Author's Note: Crestwood is a fictional town, but is based on Capitola and Santa Cruz, California. Special thanks to Fossil Invertebrates and Geology of the Marine Cliffs at Capitola, California, by Frank A. Perry, published by the Santa Cruz Museum Association, which informs the geological aspects mentioned in this chapter.
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Things live, and things die.
Then, if they're lucky, some things get fossilized.
As a geology major with paleontological aspirations, that's my take on it, anyway. Not that I want to get fossilized, or anything. Fossils fascinate me, though, with their secrets of the deep past locked in stone, which is why I'm on a crowded bus on a Saturday morning, on my way to the cliffs above New Dover Beach, instead of off to enjoy myself like the rest of the undergrads packed around me like sardines in a can.
With a hiss of pneumatic brakes, the bus rolls to a stop and the doors slide open. Releasing my grip on the stanchion, I push my way through the press of bodies and step into the bright light and fresh air of another beautiful day in Crestwood, California.
The small coastal town is adjacent to a larger metropolitan area, which houses the university. Like a younger sibling competing for attention with an older, more privileged one, Crestwood has an outsized personality and an attitude to match. Comprising only a few streets and the surrounding neighborhoods, it's like a microcosm of life on permanent vacation.
Pinwheels, windsocks, colorful banners, and flags decorate the front of most shops, while strings of lights illuminate the streets at night. Home to the area's more whimsical and artsy population, most of the stores are small, specialized, and designed to attract tourists with deep pockets. If you're looking for handmade organic cotton clothing, handmade jewelry, ceramics, art, incense, crystals, yoga accessories, and vegan fusion bowls, Crestwood is the place to be.
It has beaches, too, which is why I'm here.
Crestwood Beach is a long, gentle crescent of yellow sand, with rolling waves perfect for playing in and easy access from the street. New Dover Beach is a mile south of it. Narrow and rocky, and requiring a steep hike to reach, it's by far the less popular destination, which suits me perfectly. I don't go there for the sun and sand, anyway; I go for the cliffs.
All along the beach's upper side, high cliffs of black stone loom above the broken rocks below. In the faces of the cliffs, horizontal bands of white represent exposed beds of fossil invertebrates, left behind from a time when the sea level was much higher, during the Pliocene Epoch, 3 to 5 million years ago. I'm writing my thesis on the various mollusks and crustaceans, including mussels, snails, shrimps, and crabs, whose remains have been trapped in time, and which erosion now slowly reveals.
That probably sounds boring as taxes to most people, but there's nothing I'd rather do.
Unfortunately, this stop is the nearest the bus routes get to New Dover, leaving me with two miles to cover on foot, plus the hike down to shore, andâlike your stereotypical science nerd shouldâI have asthma and don't like to push myself too hard. Backpack slung over my shoulder, I set off along the sidewalk at a moderate pace, catching sight of myself in the shop windows as I pass.
Other than the asthma, you wouldn't know I'm a nerd. I look as much at home here as the rest of the beach bum crowd, with sandy blond curls, freckles, and a trim, if unimpressive, five-foot-nine frame. I've been called handsome, even, with dark brown eyes that contrast with my light skin and hair, and 'good cheekbones,' whatever that means. It's not unusual for girls to come onto me, but sadly I've no interest in girls.
As for anything else, I made myself a promise to steer clear the dating scene until after I graduate. The last thing I need is distractionâor worse, for my dad to find out I'm 'one of those,' as he says.
For now, my attention and affection belong solely to the long-dead creatures encased in the rock formations of the New Dover cliffs.
A half hour later, I arrive at the head of the trail above the beach, and pause to admire the view and fill my lungs with the cool, sea-misted breeze. Sunlight sparkles off the cobalt bay, the opposite side of which is just visible through a band of haze, about twenty-five miles away. The land to either side of me, dense with eucalyptus, cypress, oak, and berry brambles, stretches in a small crescent, buffeted by the constant winds coming in off the water.
With a wooden rail on one side and the steep bluff on the other, the trail descends in a series of switchbacks to the beach below. It's wide enough for people coming up and going down to pass each other with space to spare, usually; but as I reach one of the sharp hairpin bends, someone knocks into me from behind and nearly sends me over the rail. I catch myself as a pair of guys in wetsuits, probably college kids like me, bolt past, surfboards in hand.
"Hey, slow down, will ya?!" I call after them irritably, feeling like an old guy shaking his fist at the kids on his lawn, but it's no joke. If I'd been a smaller or frailer person, an elderly hiker or a kid, I could have gone over the side and sustained a serious injury. They could, too; people die at this beach, usually because they fail to respect the danger of the cliffs.
The land is actively eroding, and falls aren't uncommon. Moreover, the surf is hazardous. It's full of rocks and riptides, and signs warn beachgoers against getting too close, much less swimming in it. I shake my head at the idiots, and continue my own more measured descent.
At the bottom, I spy the pair off at the far end of the beach, horsing around and throwing seaweed at each other, and shake my head again. At least they're far away.
Turning my back on them, I trek across the sand towards the beach's other end, which is all rock and tidepools beneath 150 feet of cliff. I always check the tide tables before coming here, and know I'll have plenty of time to work without having to worry about getting caught by the waves. Research permit at the ready, I find the spot I've been focusing my efforts and set to work sketching, photographing, documenting, and identifying as many specimens as I can find. Digging the fossils out of the cliff isn't allowed, but my permit lets me collect any that fall out naturally. If not for hunger, thirst, and my bladder, I could easily do this all day.
Around noon I pause my work and use the grimy public restroom back near the head of the trail before returning to my site. The surfers are taking a break, too, sprawled out side by side on the sand next to their boards, and I allow myself a moment to admire their athletic forms.
Just admire, you know, the way you'd appreciate a statue or something, not ogle like a creep.
One of them sits up, shaking sand from his hair, and gets to his feet. He comes toward me, making for the bathrooms, and waves.
Pretending not to notice, I take a sip of water, screw the top back on my metal canteen and head back to work.
A few hours later, my watch beeps, rousing me from the depth of concentration yet again. It's my warning alarm, telling me it's time to pack up and get out of there before the tide comes in. Frowning, I look over my sketches and notes. I'm making good progress and don't want to stop, so I snooze the alarm and give myself another fifteen minutes.
A lick of salt spray on my cheek startles me. The rocks are cut by channels, some of which reach almost to the base of the cliffs. These trenches are typically a few feet wide and five-to-eight feet deep, with the bottoms filled with sand. They're easy enough to jump clear over, or to climb in and out of, when they're dry. When the tide is in, they're full of frothing foam and pose a real peril if you fall in. It was the spray of a wave rushing up the length of the one I've been working beside that splattered me and broke my concentration.
Glancing at my watch, I frown. Instead of snoozing my alarm, I'd accidentally silenced it, and another hour has passed.
Swearing under my breath, I hurry to pack up my thingsânotebook, Chromebook, sketchpad, pencils, pens, collection bags, granola bar wrappers and water bottleâand stuff them in my pack.
Don't rush, Charlie. There's no 'fast' in geology.
The voice of my favorite professor, Robert MacDowell, echoes in my head. Professor MacDowell is what I aspire to beâa paleontologist studying climate change in the deep past in the hopes of shedding light on the present and potential futures of our planetâand his perennial advice to me is 'don't rush.'
I can't help it. Unlike most people my age, I've never felt I had all the time in the world. Time has always seemed palpable to me, and I've always sensed it: ticking down, eroding away; every clock a memento mori reminding me of my own impermanence. Even fossils don't last forever. In fact, once they're exposed, they don't last long at all, and the surf soon grinds them into sand, which is one reason I rush to document and record every one of them I can.
This urge to collect and document everything has gotten me in trouble before, and now, as I step across the gap between the rocks, it gets me in trouble again. As the wave recedes, leaving the bottom of the trench exposed, I spot a chunk of rock with a fossil partly exposed. The specimen is a large spiral snail shell, maybe Cancellaria tritonidea, and it looks pristine. Unable to resist, I shrug off my pack. If I don't grab it fast, it could be lost in the next wave.
Jumping into the trench, I snatch up the fossilized shell. It's as big as the palm of my hand and as perfect as I'd hoped. Tucking it into the pocket in the front of my hoodie, I start to climb back out of the trench, thinking how I can't wait to show it to Professor MacDowell.
Slimy algaeâmade extra slimy by a fresh dousing of sea waterâcovers the lower rocks, and as I pull myself up to the rim, my foot slips. My upper-body strength leaves something to be desired and, unable to catch myself, I fall back to the bottom and land on my ass in the wet sand. I scramble up again as the next wave rushes in, but I'm too slow.
Stupid, is all I have time to think before a wall of icy water knocks me off my feet.