Editor's Note: Promising life as beach bum lost in the fog

It was another coastal town, and a new occupation. Actually two new occupations: personal assistant and beach bum.

I think I did OK at the former during the two weeks Laura and I recently spent in Carmel. While she was on window display in one of the town’s many art galleries, oil painting and generally attracting a crowd on the sidewalk, I shot photos to inspire future paintings and made sure she got coffee in the morning and lunch at midday. I even drove to nearby Monterey to procure art supplies.

As for being a beach bum, I showed promise for about a week before washing out. After leaving Laura to her painting, I’d drive the half-dozen or so blocks to the white sand, haul out my beach chair, towel, morning newspaper and book, and set up shop. The unseasonably sunny weather helped with the transition to this new way of life. I was actually shielding myself with sun screen and a giant umbrella as I plied my trade.

Part of the job, I soon discerned, was image magnification. This involved putting down the reading material, picking up the binoculars, and peering in three directions: out to sea, where pelicans dive-bombed for fish while smaller birds by the hundreds formed and reformed flotillas; up the coast, where well-heeled duffers scooted their carts across the fairways of Pebble Beach Golf Course; and down the coast, where there was almost always a volleyball game on the sand and dozens of surfers on the water.

Maybe I could have stayed at it if the weather had held. But besides the lovely coastal setting, Carmel has one other thing in common with Crescent City: summer fog that just can’t be kept at bay — or more precisely, that can’t be kept out of the bay. When the sun disappeared in the mist, the chill eventually drove me off the beach.

This is what Carmel’s merchants bank on. A browser’s paradise is packed into a few blocks, but all those art galleries and trendy clothing stores and gift shops don’t pay the bills if the tourists are on the beach. The sidewalks fill up and the dollars roll in with the fog.

I joined the throng, people-watching more than window-shopping. Europeans on major journeys mingled with Bay Area residents on day trips. Jaguars and Mercedes squeezed into parking spaces or patiently waited for pedestrians with sweaters tied jauntily around their necks and perfectly coiffed dogs on leashes.

Laura has been doing the Carmel art bit off and on for two and a half years, and long since worked dog portraits into her repertoire. The editor of a doggie newspaper was talking to her about running an ad in his unique publication when I stopped by the gallery.

Many of the articles are written from a dog’s point of view, and he suggested we contribute a column about the life of a Del Norte pooch. He only got more intrigued when I told him our dogs are generally unleashed and snarling in pickup beds.

Eventually some sun returned and I wedged more sand between my toes, but the beach-bum spell was broken. I didn’t start thinking about the home front, except on the few occasions when my work cell phone rang. But I did get caught up in a creative-writing project that sucked the hours away.

We’ve been back for nearly a week from a vacation so absorbing that I’m only now remembering what it is I do here.