Water S Edge

The Heceta Head Lighthouse near Yachats, Ore., stands on a seaside slope as spectacular as anything in Big Sur, and there's a bed-and-breakfast in the lightkeeper's home next-door. Be nice, and the innkeepers will let you stand beneath the lighthouse tower after dark. From here you can follow the beam as it scans the western horizon, cutting through the misty air for miles. Coming ashore, the beam crawls across the cliff face on the other side of the inlet, then flashes through the nearby evergreens like a spotlight on the heels of a fleeing thief.

The Heceta Head Lighthouse near Yachats, Ore., stands on a seaside slope as spectacular as anything in Big Sur, and there's a bed-and-breakfast in the lightkeeper's home next-door. Be nice, and the innkeepers will let you stand beneath the lighthouse tower after dark. From here you can follow the beam as it scans the western horizon, cutting through the misty air for miles. Coming ashore, the beam crawls across the cliff face on the other side of the inlet, then flashes through the nearby evergreens like a spotlight on the heels of a fleeing thief.

Early on the first day of 2009, a gold Toyota Corolla exited Interstate 5 in southern San Diego County and headed west, dodging puddles and "SUBJECT TO FLOODING" signs until it reached Border Field State Park, the coastal reserve where California's coastline begins. That was me, on the brink of something big. It was a cloudy, soggy Thursday morning.

Reading "Coasting at Water's Edge" by Christopher Reynolds [Feb. 1] was enough inspiration for me to drive up the coast for a couple of days. If you're headed to Ragged Point, featured in the article, you may want to take time to stroll the locals-built footpath along Moonstone Beach Drive in Cambria. On the other side of the street I stayed at the cozy Castle Inn by the Sea. Someday I plan to follow Reynolds' trail all the way up to the Battery Point Lighthouse in Crescent City. Problem is there are too many distractions along the way, so this may take a very long time.

In light of the approved 10 p.m. beach curfew in Newport Beach, I feel a bit saddened by the fact that residents like myself may no longer enjoy late evenings by the water's edge ("City to Close Beach at 10 Each Night," April 28). Fortunately, I sympathize with the City Council in their decision to close the beach at that time, for I already feel a prisoner in my home when graffiti taggers and other out-of-towners invade my neighborhood. MICHAEL ARENS Newport Beach

Reading "Coasting at Water's Edge" by Christopher Reynolds [Feb. 1] was enough inspiration for me to drive up the coast for a couple of days. If you're headed to Ragged Point, featured in the article, you may want to take time to stroll the locals-built footpath along Moonstone Beach Drive in Cambria. On the other side of the street I stayed at the cozy Castle Inn by the Sea. Someday I plan to follow Reynolds' trail all the way up to the Battery Point Lighthouse in Crescent City. Problem is there are too many distractions along the way, so this may take a very long time.

Regarding the article "Portrait of the Dartist" by Andrew Greeley (Traveling in Style, March 1): It is very clear to a Dubliner, like myself, that Greeley does not know Dublin. The DART is a great mode of transport and it is also a marvelous way for a visitor to see the Bay of Dublin in all its beauty. But I wouldn't like a prospective visitor to take Greeley's suggestions too literally. For instance, he suggests visiting the beach or strand at Clontarf by getting off the DART at Killester and walking down to the water's edge.

Fausto Matus bounced his timeworn red Chevy truck down the steep dirt tracks of the city neighborhood known as Lomas Taurinas, or Bull Hills, signaling his presence with a confident honk of the horn. The labored arrival of the battered, lunging vehicle, water cascading from the open spout hole on top of its tank, was a welcome sight for some. For others, it served as a cursed reminder of an unfortunate and seemingly intractable predicament. "It's about time," declared one woman, preoccupied, she later explained, about how she was to wash clothes and dishes for her family of 11. Matus parked his truck, opened a rear valve regulating the flow from its cylindrical tank and began to dispense water via an elephant trunk of a hose into 55-gallon drums positioned outside the woman's simple home.

At nightfall, deep within thick stands of white birch and pine, the one they call Eagle Woman burns sweet grass and waves feathers over a small band of Chippewa to purify them for the mission ahead. The braves take drags off a ceremonial pipe, offer apologies to the fish they are about to spear and dip their boats into the icy, gin-clear waters of Rainbow Lake. Guided by bright lamps, they glide silently toward gravel-bottomed shallow waters where the tasty walleyed pike go to spawn shortly after the spring thaw.

Kitsch and commentary both get their due in the recent work of Wick Alexander, now on view at the Dietrich Jenny Gallery (660 9th Ave.). From black velvet parodies to brightly hued tragedies, Alexander's paintings charm, tease and lament. Humor collides with mortality on more than one occasion and violence--to the body, spirit and earth--thrives in beautiful locales. Alexander, a local artist and graduate of the UC San Diego Master of Fine Arts program, paints with a light touch; his clear, accessible forms evoking aspects of illustration, cartoons and folk art. Whether taking a pointed view of the U.S. border with Mexico, a satiric stab at condos on the fairway or a voyeuristic peek into a gringo's tropical island fantasy, Alexander approaches his subjects with a naive charm.

Early on the first day of 2009, a gold Toyota Corolla exited Interstate 5 in southern San Diego County and headed west, dodging puddles and "SUBJECT TO FLOODING" signs until it reached Border Field State Park, the coastal reserve where California's coastline begins. That was me, on the brink of something big. It was a cloudy, soggy Thursday morning.

For someone whose No. 1 fear is drowning, I'll admit: Silverwood Lake wasn't the most logical choice for a day trip. Nor was renting a 135-horsepower water rocket. But I believe the best way to confront a fear is to head right into it. I'm also a motorcyclist. So I combined my fear of water with a general enthusiasm for power sports and motored through my anxiety aboard a blazing yellow Sea-Doo. The 1.5 million Americans who ride these "personal watercraft," better known as Jet Skis, Sea-Doos and WaveRunners, probably don't share my fear.

Good news for my shoes: During an hourlong helicopter ride over the Los Angeles River the other day, not a single city engineer got airsick. Nor did I. The chopper trip was provided by the city of Los Angeles for staff and consultants hired as part of an effort to restore the imprisoned L.A. River. The idea is to keep the river's flood control function intact while, in the language of the bureaucracy, finding "areas of opportunity" to build parks along it, provide more wildlife habitat, improve public access and possibly lure cafes to the water's edge.

In light of the approved 10 p.m. beach curfew in Newport Beach, I feel a bit saddened by the fact that residents like myself may no longer enjoy late evenings by the water's edge ("City to Close Beach at 10 Each Night," April 28). Fortunately, I sympathize with the City Council in their decision to close the beach at that time, for I already feel a prisoner in my home when graffiti taggers and other out-of-towners invade my neighborhood. MICHAEL ARENS Newport Beach

Regarding the article "Portrait of the Dartist" by Andrew Greeley (Traveling in Style, March 1): It is very clear to a Dubliner, like myself, that Greeley does not know Dublin. The DART is a great mode of transport and it is also a marvelous way for a visitor to see the Bay of Dublin in all its beauty. But I wouldn't like a prospective visitor to take Greeley's suggestions too literally. For instance, he suggests visiting the beach or strand at Clontarf by getting off the DART at Killester and walking down to the water's edge.

There's one thing we can do, other than just wring our hands over the China holocaust, still in process. We can protect the students here. Now they are being photographed, spied upon, tracked down and threatened by undercover operatives of the ruling murderous junta. Retaliation is threatened when these students return to China, and/or immediately against their families now in China. But the Chinese students and the Chinese-American community know these infiltrators, and they can be apprehended and deported.

There's one thing we can do, other than just wring our hands over the China holocaust, still in process. We can protect the students here. Now they are being photographed, spied upon, tracked down and threatened by undercover operatives of the ruling murderous junta. Retaliation is threatened when these students return to China, and/or immediately against their families now in China. But the Chinese students and the Chinese-American community know these infiltrators, and they can be apprehended and deported.

Good news for my shoes: During an hourlong helicopter ride over the Los Angeles River the other day, not a single city engineer got airsick. Nor did I. The chopper trip was provided by the city of Los Angeles for staff and consultants hired as part of an effort to restore the imprisoned L.A. River. The idea is to keep the river's flood control function intact while, in the language of the bureaucracy, finding "areas of opportunity" to build parks along it, provide more wildlife habitat, improve public access and possibly lure cafes to the water's edge.

Fausto Matus bounced his timeworn red Chevy truck down the steep dirt tracks of the city neighborhood known as Lomas Taurinas, or Bull Hills, signaling his presence with a confident honk of the horn. The labored arrival of the battered, lunging vehicle, water cascading from the open spout hole on top of its tank, was a welcome sight for some. For others, it served as a cursed reminder of an unfortunate and seemingly intractable predicament. "It's about time," declared one woman, preoccupied, she later explained, about how she was to wash clothes and dishes for her family of 11. Matus parked his truck, opened a rear valve regulating the flow from its cylindrical tank and began to dispense water via an elephant trunk of a hose into 55-gallon drums positioned outside the woman's simple home.

Kitsch and commentary both get their due in the recent work of Wick Alexander, now on view at the Dietrich Jenny Gallery (660 9th Ave.). From black velvet parodies to brightly hued tragedies, Alexander's paintings charm, tease and lament. Humor collides with mortality on more than one occasion and violence--to the body, spirit and earth--thrives in beautiful locales. Alexander, a local artist and graduate of the UC San Diego Master of Fine Arts program, paints with a light touch; his clear, accessible forms evoking aspects of illustration, cartoons and folk art. Whether taking a pointed view of the U.S. border with Mexico, a satiric stab at condos on the fairway or a voyeuristic peek into a gringo's tropical island fantasy, Alexander approaches his subjects with a naive charm.