Community at the Edge of the World

By Mitchell Clute

At the westerly edge of the continent, wedged between the City of Light and the vast Pacific, lies a thin strip of culture so unique it seems to belong to a different civilization altogether.

There, along Venice Beach’s famous boardwalk, a strange tapestry of humanity is woven together. Edging the promenade are homeless entrepreneurs building their sculptures of trash and sand, selling paintings on cardboard and old skateboard decks.

Closer to the surf, the local skater kids—perhaps the offspring of the original Lords of Dogtown, homegrown Venice Beach kids who basically invented skateboarding back in the 1970s—ride the vast series of sloping bowls and steel rails that make up their seaside skate park. They hardly seem to notice one another, but when someone nails a difficult landing, a cheer rises from the waiting crowd.

A short stroll south to Muscle Beach, fenced in like attractions at a zoo, human behemoths work out under the midday sun, their biceps rippling. Tourists wander the boardwalk, speaking a dozen tongues. And weaving through the crowds are the regulars that I’ve seen visit after visit, like the guy with dreadlocks and white robes who plays an endless metal solo on his electric guitar while roaming the bike paths in Rollerblades.

It doesn’t make sense, yet it all fits together, and everybody gets along. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn back here, again and again. I’ve managed to make it back to Venice at least once a year for almost a decade, and along the way I’ve learned that the community’s past is as unique as its present.

Venice was founded in 1905 as an amusement park destination to rival Coney Island on the East Coast, complete with canals plied by gondoliers like its Italian namesake. Eventually, most of its canals were filled, its piers torn down, its grand buildings razed or abandoned. What remained were the oceanfront boardwalk and the wide sand beach beyond.

I love the raucous excitement of the beach at midday, sizzling with the edgy excitement of the boardwalk’s carnival past, but the real community emerges when the tourists go home. Then, when the sun drops into the Pacific, the homeless residents—I hesitate to call them transients, since I see the same faces year after year—settle in on makeshift mats of cardboard beneath the palms, personalized shopping carts stuffed with all their worldly belongings. They talk about the issues of the day, chat with the police who patrol on bikes throughout the night, share stories and sometimes meals with the skate kids heading home.

I don’t wish to romanticize their lives. No doubt there are dark back stories, the same litanies of loss that characterize the homeless everywhere. But there’s also a deep caring and connection, a sense of camaraderie, a welcoming attitude toward whatever life brings. They’ve welcomed me, a tourist and stranger, though I was the real transient, the one who comes and goes.

Sometimes, under the full moon, I’ve walked past the palm trees to where the sidewalks end, and crossed the wide swath of sand to the water’s edge. The lights of the city sparkle behind me, but the ocean is endless and empty. Sometimes I see another figure on the beach, but in the dim light I can’t make out who they are or where they come from. Like me, they stare out toward the sea, toward all that open possibility. Whatever they’re dreaming, may it come true.