AFTER BREAKFAST this morning at the Village Kitchen & Pie Shop, Linda and I take a historic tour of the little towns of Carlsbad and South Oceanside where I grew up.

We drive by the house on Pacific street where I lived until I was eleven, and we trace the route I rode my bicycle to school and to Grandma and Grandpa's.

Then we go shopping at the Pottery Corral in Carlsbad, where we find just the kinds of terra-cotta and glazed pottery that Linda is looking for - at incredibly low prices. We buy three items and even though it costs more to ship them home than to buy them, we will still end up saving money over what they would have cost in Ohio (if they existed there, which they don't).

After our shopping spree, I drop Linda off at the motel to rest up and enjoy the pool (she didn't, because there are no chairs there and no shade). I then proceed to complete a commitment I made to my father over twelve years ago...

My parents divorced when I was fourteen, and my sister and I lived with my Mom. When I was seventeen, I went to live with my Dad, and we got to know each other much better than we ever had before. We lost touch before I joined the Navy, but became friends again just before I got out.

We used to have long talks of what life is all about, and among those conversations he made it clear that he didn't really care what became of his remains once he no longer inhabited them. He remarked more than once that he would prefer to be cremated and have his ashes scattered into Mission Bay in San Diego, the one place on earth he loved most. I remembered that, and when he died in 1984 my sister and I did indeed have him cremated. I had the box containing his ashes sent to my home, and I have kept them there ever since. I promised myself (and Dad) that I would take them with me next time I went to San Diego and scatter them at Mission Bay just as he had wished.

This afternoon, I set off by myself to do just that. Well, I'm not so sure anymore that I really was by myself. As I start to turn onto the freeway, the holiday traffic is crawling, bumper to bumper toward San Diego. I decide to take the old coast route instead, figuring that, if I'm going to be stuck in traffic all the way, I might as well be stuck in traffic on a picturesque, beach-side highway instead of on the freeway. So I drive through Carlsbad, Leucadia, and Solana Beach, along the old Pacific Coast Highway.

Somewhere along the line, I begin to realize that it was with this highway, not the freeway, that Dad was most familiar. These were the communities he had driven through nearly every day. I sense a strong feeling that something of my father is present in the car with me, and I begin talking aloud as if he were sitting along side. I look for a radio station that plays the type music he likes - Frank Sinatra, or the McGuire Sisters, or Steve & Edye Gorme. I can't find one, but I do find a station playing oldies from the fifties. I guess that'll just have to do.

We drive on through Del Mar. As we drive I note that I have absolute no idea how I'm going to deal with scattering about a half gallon of human remains into a large area with which I am mostly unfamiliar. What am I expecting to do?

Do I just dump the ashes out at the side of the road somewhere?

Do I stand on a bridge and let them fall slowly into the water?

Do I find a likely spot and just sort of walk up and down sowing ashes like chicken feed?

And what if I get stopped by a policeman? Are you really allowed to dispose of human remains this way? I have no clue.

Just after the Torrey Pines grade, and before La Jolla, the Coast Highway is undergoing construction. I am detoured back to the freeway, a couple miles inland. From here I drive on toward San Diego. A sign ahead says, "Mission Bay - Pacific Beach" and I take that exit, thinking to myself that this should get me to Cabrillo Monument. That seems like a good place, since it's near the mouth of the bay. And since it's a state park, I wouldn't be conspicuous wandering around there. It turns out that Cabrillo Monument is not accessible from here, though, as I realize after turning off the freeway. I don't, in fact, really know exactly where I am, but I do know two other things:

One, I know I'm heading toward the ocean and if I go far enough I'll get there, and,
Two, a very strong feeling is telling me not to worry and just turn when I'm told to.

It's a long drive along Garnet Street to Pacific Beach and out along the peninsula, and I pass by several signs directing me to turn for Mission Bay. Toward the tip of the peninsula, I encounter signs that say "No Outlet" and other, temporary signs, that say there is no available parking from this point on.

Still, the "voice" tells me to continue on. Just at the point where I can go absolutely no further (there is a wall, with the ocean beyond it), I am "told" to turn left through an ally between apartment buildings. A block later, I find myself in Mission Point Park.

There are cars parked here, and one leaves just as I enter. I take the parking space, get out of the car, and, carrying the box I've waited so long to bring here, begin walking along the sidewalk, past where the parking lot ends, to the very tip of the point. The view from here is astounding. To my right, where I parked the car, is the main channel that leads from Mission Bay to the sea. Every boat that comes in or goes out of Mission Bay passes this point. Across is one of several bridges leading to the recreation areas and Sea World. Behind me is a large grassy area with trees where people have picnics and bring their families.

There are large boulders here in front of me, used as a retaining wall. They slope about thirty feet or so into the water of the bay. There are fishermen standing on some of them.

I find a location with a direct view of the whole bay and climb out and down the rocks far enough to be difficult to get to from the sidewalk but high enough to be above the high-tide waterline. Here I sit and smoke a cigarette while contemplating that this is the exact location Dad had described to me so long ago. And I've never been here before in my life…

The ashes of my father trickle down between the rocks as I casually pour them from the plastic bag where they were confined for all these years. I can see them if I look carefully, but they are not conspicuous among the rocks, sand, and seashells.

This is a municipal park and the working seawall of one of America's major recreational boating areas. Normal cemeteries will be uprooted long before these particular rocks are ever disturbed. People come here all the time for spiritual solace and contemplation. It's a lovely area that can be visited just like any other gravesite. It can also be seen from the main freeway, looking out across the bay toward the ocean. In lieu of a headstone, I take lots of photographs so I can locate the exact spot should I choose to do so at a later time. Then I say goodbye for the last time, symbolically toss the now unneeded box and plastic bag into a nearby dumpster, and drive away.

On the way back to Carlsbad, I scan for a different radio station and discover a real phenomenon. There is an FM radio station in San Diego that is completely dedicated to a single song. There must be twenty or more versions of Macarena and this station plays them all, continuously. "All Macarena, all the time! Twenty four hours a day! Now you never have to wait for what you want!" proclaims the station's motto. Dad would have laughed at that. I can't wait to tell Lizzy…

Tonight we are taking Mom out to dinner at the Grove Restaurant, which used to be Marty's Valley Inn when we all lived here. Actually, Marty's Valley Inn still exists, as a hotel. Just the restaurant has changed. According to Mom, Marty himself still exists, too, and it is his son who run the place. She hasn't been here in years, but she is the one who suggests it.

After dinner, we go back to Mom's for more cards. Well, the women get to play cards - Lou bought all kinds of equipment to amplify Mom's TV signal and to attach the VCR, and we try every configuration we can think of to get an acceptable picture from her television. After a couple hours, we give up. It's hopeless. The VCR needs a thorough cleaning to work well at all, and without cable there is just no way she can hook it in without losing what little reception she has.

Besides, Mom doesn't care if the VCR works; she has no intention of ever using it anyway.

We say our good-byes tonight, both to Mom and to Mary, Lou, and Lizzy. We'll be getting up very early tomorrow so we can get the rental car dropped off and be at the airport by 6:30.

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Story and original photography copyright ©1996-1997 by John Lipman. All rights reserved.
Descriptions, observations, and characterizations expressed are solely those of the author.
Background music is copyright ©1996 by Jeff R. Bosset with additional sequencing by John Lipman.
All rights reserved.

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