I figure incorrectly. The place is still mobbed with people, tourists who cannot cross the street without making assholes out of themselves, and people who do not understand the concept of actually pulling off the pavement to glance at the ocean or the Bush mansion.
The drive through leaves me feeling about as comfortable as my run through the street fair gauntlet: I'm suffocating. I work my way down Ocean Avenue, disgusted at the lazy woman who takes her time getting out of the passenger side of a New Jersey car that decides to stop dead in the middle of the intersection.
Finally, I break away from the masses. Several years ago I walked/semi-jogged a 5k here on a post-Thanksgiving day when my Achilles tendons were still blown and when the temperature never got above 17 degrees. It's quiet back here, beautiful, and I pull over often (into designated areas) to snap photos.
I stop at Blowing Cave Park, a place where high tide spews surf spray into the air. It is not high tide, though, but the views of the ocean and the Bush compound on Walkers Point are impressive. Decades ago when I was accidentally elected to student council in junior high (the girl who was elected stopped going and I somehow ended up next in line), our end-of-year party was at a house on Walkers Point. Bush senior was governor then, and no one was home there, so we raided his beach of sand dollars and crept onto the porch to peer inside.
