On Local Beaches, Prayers and Pathos

Hundreds on Tuesday looked out to sea, watching the brilliant blue immensity and expecting nothing.

They weren’t disappointed.

On this perfect beach day, no survivors would straggle ashore. No black boxes would wash up. And there would be no joyous announcements that Flight 261 had actually landed safe and sound in San Francisco, after all.

For the hundreds stopped along the coastal roads and leaning on the railings at the piers, there would be no high drama and no surprise endings. Just hushed conversation and an endless, awed, wondering, uncomprehending, sickened looking out to sea.

For miles along the Ventura County coast, that was the story. Disaster drew us out and humbled us. Nobody could peek out at the ocean and just think of the surf, or the islands, or dolphins, or how lousy it was to work on such a beautiful day. Everyone was thinking about the same thing, though some expressed it in different ways.

At Hueneme Beach, a man in a blue jumpsuit planted a yellow bouquet in the sand, said a few words for the omnipresent TV cameras, turned toward the ocean and held his hands high over his head, a tribute to the 88 lost souls of Flight 261.

Anthony Ramos watched from his post at the railing of the Hueneme Pier.

“Oh, man. This guy--it’s like he’s parting the waters or something,” he said. “Real prayer comes from the heart, and it takes a few more seconds than that. If the cameras want people praying, they should just focus up here.”

Ramos had plenty of reason to pray. On this perfect beach day, he and his wife didn’t know where they and their four children would spend the night. Thirty days ago, their landlord gave them 30 days to leave, saying he couldn’t do the repairs required by government inspectors.

“But something will happen,” Ramos said. “We’ll get some help. Right now I’m just praying for those poor people on the plane . . .”

Contemplative strangers roamed the beaches, kicking up a bit of wet orange Styrofoam here, a tangled wire there, wondering: Could this be from the plane? Is there anything left at all?

At a makeshift shrine on Silver Strand, Nellie Hartz looked out to sea.

“My God, it’s so sad,” she said. “We go fishing out around that spot all the time. We were even talking about going yesterday, but it was too choppy . . .”

At an outlook beside the mouth of Channel Islands Harbor, a retiree named Eleanor Vaca looked out to sea with her husband, Max. Helicopters circled overhead and fishing boats chugged out of the harbor, bound for the search area.

“I feel for the relatives,” said Eleanor, bundled up after a recent bout with the flu. “I hope they find all the passengers and get them home right away.”

Reporters and camera crews from across the country swooped around the mourning, or those who looked as if they might be mourning. And they duly chronicled the expressions of grief: It’s sad . . . My heart goes out to the loved ones . . . They should know we’re thinking of them . . .

That might all sound straight out of Hallmark, but who can ever come up with a pithy response to death, whether of a best friend or of 88 suntanned vacationers? The point is not to be eloquent, but simply to be there.

Scott Ripple put it well.

He had bicycled from Ventura, and was looking out to sea with binoculars near Channel Islands Harbor.

“It’s to bear witness,” he said.

Amen.

*

Steve Chawkins can be reached at 653-7561 or by e-mail at [email protected].