It's "a-waitin' for me"

Twenty- six miles across the sea
Santa Catalina is a-waitin' for me
Santa Catalina, the island of romance, romance, romance, romance

Twenty- six miles, so near yet far
I'd swim with just some water-wings and my guitar
I could leave the wings but I'll need the guitar for romance, romance ...

Santa Catalina!  Actually, it's only 22 miles, across the Gulf of Catalina from Long Beach, but even so -- considering the temperature of the water and the presence of sharks -- water wings wouldn't be my preferred method of transportation.  And romance?  Well, that's more up to you -- don't rely on  the island.

My brother had a landmark birthday this past week, and some twenty of us, his friends and relatives, descended on the island to help him observe and celebrate the occasion.  Rather than water wings -- or a "leaky old boat," as the Four Preps suggest elsewhere in their lyrics -- we took the Catalina Express, a speedy and comfortable one-hour cruise -- from Long Beach.  All of us, that is, except for one eccentric couple, who insisted on arriving by helicopter.

Journeying back and forth between Catalina and the mainland has been a tradition, of course, ever since the heyday of the Gabrielino/Tongva tribe called the "Pimugnans," back in 7000 B.C. or so.  We know much about these lotus-eaters from our careful study of their middens.  "It is estimated that there are over 2,000 middens on Catalina Island, only half of which have been discovered," as Wikipedia puts it -- a sentence whose meaning I find conceptually elusive, but never mind.

But today's Catalina -- the Catalina we went to experience -- dates back to Bill Wrigley, of Doublemint gum fame, who, beginning in 1919, poured millions into the island's infrastructure.  He also brought his pet team, the hapless Cubs, from Chicago to Catalina each year until 1951 for spring training.  The causal relationship between the island's idyllic charms and the Cubbies' impressive lack of baseball success has not yet been firmly established.

We loved it.  So far as I can tell from my own experience, it's the closest approximation to a Mediterranean resort city you can find anywhere this side of the Atlantic.  There's a restaurant in Avalon (the principal town on the island) called the Portofino, which suggests that others have sensed the same resemblance. 

Few automobiles are permitted on Catalina.  We made frequent trips between Avalon and our accommodations in Hamilton Cove -- about 1.3 miles to the north -- by noisy golf carts which seemed to be powered by lawnmower motors.  Pretty weird, but a lot of fun.  The same distance was also quite walkable, along a scenic, winding road through eucalyptus trees, and could be walked almost as fast as it could be driven by golf-cart.

For recreation, we ate, we drank, we sat in the sun, we watched seals and sharks and sailing ships (and at night, the lights of Long Beach and Newport) from our balconies, we walked, we people-watched along the pedestrian-oriented, harbor streets of Avalon.  Some of us entrusted our lives to zip lines.  Some attended  a silent film festival, an event that prompted many Southern Californians (are we surprised?) to arrive by ferry and wander the streets dressed in styles redolent of the 1920s.  Very F. Scott Fitzgeraldish, right?  And all of us enjoyed getting back together and analyzing the major family events of the past few years.

I had proposed a group assault on Mt. Orizaba, the highest mountain on the island at 2,097 feet.  My suggestion was politely but firmly disregarded.

It was a great four days.  We've all heard of Santa Catalina.  But it takes a visit to remind ourselves that a little bit of old Europe -- somewhat tamed, somewhat homogenized, but still, there for the asking -- exists just 26 miles, or 22 miles, or whatever, off the coast of Los Angeles County.  Just "forty kilometers in a leaky old boat," as the song goes.

I'll be returning for another visit.