Highway 1: San Francisco - San Diego

I. From the fog of the bay to the silky descent of McWay Falls

I am leaving San Francisco with the dawn. The Golden Gate Bridge is still dozing in the pink mist that they call Karl, and the salty chill of the Pacific rattles against the railing. As Highway 1 turns towards the Pacific, the city disappears in the mirror and the windscreen swallows the endless horizon.

The first greeting is Half Moon Bay – a bay where, in winter, the Mavericks wave reaches the height of a three-storey house. Today it’s hush-hush quiet, only seagulls are painting signatures in the foam. A few turns later, a white cone rises above the cliffs, the Pigeon Point Lighthouse (1872) – once the tallest on the west coast. The glass of its Fresnel lens is said to have cut through the sea for hundreds of ships, now the tower watches only over the seagulls and seals beneath the cliff.

The road drifts away from the ocean for a moment, only to explode again with a view at Santa Cruz. On the deserted boardwalk, attractions creak – a reminder of summer that has yet to awaken. Below the pier, a colony of sea lions bellows, each cry sounding like a bead on the blue string of Monterey Bay.

Beyond Monterey – where Steinbeck heard the melody of tin canneries – I join the 17-Mile Drive. It carries me among kelp carpets, golf greens, and the ancient Lone Cypress, which has reportedly defied the wind for 250 years. The vehicle smells of resin and sea salt; the luxury of Pebble Beach and the silence of the heavy surf embrace here like old acquaintances.

In Carmel-by-the-Sea, morning dew drips from the shingle roofs and a gothic tower of the mission stands over the raven's party. From here it’s just a short distance to the iconic arch of the Bixby Creek Bridge – 86 meters above the canyon, 1932 litres of concrete transformed into a feather. Beneath the wheels, the engine hums, before me a ribbon of asphalt winds, healing every question with one word: “go”.

Big Sur. Here the world shrinks to cliffs, redwoods, a grid of light and shadows. At a stop at Pfeiffer Beach, I pour purple sand into my palm – a small gift of manganese minerals – and blow it in the gentle wind so it rises like a tiny prayer to the Pacific storms.

And then – McWay Falls. 24 meters, a thin silk column that falls straight onto a beach where human footprints are not allowed. The water turns into the foam of pink pearls as the sun sets and the rays break on the horizon, colouring the sky like salmon flesh. I stand at the viewpoint until the lights of cars in the distance look like falling stars – and then it’s just the roar of the surf everywhere, sounding like the heartbeat of the earth.

II. From the City of Angels to the Palm Harbor

Los Angeles greets with a heavy blue haze; fans of Washingtonias rise above the boulevard and the Hollywood neons pulse like the last dominoes. I pass the Santa Monica Pier – the ferris wheel is still asleep – and merge onto the Pacific Coast Highway, which makes the metropolis a mere memory.

In Malibu, surfers cast shadows on the morning glass of waves: some catch a ride, others only their own reflection. Rays strike the cliffs of Point Dume at such an angle that the rocks blaze with an orange vein, while in the back, the Channel Islands vaguely emerge.

The next station is Huntington Beach – “Surf City, USA”. Off-season, the city sounds only with the clinking of halyards of masts and the quiet heartbeat of empty beaches. Beyond Laguna Beach, the serpentines descend to aquamarine lagoons, where grey whales gather in February; occasionally, I glimpse their breath like a white feather on the surface of the water.

At Dana Point, the road dips between the sea and sandstone cliffs, and I can feel the car inhale the salty moisture. I pass the shut-down cooling towers of San Onofre – concrete teeth of a dinosaur’s jaws – and behind them, San Clemente smells of pink pepper and tacos being prepared in the windows of white bungalows.

Oceanside, Carlsbad, Encinitas – beads on the string where life unfolds in the swells of longboards. At Torrey Pines, the roar of the wind resonates in the ears, carrying hang gliders above the red cliffs; below in the coves, pelicans walk in procession, as if accompanying the sun to rest.

Then only La Jolla with its seals of luxury and something wild in the scent of algae; to the right, the skyscrapers of San Diego rise, to the left, the ocean sways as if preparing to go to sleep. I drive onto Harbor Drive, around USS Midway the flags whisper, and I turn off the engine.