San Diego in a blur

Thousands of marbled white stones lined the bluffs. More than 100,000 people are buried at Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery, which covers the cliffs on both sides of the road. At land's end I ran into Cabrillo National Monument. This was my reward, my one demand from 24 hours in San Diego.

I had climbed the highway from the Imperial Valley, passing several dozen water vats intended for summer travelers with overheating radiators. “We don’t need to worry about that in January,” I mused after facing a near-rear-end collision with two trucks trying to pass each other at 15 mph climbing the incline. As the road reached its mountainous heights, I passed a fire engine and two police cars surrounding a fire-scorched passenger van. Even in winter, the climb out of the Imperial Valley could be treacherous.

Laguna Mountains

 Free from the climbing, I broke from traffic and stopped for a bit. I needed a closer look at the mountains. These mountain heights could feel more different than San Diego, which was closer than it felt. From 40 miles away, the Pacific and a jumble of skyscrapers appear from the mountains. That was the reward of crossing the coastal ranges on the path to San Diego.

Having breezed out of San Diego four days earlier, I jumped at finishing the trip there. No point in the city attracted me more strongly after Point Loma. I knew nothing of Cabrillo National Monument before picking the Park Service site as my primary stop in San Diego.

For the first European to see the California Coast, we know surprisingly little about Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo, the Portuguese captain of a Spanish expedition that headed up the coast from Mexico. He died not long after his ship landed in San Diego harbor. Like most explorers of the 1500s, he was not big on the rights of the indigenous.

From the Point Loma, San Diego gleamed in the noontime sun – the skyline, the naval base, the harbor, the shipyards. This spit of land protected San Diego’s harbor and rewarded its visitors with exquisite views. From the visitor center, I stood 400 feet above the harbor.

 Atop the highest point sat the Old Point Loma Lighthouse, built in the 1850s and later replaced by a lighthouse closer to sea level whose light could better penetrate the sometimes dense fog blanketing the harbor. The Old Point Loma Lighthouse had a charm, its rustic charm different than the brick and mortar lighthouses on other American coasts. This one felt like a home and a workplace, not just the latter. Lighthouse keeper was a full-time profession in another century, before automation took over. The exhibits illustrated how the lighthouse operated in its 19th century heyday.

Point Loma Lighthouse

As with Yuma, Calexico and every other U.S. city this close to the border, Mexico figures prominently into Cabrillo’s beauty. The Coronado Islands, four uninhabited peaks jutting from the Pacific and are protected Mexican wildlife refuges, sat in dark contrast to the blue waters surrounding them. On this clear day, details from the steep cliffs were almost visible.

Despite bringing binoculars 2,000-plus miles, I spent long minutes scanning the waves and the horizon for water spouts, but there would be no whale watching this afternoon. While the whales took the day off, other wildlife intervened. There were no shortages of lizard at the national monument. They skittered across pavement, darted inquisitively from shrub to shrub.

 As I glanced down the lighthouse driveway, a moving gray island in the harbor snapped me to attention. I immediately recognized it as an aircraft carrier. The massive ship followed the circuitous route to the Pacific, escort ships guiding it through deeper channels.

CVN-71 heading out to sea

The visitor center issued an announcement and people flocked to the Cabrillo statute to watch CVN-71 (U.S.S. Theodore Roosevelt) round the harbor and head out to sea. Aircraft carriers could spend years at sea; watching the progress of the giant ship from its departure to its entry of the open Pacific beyond San Diego was impressive. After it left the harbor, the ship was visible among the commercial tankers and carriers plying the coastal waters.

 Until I checked out at the visitors center with stickers and postcards, I thought nothing of wearing my Big Bend National Park t-shirt. But park clerk was jazzed to see that, immediately challenging whether I had actually visited. Of course I had, I charged back. Anyone could order a shirt from the online store but Big Bend required effort to get out there. “You can see the curve of the Earth from there!” he exclaimed. We talked for a few minutes about what a wonderful, lightly visited national park West Texas has. Then I wandered to the patio to write those postcards.

Point Loma cliffs

 Below the old lighthouse, the national monument boasted other attractions. On the Pacific side, a series of tidal pools appeared at low tide. Of course I arrived at high tide but still found uncommon sights. As I walked up to the tidal pools, an osprey fought the ocean breeze. Maybe 25 feet from the cliffs and 50 feet above the water, the bird of prey maneuvered in the relentless winds, no flap of its wings moving further ahead. I never fathomed the osprey might not want to move ahead. As it hovered and held its position, the bird suddenly streaked down into the surf, diving at incredible speed before flying off, a meal likely in its beak.

The raptor gone with its prey,  I walked along the cliffs, waters churning and crashing into the rocks. Despite people scurrying around the rocks for pictures, I found a peace place to hear the waves crash a few dozen yards ahead. There was no fear, just beautiful waters and soaring stone walls. Walking back along the road, I concentrated on the Coronado Islands and the large ships lurking in the cerulean waters as waves rushed onto the cliffs.

Until I drove to the airport, I would not leave the Point Loma and the harbor. Huge and fascinating as San Diego was, the mountain driving left me less enthusiastic about driving around the city, even to must-see places like Balboa Park.

Looking toward the Coronado Islands

Choosing a hotel by name rarely worked in my favor. But the Vagabond Inn received high marks. A very California-shaped motor court – two stories, plus a large pool – this hotel sat a few dozen feet from the harbor. Nowhere as swarthy as the name suggests, the Vagabond was a comfortable, quiet motor court. From my second-floor perch, I looked at the deep, inviting pool already in the afternoon shadows and entered the room. Only the final morning would I realize the pool was heated and I could have taken a dunk at any time. Throwing open the windows, I immediately knew the site of my next meal.

Feet from the hotel

After an hour of relaxation, I stepped down to Point Loma Seafoods, a retailer of fresh fish and a full-service restaurant. If you wanted to buy a bucket of fish heads, they could accommodate you. They also had choice cuts of fish from Mexico to Alaska and even the Atlantic Coast. I went with a Mexican sea bass platter. Pigeons cooed me as I ate at a concrete table near the water. Seagulls watched from the marina railing. The pace around Point Loma Seafoods never slackened.

After days in the car, I just wanted to walk, heading east toward Liberty Station and Stone Brewing’s San Diego brewpub. Several dozen buildings from a former Naval training center have been converted in artist spaces, shops and restaurants. There was even a comic book store. For someone in need of wandering, Liberty Station provided the perfect landscape.

Liberty Station buildings

At Stone, I headed directly for the patio, which had an artificial waterfall and creeks where koi swam placidly. Stone sells all its core beers but freelances at Liberty Station, using a 10-barrel brewing system for small-batch beers, most of which never leave the brewery. They had almost a dozen rare and experimental beers, forcing me to pick carefully. I had an IPA with experimental hops and a black gose, an interesting variation on a light-bodied German wheat.

As the sun set, the harbor crowd cleared out. All day people poured into Point Loma Seafoods. When it closed, the crowds vanished, although in its final hour, one man kept staff pinned at the register. I had no idea what he was saying but no one would hold a fish counter staff hostage to praise the restaurant.

In small strip center I visited the Wine Pub, a tapas place with a large patio and placid interior. After a day outdoors, I wanted to sip and nosh quietly. Between glasses of the Wine of the Month (a fine Portuguese red) and Bell Wine Cellars Syrah, I scarfed down a plate of pesto Portobello sliders and a salad of shredded cruciferous vegetables. Across from the Vagabond sat Club Marina, an unpretentious bar worthy of a visit for those tired of craft cocktails. I nursed a few gin & tonics. A man at the bar complimented my hair until he called it a mullet, which is most certainly not.

Feeling tired after walking close to five miles in the city, I stepped out, leaving a half-full beer on the bar, and crossed the street to my slumber on the Pacific Coast. The Vagabond had grown quiet, and I crawled under the sheets and found quick oblivion. Quick sleep means little - I never sleep well on the last night of vacation. A flight looms, a shedding of the freedom that a few free days carries …. It doesn’t make one eager to crawl from bed, but the feeling blocks all paths to comforting rest.

I only shared my morning walk with the seagulls. They were everywhere, even if the seafood joints had not opened. The sun rose spectacularly from the winds of my Vagabond Inn room. By noon, San Diego would slip behind me.

San Diego’s Southwest terminal is not for the claustrophobic. Ten gates crowd into a tiny circular concourse that also wedges in several restaurants.

If you’re lucky, there’s standing room. I stood as still as I could when  Huey Lewis walked by. It’s a tight concourse – I saw him repeatedly, enough to peg his as the voice behind Hip to be Square (Jared Leto was once killed to this song in a movie, a highly redeeming connection). He walked by three times but on the fourth pass, cell phone in his hand, I heard the voice and confirmed his identity beyond all doubt. I expect saying, “Fella, I’m afraid you’re just too darn loud” might have earned me a punch on the jaw.

 I also thought I spied character actor Bruce Greenwood one of the concourse’s café, but here the phone served the reverse function. Instead of Greenwood’s world-weary baritone, the man in question spoke in a high, reedy voice. One celebrity spotting per trip seems bounty enough.