Story 43 of 52
By M. Snarky
There is absolutely nothing like celebrating the 4th of July at the beach. Standing there at the edge of the land, with nothing but the expansive, reflective ocean in front of you, fireworks take on an entirely different dimension of beauty.
Ironically, here in Southern California where fireworks are practically outlawed, the acquisition and ignition of illegal fireworks goes on virtually unabated and are generally flaunted in the faces of law enforcement and firefighting personnel. This is not hard to imagine being that Mexico, with its year-round, inexpensive fireworks available nearly everywhere south of the border, is so close to Los Angeles.
One of my most memorable 4th of July celebrations was at Topanga State Beach in 1976 for the bicentennial. Back then there were no designated campsites, and you were allowed to pitch a tent directly on the sand and camp, which we did along with hundreds of other people with their tents which were scattered around the beach but in relatively close proximity. It looked exactly like a modern-day homeless encampment.
I was a 15-year-old punk-ass white boy juvenile delinquent, and my friend Jerry had taught me how to make really good firecrackers – the recipe of which I will not reveal as it may run me afoul of the law – but I made about a hundred of them because, why not. These were on par with the Mexican M-80s but were also waterproofed with beeswax. I would light one and throw it into the ocean and it would still explode underwater – like little depth charges. Although the fuses were cut to the same length, they were a little bit unpredictable with their burn time and sometimes the firecracker would explode before hitting the water or sometimes in midair. It’s not lost on me that I’m lucky that I still have all of my digits…and both hands…and my face.
Down the beach about fifty feet away from us toward the water, a couple of guys dug a pit in the sand – about eight-feet in diameter and a few feet deep – and lined it with rocks from nearby Topanga Creek and then started an impressive bonfire before dusk. When the coals were hot enough, they tossed in a 5-gallon bucket of magnesium shavings from their machine shop, and a few bright, errant sparks went aloft as the magnesium shavings began to heat up. In the meantime, fireworks and firecrackers were going off all up and down the beach; Roman candles; large and small bottle rockets; Buzzbombs (not the beverage); and loud, ear-piercing M-80 and M-100 explosions could be heard every half-second. It was pure mayhem. Happy 200th Birthday, ‘Merica!
Then one of the bonfire guys walked down to the edge of the water and filled his bucket with saltwater and then came back up to the bonfire, paused for a moment, and then started pouring the water directly into the pit. The result of the saltwater hitting the hot magnesium shavings was more than magnificent: It was ephemeral art. The fleeting, white hot fireball and radiating heat were impressive. The gathering crowd of people were oohing and aahing and clapping as the guys threw even more magnesium strips and water into the pit to keep their little show going.
Then there’s always that one guy in a crowd that will one-up anyone no matter the circumstances.
Two tents to our right, another guy, who was standing on the beach and smoking a joint in the glowing magnesium firelight, went into his tent and pulled out a shovel and a black six-foot long by six-inch wide pipe that had handles mounted on the sides. He dug a hole about three feet deep and put one end of the pipe in the hole and then back-filled the sand around the pipe to hold it in place. He tapped on the side of pipe and pointed the open end of it ever so slightly seaward. Then, again, from inside his tent, he pulled out what appeared to be a black bomb with a long fuse in it – like what you’d see in a Spy vs. Spy cartoon in Mad Magazine.
He lit the fuse with his joint, dropped the “bomb” into the tube fuse first, and took a couple of steps back. There was a slightly muffled PHOOM! and it launched that bomb looking thing high into the night sky like it was an artillery shell. Then there was a much louder BOOM! from above and a professional pyrotechnic level burst of red stars went off over the water. This prompted the crowd to cheer and applaud. People pulled their cars over and stopped on Pacific Coast Highway behind us to watch. Then he lit another one. And then another. It went on for about 15-minutes, the duration of which all of the other fireworks up and down the beach had ceased. It was spectacular.
After that impromptu semi-professional fireworks show, all of the other fireworks seemed puny, silly, and totally insignificant. We sadly carried on anyway.
We found out afterward that the guy worked in the pyrotechnics department at a very famous Southern California amusement park located in Anaheim. By all considerations, it was a pro level show, and the crowd loved it.
Then the waves from the incoming tide came up the sand and started flooding the magnesium fire pit, turning it into a hellish fireball which glowed under the surface of the water. Everyone began to scramble, and people were pulling up their tents and grabbing their camping gear and hauling them up to higher ground. It was complete chaos. I managed to save Jerry’s Coleman cooler full of Bud tall boys before it drifted out to sea. With the combined smells of marijuana, hot dogs, sulfur, and burnt arm hairs wafting through the air, we cracked open a couple of beers and gulped them down. They tasted like freedom.
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