It had been pouring rain all morning at Windansea Beach on the San Diego coastline. Cynthia Perez stood under a thatched hut of desiccating King Palm fronds that stood just twenty yards from the water near a group of smooth, caramel-colored rock formations. Perfect A-frame waves broke there all day long, converging into one sharp point. These were thick, heavy waves that the local surfers appreciated. But on this day, the only one on the water was a passing sea lion following a school of anchovies.
Cynthia turned and glanced up the hill at the blue Honda Civic hatchback stuffed to the brim with the belongings that represented the sum of her material life. She laughed quietly at the thought. From the time she was a little girl, she had been taught to think and act like a servant. “What a waste,” she said. “That sea lion has it better.”
It wasn’t enough anymore to be governed by household chores, her dead-end Walmart job, and the need to referee her family’s fights. She couldn’t keep anyone but herself out of trouble, and she hated it. When her daughter Jackie, the smartest person in the family, became a meth addict, something in Cynthia broke. She decided her only hope was to find people who cared about themselves and avoided self-destructive behavior, then surround herself with those people. Staying with her family would never solve the problem.
She crossed her arms and gazed at the horizon. In a city she had come to know like the back of her hand, Windansea was the only place left that still felt like home. It was where she had always gone to hide from the rest of the world and dream of a better life. Her anonymous visits to the beach gave her time to think about how a calm, sane environment didn’t have to be a distant abstraction. She had never deserved the bullying and violence that had, at times, inspired suicidal thoughts.
She shoved her hands in the pockets of her gray hoodie and tried to remember the last time she had felt vital. She was 36 years old and carrying a little bit more weight than she cared to admit. But she was still pretty, with shoulder-length black hair, dark brown eyes, and a warm, weary smile. She wanted to depend on herself and take responsibility for her own, not others’, mistakes and accomplishments. Someone was bound to respect her for being the person she was about to become.
Her friend Clara had a guest bedroom waiting for her in L.A. Cynthia wouldn’t contact her husband and the kids until she was settled in up north. She figured she loved her family as much as anyone. She would miss them. But declarations of loyalty and respect didn’t mean anything without reciprocal action. Empty words were like empty calories. They certainly didn’t nourish her, and they didn’t help heal any wounds. She cast one last glance at the turbulent sea, said “Peace out,” and strolled up the hill, thinking about how beautiful the glittering highway would look in the mist.
