The 6:30am ferry from Long Beach to Avalon on a weekday in November had only a few people, most of whom, judging by their toolboxes, coolers and work boots, were going there for the day to work. He left his bike down below deck, and went to the top. Cool when docked, and downright chilly when out past the breakwater with the boat speed at maybe 25 knots, it was quite a brisk wind.

It was his first time ever on the Pacific ocean. He'd been in it, seen it, flown over it, and seen it from the Hawaiian Islands, but he'd never been in a boat, out from land. Another first in a week of firsts, he thought, setting himself behind the cabin, out of the wind. Maybe 20 years before, he'd heard of Catalina, and seen a picture of the island. From the eyes of a young kid, it wasn't really obtainable, just someplace cool and far away to go to. Growing older, it was the kind of place that came up in conversation about Southern California once in a while, and it always made him want to go there. Just outside of Los Angeles, but only by ferry, and no cars allowed. More talked about by Angelinos than ever travelled to, it was home to vast arrays of abalone, scuba diving, and a certain exclusiveness brought on, not by high prices, or simple snobbery, but simply by location.

People were just too lazy to get on a boat and get there. How many people had he talked to in LA that had never been there? Most of them, he thought, watching Long Beach fade into the morning fog. Ah, well, he smiled, it was a week where he was doing just what he wanted, and how many times had he been to LA himself, never having been there either? He sat back, content to watch the wake spread out behind the boat.

Almost 1/2 way there, he was looking off the the north, and saw a group of dolphins, jumping out of the water, as if showing off by doing their graceful leaps seemingly just for him.

The town of Avalon was quite small, cut out of a natural harbor, and clean enough to be Disneyland. He rode his bike on all three of the public roads leading out of town and each time, looping back into town, he noticed something missing, something that always present in beach communities. The lack of abject poverty. He'd never understood what it was with beach communities, with their oppulence and beauty, and contrast of the sleazy hangers-on, the drifters and the grifters.

As if they were an integral part of each beach town, necessary for it to survive, they were always there, unclean, hanging around the beach, sitting dejectedly on the boardwalk. There weren't any in Avalon. Maybe it was just because of the early hour, he thought, though almost as quickly correcting himself, knowing since half of them slept under the piers, they were awake before most everyone else.

He'd been to Hawaii, and the striking difference between the wealth and or middle class and the sheer dirty slums of the natives and yet again, the hangers on. One whole corner of Oahu was pretty much dedicated to the has-beens, the homeless, the ones who made their living off of the scraps of the rest of society, the beligerent look in thier eyes proclaiming that it was their right to do so, and what was it to you, anyways?

That was missing here. He rode down alleys at the edge of town, by the trash incinerator and the power plant. There was some litter, but hey, it was on the way to the dump, you couldn't not expect that. That, he thought as an aside, was always something to watch for, buying a house, to make sure it wasn't on the way to the dump, lest your yard have a perpetual collection of spilled items in it.

The palm trees overhead, the sand beneath his feet, and no bums. Had he gotten on some mystery ferry, one that had taken him to some enchanted place? Apparantly so. In the summer, he guessed, the bums scraped together enough money to get a ferry ticket, so they too could enjoy the island, in their own special way, by sulking around, disturbing people and asking for handouts.

The island is 99% privately owned, all 76 square miles of it. Placed in a conservancy, it shall remain this way for decades to come. Cars, on a ten year waiting list, are essentially nil, so everyone drives golf carts. You can rent them too, though he wondered just why anyone would rent one. You could not go onto the conservancy land with them, and since that was 99% of the island, you were limited to just the towns of Avalon and Twin Harbors, quite all of it which was in walking distance. All you gained by renting one was the wonder of where to park it. The golf carts, a motley assortment, always made him look. Customized like any group of cars would be, with various ones having chromed wheels, wide tires, or whitewalls, some having full curtains to keep out the rain. There was even a tow truck golf cart, a mini roll bar and hoist sticking out the back.

Bikes he wondered about too, except for the very hardy, as everything just off the main shopping part of town was quite steep. He had read someplace that only 3000 people lived here, though a quick look at the houses he could see led him to think there must be caves in the hillside, either that or everyone was sleeping college dorm style- 3 to a room, and he doubted that.

He went to the conservancy office, deserted at the early hour, and bought his pass to go inland. Twenty minutes later, he was wondering if that was the right idea, for now he was riding up a 15% incline, in his lowest gear, slogging along at what he guessed, and later confirmed, was only slightly faster than walking speed. 'Ah well, there'll be no tourists', he thought. Only the ones in the tour buses, and there didn't seem to be many of those in the tour lot.

The road continued in the same steep fashion for some miles to come. He knew, with every slow pedal stroke, that the trip back down would take all of 5 minutes, and no doubt he'd fry his brakes too. 1500 feet isn't that tall, but in three miles, from sea level, it's a steady 10% grade. No wonder his bike pass was only numbered in 4 digits, and his number had only just crossed that mark. What kind of idiots did this? Idiot, he called himself, stopping yet again, admiring the view, but breathing heavily.

'What I need is that cart with flames I saw this morning,' he thought, the end of the hill in sight. He set it in his mind to go about 12 miles inland, to the 'Airport in the Sky.' After cresting the hill, he saw that it was a easy ride for the rest of the way, the real work had already been done. Looking back behind him, it was as if he was on a tropical island. The lava-grown hills with cliff-like edges riddled the island. Yet, the ground cover was more akin to a high desert. It only got a foot of rain a year, kind of like the leeward side of Oahu. The same sort of plants too, he remembered, scrub brush and clumps of grass.

Reaching the airport, he skirted around the runway to the eastern side. The morning fog had long broken on the island, but was only starting to on the mainland. He could make out the mountains surrounding LA, a forgotten part of the city. Ony rarely can you see outside of the city, the smog making the sky murky, grey and brown. It was a treat to be able to see the surrounding hills. So close, only 25 miles away, yet so quiet, one could forget the 8 million people just across the channel.

Riding slowly around the airport, he came across a tour group unloading, and he heard a few comments from retirees about the fact that he actually rode up to the top and how did he do it. Ignoring them, he looked briefly at the posted attractions and the educational signs giving a history of the island. He looked back to the runway, the coast of LA hidden behind the slight rise. He looked back at the retirees, part of him wanting them to walk out, past the runway, over the rise, and see the whole coast of the city so close, such a unique and wonderful view, but he knew it wouldn't happen. The view was his. He thought about it a little more, and realized that most times when you go someplace that has a view, and so close to a huge city, that overlook is always mobbed, and that today, the view really was in fact his, with no one else to spoil it.

He smiled at that arrogant thought, that Los Angeles, a city that was his in his heart, was there in front of him solely for his own viewing, his own contemplation, and his own dreams to come true in. How many people he wondered, how many people had it in their mind to head out to California for the fruition of the dreams, to become a famous star, to live the whole Hollywood lifestyle, or be a part of that golden California dream? Here he was, just another one of the millions of people who, for whatever their dreams, was in LA, seeking that dream. Yet, how many of those millions made it to this spot on Catalina, to look at the city which held their dreams?

He set off back down the hills, back down to Avalon, winding down the road lined with eucalytptus trees. Eucalytptus trees and anise. How else to describe the air of Catalina? Each smell, so uniquely Californian, yet not always in combination. Their smell so pervasive, the trees lined the road, the fragrant leaves hanging down to arms reach, long curved leaves still green, always green in southern California. He stopped at a turnout in the road, leaning his bike against the huge trunk of one the fragrant trees. Breathing deeply, he knew that smell would bring back instant memories for him, even 20 years from then, wherever he was. When asked, he knew he'd never be able to describe that smell, but it was there, so powerful, so unique, so Catalina for him. Eucalytptus was often touted as a medicinal herb, and he thought that in a roundabout way, the air today, filled with the lush and potent fragrance was medicinal for him, cleansing his very soul, setting it alight with new fires, new dreams.

Arriving back in Avalon, he parked his bike, and walked around the small shops, deserted but open. The time of year wasn't condusive for day-trippers to the island, there for a day of scuba diving and a night of fancy dinners, but the stores were all open, a quiet fall night for the locals. Kids, riding their bikes, all dressed up for some school event that had just ended, rode on the sidewalks, playing carefree, no one to get in their way. How much of the year must they not have the town to themselves, he thought, the smallness of the town must close them in. He walked down a little courtyard with shops, all the windows open in each store, the cool twilight breeze fresh, and had to step to one side as over a dozen second grade girls, all dressed up in velvet gowns ran by him, shouting in Spanish and smiling, ran by him, one of their mothersadmonishing them not to tear their dresses behind them.

It was one of those places, he thought, walking around, that really became it's true self only certain times of the year. Places that revolved around the sun or the beach always had such a level of tourists, that the locals always had their guard up, an us vs them attitude. Yet tonight, that was all gone, everyone on the island was assumed to be either a local, or someone who may as well have been, since they were there at an odd time.

The sun set, the sky turning dark, the stars blinking into sight, and he knew it was time to go wait for the last ferry back LA for the evening. The dock lights shone into the harbor, and light up bright orange fish who fed at the pilings. He put on his headphones in line, drowning out the chatter, trying to keep the day still his.

Boarding the ferry, as he stepped from the dock onto the boat, he felt his feet leaving the island, for what he knew would be his last time. He wasn't saddened by this, as he had thought he might be. He had seen and lived what he had dreamed of for twenty years. That dream had been attained, and there was the odd feeling of not only having lived that dream, but that same dream now being continued, growing ever further and stronger. Catalina was one of the places in his life that would forever be a part of his future, yet never returned to. Los Angeles beckoned him to return, and he watched the lights of Avalon grow faint as the ferry headed back to the coast.