by YUMI WILSON-SPATTA

It was 6 a.m. when Moose, my ex’s dog, began nudging me with his cold nose. I rolled away from him, hoping to catch a few more minutes of sleep. But Moose started to whine. Worried that he would have an accident on the landlord’s new carpets, I forced myself out of bed, revved up the car, and headed to the beach – the only place Moose could do what any field-trained English Springer Spaniel is meant to do: race toward water, flush birds from trees, search for small critters, and of course, go to the bathroom.

As soon as we reached a secluded strip of beach near my favorite coffee shop, Moose leapt out of the car and scrambled down the steep hillside onto a cavernous beachfront. I was not really in the mood to scale a mountain, but I had no choice but to follow. Without close supervision, Moose would bark at just about anything that moved.

On this particular morning, there was no need to worry. I was the only person on the beach. Only the faint tracks of egrets, seagulls and crows could be seen. The solitude gave me a chance to catch my breath, take in my surroundings, and do something I had wanted to do for a long time: touch the side of the mountain. It was especially important now that I had just learned a house just above this hillside had been listed for $400,000, which is dirt-cheap by Pacifica standards.

At the foot of the mountain, I climbed on top of a few mammoth-sized boulders strewn with bird droppings. Moose, who was also scaling the rocks, paid me no attention. He was too busy searching for squirrels or any other small creatures. I got as close as I could to the rust-colored layer of mountainside and touched it. The dirt crumbled in my fingers.

How long, I began to wonder, did the house above me have until it tumbled into the soft, gray-blue waves of the ocean below? I thought back to “Coastal Clash,” a PBS documentary that came out several years ago. In it, several homes in Pacifica were shown falling into the ocean, unable to withstand the harsh rain and wind of El Nino. At the time, it seemed so obvious to me that the problem wasn’t El Nino, but the fact that developers chose to build so close to the ocean and people chose to live in those areas. So, why then was I actually entertaining the idea of living on such a precipitous mountainside?

Price was one reason. It has been tough to find anything affordable in Pacifica, even in this market. But even more important than price was the dream of having an oceanfront view, waking up to the sound of gentle, rolling waves, and taking the dog for a run or walk in the sand – without getting in your car. After nearly three weeks of early-morning drives with Moose to the beach, the dream of owning beachfront property was starting to sound tempting.

“Andrew, did you see the house on Esplanade?” I said.

Andrew LaMont, my favorite Bay Area real estate agent, guffawed. “Are you kidding?”
I knew that Andrew would laugh; it was a bad idea. But I couldn’t help but ask. Perhaps this house would be different. Perhaps the land had been built on solid concrete pillars that reach all the way down to beach where I now stood? Perhaps the owner was planning to build an incredible sea wall that would withstand any storm?

Moose spotted a squirrel between the crevices and broke into a wild run. Worried that he would actually capture and eat the tiny critter, I yelled for him to stop, but Moose kept running. It was as if something within him had taken over; he had no choice but to chase those “silly rabbits,” as the old cartoon character Elmer Fudd used to say.

I climbed off the rocks and began chasing Moose. He was at least a hundred yards away. “Moose,” I yelled, but he kept going. That’s when I noticed how narrow the strip of land separating the ocean from the mountainside really was. At high tide, this strip of land must fill up like a pool, I thought. I also noticed that the waves were not as gentle as I had imagined. Some waves landed softly, but a few sprang up and clapped like thunder, sending a jolt through my spine.

Having spent so little time next to the water’s edge, I hadn’t really noticed the complexity of the waves. Actually I had never wanted to walk down this steep hillside until Moose came over for a month-long stay while his owner, my ex, spent time in the Philippines with his wife and our son.

I raced toward Moose, trying to catch him before he caught what appeared to be a squirrel. When I looked down at the coarse sand beneath my feet, I saw that the bird tracks I noticed earlier had disappeared.

“Moose,” I yelled again. This time, Moose listened and walked toward me. “Hup,” I told him, his command for sit. Moose listened, but he kept looking back at the rocks.
Going uphill was even harder for me than coming down. The path, a combination of loose dirt and rocks, kept sliding beneath me. It was hard to get any traction. I felt like I was going up the wrong side of an escalator.

Finally, I reached the top. It felt good to be back on a flat land. I thought about walking over to the house for sale, to get a closer look at its exterior and yard. Maybe the idea of owning beachfront property was still salvageable? But Moose ran the other way and rushed toward his favorite tree, flushing a few birds into the air. He kept barking and pointing at the tree, waiting for me to take some action. But I had no plans to take out a shotgun and shoot.

Moose finally walked away and grabbed a stick. I launched it as far as I could, careful not to throw it toward the edge of the cliff. Moose raced toward a lush patch of ice plants; I followed, never once looking back at the house behind me.