Surfers paddling out into the surf at Half Moon Bay, California.
As I was driving around running errands on Friday I heard on the radio there was a big wave warning for the California Coast this weekend. They were telling visitors to the beach to be careful and not to linger too long on the edges of coastal cliffs.
Hooeee. I thought I might drive over and see some big curls!
Sunset on the mighty Pacific, the western edge of America. You can see the last of the sun's rays reflected in a couple of the windows, lower right.
The same view at dawn, next morning. You can see why they dubbed the small bay "Half Moon."
It was really hot this morning when I made the decision to head for cooler weather. The oddest thing I've discovered about California is the lack of air conditioning. "You'll never need it," people say. "The heat here is dry heat."
Dry heat can make you just as wet as wet heat and in the wet-heat-climates, people have sensibly turned to air conditioning (Florida comes to mind). It's not a new thing. It's available everywhere. Except in the San Francisco Bay Area, apparently. They think it isn't green-appropriate. But actually, the most environmentally sound thing to do (in my opinion) is to air condition every house on the planet and keep those machines going full blast twenty-four/seven. That way we'll use up all that nasty petroleum and then be forced to discover greener alternatives.
This is the long way 'round of telling you I headed for the coast this morning. If they won't move the air conditioning to me, I'll just have to move to the air conditioning. It is only 23 miles to the Pacific Ocean from my digs, over a small mountain and into the lovely cool. Everyone else had the same idea, so the road was jammed. But it wasn't Philadelphia jammed. It was just slightly slower than usual. Fortunately, my car has an air-conditioner.
Leaving the Santa Clara Valley it was 100F at 1:00 p.m. and as I--along with the rest of the world--coasted down toward the Pacific, the thermometer dropped to 77F. Aaaah.
I left home with only my toothbrush and without hotel reservations. But it was Sunday and I bet on finding a vacancy.
Miramar Beach with the tide coming in. It is just south of San Francisco.
Within the city limits of Half Moon Bay, but still well outside of town, I dropped out of the traffic on Highway 1, and found a little beach village called Miramar. It was charming and just far enough off the road to be nice and quiet, except for the pounding of the surf. Looking around Miramar, I found an inn right on the beach. The Landis Shores has just eight rooms. Breakfast--made to order at the time of your choice--and afternoon hors d'oeuvres are included in the fare, and, if you come Sunday through Thursday you can make a bargain with the owner and his wife on price. Ellen and Ken Landis are sommelier (she) and chef (he) and they built the inn from the ground up.
The Landis Shores on Miramar Beach, owned by Ellen and Ken Landis.
My room wasn't quite ready, so I had the chance to take a stroll along the stretch of the California Coastal Trail that runs adjacent to the hotel. I'm not big on hiking. I prefer to get my exercise on a treadmill at the gym and do my walking among the counters at Saks. So it takes a really nice trail to capture my attention. This certainly did that.
The California Coastal Trail was busy today, but the people I saw must have been lost in the mist when I took this photo.
It is perched along the cliffs just over the ocean, and this stretch, which runs about eight miles, is surrounded by acres of native coastal foliage. It is paved for strollers, rollerblades, bicycles and people like me who like to walk on flat surfaces. The wildlife was buzzing as I walked along and the sky was full of mist, swirling around from the sea. I could feel the sting of salt on my lips as I dallied, taking pictures of the surf below, the beach houses adjacent, and the trail itself.
A beach cottage along the Coastal Trail.
I've complained about California's distaste for air conditioning, so now let me tell you something California has done a much better job of than has my "other" home state of Florida: preserving its shoreline. In 1972, California voters approved the funds and the plan for this Coastal Trail and the state has been putting the pieces of it together since then. No high-rise condos mar the view along this stunning coast, and everyone can thus enjoy its beauty.
A gorgeous beach house along the trail. I'm sure the upkeep is a real pain in the neck.
The wealthy have low-impact homes along the path, and the working stiffs have easy access to the beaches. In Florida the view would be blocked by enormous high-rise buildings full of concrete condos and if one questioned the efficacy of this, one would hear the dreaded words "private property rights" as a code for unbridled development.
Many of the fences along the trail are of old, recycled redwood lumber, which holds up well in the salty air of the coast.
As if people all over the this great land had not limited those rights repeatedly, for the benefit of the whole, with planning and zoning rules of all kinds. For more than thirty years my home state of California has been getting it right. Florida is beautiful too, but I could never understand why it was so far behind California in this. Air conditioning, Florida has heard of. Coastal preservation? Not so much.
Looking from the Coastal Trail, back toward Highway 1. No big high-rise buildings mar the view.
The view from the cliffs above Moss Beach, near Seal Cove and the Fitzgerald Marine Reserve.
A year or so ago, I saw a painting by artist Diana Jaye in a Los Altos, California gallery called "Back Door, Moss Beach." It was so lovely, and the name Moss Beach sounded so sweet as it rolled off the tongue, I kept it in my mind. When I moved back to California and checked the gallery, the painting was gone: but I figured I could still find the place. Needing a little serenity, I hit the road in search of same.
I took the I-280 north and zoomed over to California Highway 92, still one of the prettiest roads over the Coast Range I know of. The Portola Expedition of the 18th century had to hike the pass on foot, holding their horses most of the way, and wrote of a nearby Indian trail: "...on a very bad road up over a high mountain...though easily climbed on the way up, had a very hard abrupt descent on the opposite side." And that's one of the nicest things about it. But then, I had the help of my Swedish car.
As you glide down the western side of the pass, you see the most beautiful sight: in the far distance, the mighty Pacific, the color of teal, and, in the valley below, the farms with their fields of flowers.
Repetto's farm on Highway 92, just outside of Half Moon Bay, California.
The maps told me Moss Beach was just a few miles north of Half Moon Bay, off California Highway 1 (the Cabrillo Highway) about 24 miles south of San Francisco. I cruised along until I saw a sign that read "Moss Beach Distillery," with an arrow pointing to the left. So, I turned left onto Cypress Avenue. I passed a big stand of cypress on the right and the road twisted left again as it wound along between the Pacific cliffs, on the one side, and the cozy cottages on the other. Probably cost a lotta millions, those cottages.
Just a little further on, the road becomes Ocean Boulevard, and in a clearing ahead I saw a large building perched above a cliff. It was the Moss Beach Distillery, which isn't a distillery at all. It is a California Point of Historical Interest and a restaurant. In the days of Prohibition, the cove below--often shrouded in mist--was a great place for the rum runners to drop off their goods for the bootleggers. Seizing the intersection of product, location, and demand, entrepreneur Frank Torres turned the shack above the cove into a speakeasy called "Frank's Place." It was, in the lingo of the Dashiell Hammett era, a "roadhouse" and Hammett, being the San Francisco denizen he was and a man with a mighty thirst, became a frequent customer of Frank's. When I arrived, it was about half way between lunch and dinner, so I did not stop to eat. But I did walk through the place and found that every single table has a stupendous view of the ocean. That's a wow.
At right above: the Moss Beach Distillery on its perch above the Pacific.
Outside, there is a patio, where fireplaces burn year 'round and where wool blankets are provided for snuggling--and are needed--most of the year. I saw just a few snugglers out on this cold, foggy, windy day and I was happy to walk back inside to the restaurant. The wind had just about blown my beach hat off.
I could see from the menu and the plates of the diners there at this in-between hour that the Moss Beach Distillery isn't one of those haute cuisine California places where tiny little portions of food are served in nouvelle style decorated with little dribbles of sauce. The place has the down-at-the-heels look of an old speakeasy, with a large, well-worn bar. Its big plates feature fresh fish and piles of "speakeasy" fries and its meals have been voted "Best on the Northern California Coast".
When my Dad was well, he would have loved this place, sitting and watching the ocean crash outside the window. And if I bring my sister here, she will spend all her time looking through her field glasses at the birds and the sea creatures below. But what really struck me was what a great place the Distillery is for a romantic dinner. One of those meals, well-oiled with adult beverages. Note to self: leave old folks for a time and follow this prescription.
Speaking of romantic: heading back on Cypress Avenue I saw the iron gates of a small hotel and decided to stop to investigate. Down a sandy road I found the Seal Cove Inn, a boutique hotel that looks like a French chateau.
The Seal Cove Inn at Half Moon Bay is actually at Moss Beach. It is so pretty that it really doesn't make any difference.
There are just ten rooms at the Seal Cove Inn, some with fireplaces, some with balconies, some opening out on the Provence-like garden. Its a ten-minute walk to the beach, a twenty-minute stroll to the tide pools of the Fitzgerald Marine Reserve. Breakfast is the only full meal served here, but there is an afternoon happy hour, where guests can gather downstairs around the chateau's fireplaces and have tea and California wines. The Inn is expensive--at least for my pocketbook at present--but it is absolutely gorgeous. And there is that nice, seedy Distillery right down the road.
I stopped on the way back to buy a small topiary for my front door. The prices for flowers and plants along Highway 92, between Half Moon Bay and I-280, are considerably less than they are in the Santa Clara Valley. And the weather changed as I headed back over the range. Foggy and windy at the coast: warm and sunny back in the valley. Old Gaspar de Portola spent eighteen years exploring the hills of this part of California. In 1784 he returned to Spain. Whatever was he thinking? If only he'd invested in real estate.
You can see how the bay got its name in this photo taken from the ridge. Photo by Michael Wong from the Half Moon Bay Chamber of Commerce.
It is only six miles over the Santa Cruz Mountains from San Mateo, California to Half Moon Bay. From ritzy, suburban Silicon Valley, Highway 92 takes you through the redwoods and softly you move into rural California. It is the California of flower growers and cattle ranches, of hills and valleys and old-fashioned houses and barns. As you roll down the steep grade of the mountains, you find yourself in the little town of Half Moon Bay, the oldest town in San Mateo County. You are only about thirty minutes from the land of Whole Foods Markets and Google, but you are a world away. It makes a great day trip for anyone visiting the San Francisco Bay area.
Because of its relative isolation--tucked between the rocky Pacific Coast, 23 miles south of San Francisco on California Highway 1, and adjacent to the rugged Coast Range--Half Moon Bay has not been turned into a town of condos and beach clubs. It remains an old-fashioned beach town, surrounded by sea and agriculture.
One of the sights on Half Moon Bay's main business street. It is just one of many historic buildings in the city.
In the interest of full disclosure, I have to confess I have been coming to Half Moon Bay all my life. On summer Saturdays, when my father had finished his chores, we packed a picnic and took our huge Chevrolet over the mountains to the beach. On a hot summer day in the Santa Clara Valley, the idea of a dip in the ocean was refreshing. But Half Moon Bay has a water temperature that averages 52F degrees: freezing is a better word for a Pacific Ocean dip than refreshing! Still, we would build a fire, cavort in the surf, and eat our picnic supper as the sun went down over the Pacific. The park was free, the view was free and everything about a day like that one was a blessing for a child.
Pacific Ocean temperatures are such that a wise child visiting Half Moon Bay always brings a sweater to wear over her bathing suit. That's me, wondering how to incorporate sea kelp into my costume.
Returning to California this year and exploring Half Moon Bay has been a revelation. It takes no time at all to get there. Its just seventeen miles on Interstate 280 from my house in Los Altos to the Highway 92 turnoff. And it is just six miles over the mountains to the beach. And the beach isn't crowded! For most of my life, I thought this little beach town was far, far, away, and learning its proximity, and seeing how little Half Moon Bay has changed has been a delight. My sister and I loved it when we were kids and I'm going to take her back there when she comes to visit me.
Bathing beauties posing early enough in the day to not be wearing their sweaters. Me at left and my long-legged sister at right.
The coast highway, called the Cabrillo Highway or Highway 1, and Highway 92 over the mountains both follow original Indian trails that were discovered by the Spanish when they arrived in California. The Spanish explorer Gaspar de Portola arrived on the coast of Northern California in 1776 and founded Mission Dolores in what would become San Francisco. The coast south of the the mission was used to graze cattle and to raise food for the padres.
First the Spanish and then the Mexican government deeded land in northern California to loyal citizens as land grants, thus the land surrounding the little bay was first owned by the wealthy dons. Their laborers from Spain, Mexico and Chile settled in the town above the bay and it was dubbed Spanishtown. But after California became a state in 1850, people from all over the world discovered the California coast. Fishermen, farmers, fruit growers, horticulturalists shopkeepers all came to the regions and in 1874 this influx of newcomers changed the name of the town to Half Moon Bay. I've always thought it was an extraordinarily beautiful name.
A Half Moon Bay cottage, just a few blocks from the beach.
The average price of a house in Half Moon Bay is $700,000, which is an awful lot of money but is about half the average price of a home in Palo Alto, California or Los Altos. And most of the beach homes are modest. There are no high rises as you find on the Florida coast. Whatever legislation it took to accomplish this: somebody did something very right.
Another Half Moon Bay cottage, simple and small.
Agriculture remains the primary driver of the local economy. "Floriculture" or flower growing accounts for most of it, with vegetable crops, livestock, fruit and nuts coming along behind for a total annual gross value of $172 million.
One of the nicest ways to end a day trip to Half Moon Bay is to stop at one of the many farms on Highway 92 as you head back to the Bay Area and buy a bunch of locally grown flowers or plants. On my recent trip I found orchids for $10. Or you could buy a dozen, fresh cut roses for $5. There are artichokes for sale now, and soon there will be fresh strawberries.
This little day trip is a long way in spirit from Fisherman's Wharf and the Alcatraz tour and Ghirardelli Square, but it just a short trip by car and well worth the visit. For me, it will always be a town of happy memories, of the days when my father was young and happy. And though he is ill now and old, Half Moon Bay has remained the same. I like going there now to remember and to make new memories for the years ahead.
That's my handsome father with my sister and me. I've learned so late that his good looks are the least important thing about him.
(All of the above photos are from our family album or were taken by me in Half Moon Bay, except the first photo in this article which comes courtesy of the Half Moon Bay Chamber of Commerce.)
Sunset on the mighty Pacific, the western edge of America. You can see the last of the sun's rays reflected in a couple of the windows, lower right.
The same view at dawn, next morning. You can see why they dubbed the small bay "Half Moon."
Miramar Beach with the tide coming in. It is just south of San Francisco.
The Landis Shores on Miramar Beach, owned by Ellen and Ken Landis. 
The California Coastal Trail was busy today, but the people I saw must have been lost in the mist when I took this photo.
A beach cottage along the Coastal Trail.
A gorgeous beach house along the trail. I'm sure the upkeep is a real pain in the neck.
Looking from the Coastal Trail, back toward Highway 1. No big high-rise buildings mar the view. 
The California Coastal Trail, near Miramar Beach.
The view from the cliffs above Moss Beach, near Seal Cove and the Fitzgerald Marine Reserve.
When I arrived, it was about half way between lunch and dinner, so I did not stop to eat. But I did walk through the place and found that every single table has a stupendous view of the ocean. That's a wow.
The Seal Cove Inn at Half Moon Bay is actually at Moss Beach. It is so pretty that it really doesn't make any difference.
You can see how the bay got its name in this photo taken from the ridge. Photo by Michael Wong from the Half Moon Bay Chamber of Commerce.
One of the sights on Half Moon Bay's main business street. It is just one of many historic buildings in the city. 
Pacific Ocean temperatures are such that a wise child visiting Half Moon Bay always brings a sweater to wear over her bathing suit. That's me, wondering how to incorporate sea kelp into my costume.
Bathing beauties posing early enough in the day to not be wearing their sweaters. Me at left and my long-legged sister at right.
A Half Moon Bay cottage, just a few blocks from the beach.
Another Half Moon Bay cottage, simple and small.
That's my handsome father with my sister and me. I've learned so late that his good looks are the least important thing about him.
