Coronado Beach: my safety net

I go to Coronado Beach whenever I want the familiarity of a beach that I can fall asleep on. Before the Bitchin' Beaches Bucket List, I would hop in Dani-- my car; named after Danny DeVito-- at four in the morning, and head to San Diego. Nothing made me happier.

Nothing still makes me happier. These pictures are kind of old, from my last trip to Coronado, not-so-shortly after I shaved my entire head; peep the barely-there hair. The shaved head is partially what kickstarted all of these beach trips. The serotonin is absolutely unmatched, and I can't believe I waited until I'd had my car for six months before I started doing road trips. (Okay. It's because she wasn't insured or registered. I had to wait six months to even drive her!)

I don't know if anyone else feels this way, but road trips are sacred. I can't take just anyone on a road trip, let alone a beach road trip. I leave at four in the morning. I chug Starbucks espresso in those tripleshot cans, hold my pee until I absolutely cannot, speed-pee at gas stations when I have to, and see how much time I can shave off the 4 1/2 hours I'll be driving. The music is at my mercy, and sometimes I think, overthink, watch the sunrise, and realize I should be vibing instead. This stop-go method of pondering is often what keeps my anxiety at bay when considering big decisions, and helps me figure out a solution. Or at the very least, it stops time, and I don't have to think about it.

And then I am at the beach. If there's enough time, I pit stop after parking: a bookstore and a coffee shop. Two books that hold enough intrigue, more espresso, and back to the sand. The heat will bake me, and right when I'm about to sunburn, I jump into the water. I know the water only intensifies the sun's rays, but I am sun-drunk, drowsy, and take a nap right after my first swim.

This ends up with the worst tan line ever-- my bikini is criss-cross straps. Normally I'm too self conscious, but the Pacific Ocean takes up all the space she wants to without fear. So should I. I wake up rested for the first time in months, certain I had to have slept at least four hours. It's been thirty minutes. Time for my second swim.

The pattern goes on and on in a cycle. I don't leave. The Pacific Ocean is my Magic 8 ball, and every important question I have is turned into a yes or no. If it's a yes, my feet will stay sturdy and planted, no matter how strong the wave. If it's a no, I will fall, head under, nose burning. If it's a rocky maybe, I will stumble, I will trip. But she will always, always be there.

The trick to the ocean is giving yourself over. She can kill you at any given time. She could. She won't.

I watch the sunset, even though I hate driving back at night. My car's headlights fucking suck. I just cleaned them, had those fog light things added, and they're barely brighter. Does anyone know how to fix that?

This got deeply philosophical for a beginner calling herself a Beach Slum. Fuck it. Coronado is safe, and friendly, and I have never been bothered if I don't want to be. 10/10.