I have such great memories of Pfeiffer State Beach. We were dropped off hitching from SF to LA and walked down the long winding dirt track down from the highway (now tarmacked). It was about two miles and we had heavy rucksacks. We arrived as the sun was setting and found a line of freaks sitting on the sand watching the sun go down out to sea turning the sea crimson and purple and the breaking surf strangely blue with a backdrop of an orange sky. The waves were crashing over the big rock in the middle of the bay and spraying through the hole in the centre. It was magical. We dropped our rucksacks and joined them as jays were passed along.
When it had disappeared we all unrolled our sleeping bags among the trees. We got a campfire going and shared some food. Someone got a guitar out and it was so cool.
Then the police came down and bust us all, shipped us back up to the highway and dumped us at the side of the highway.
We lay in our sleeping bags and looked up at the sky. Our friend Jack knew all the constellations. The stars were out in such numbers, like salt spread over black velvet, and the Milky Way was like a band of smoke, mountain lions roared around us. We laughed and talked all night, talking about Henry Miller and Kerouac and what a special place Big Sur was.
Such a magical night.