The drive is only supposed to take an hour, but traffic is bad today. Granted, traffic is always bad in the city, but today, it's especially bad.

We don't mind much, though -- in fact, the drive, despite being longer than normal, seems to fly by in minutes. We're drinking our Starbucks strawberry refreshers and listening to Marshall's "oldies" Spotify playlist, which is nearly entirely Beatles music. Marshall thinks he's John Lennon reincarnated.

Halfway through the drive, Bonnie pulls over to take the convertible top off, and when we start driving again, natures air conditioning tickles us, sending locks of hair flying back into tangles as we sing along to "Here Comes The Sun".

You can smell the beach before you get there, you know. I'm not sure if non-Californians would know that, but it's true. The air gets salty, and for a moment, you debate with yourself as to whether you're smelling the ocean or the sweat of homeless people camping out on Santa Monica Boulevard. You decide it's the smell of the ocean, since that's more romantic.

Parking is hell, like always, and the sand burns your feet as your trudge down to the waterline, ice chests and camp chairs behind you, surfboards marking your trail in the ground.

And then suddenly you're there, at the place where America meets the Pacific Ocean, which is surreal to think about, so you decide not to think about it for too long, and instead dip your toes into the icy cold water, ready to experience one of God's many gifts to the world.