes of the Santa Ynez Mountains rising into a bank of clouds. It’s a good place to take stock of where we live and how much there is to be thankful for.

Then I’m brought back to the moment by the sound of dozens of brown pelicans circling over a spot in the water. With a quick movement, each dives directly into the water, most emerging with a wiggly fish to be tossed into the air for a brief moment before being scooped into the birds’ billowing throats.

The frenzy lasts a few minutes before the pelicans break up into smaller groups, settling into their typical glide path, some so close to the water’s surface they seem sure to crash while others cruise higher up.

I watch them in awe as they head for other parts of the coastline. They quickly melt into the haze and I watch until they have vanished completely. Maybe I’ll see them again tomorrow.