OB is an anomalous place:  a liberal community in the midst of a conservative city;  slightly seedy in a high rent area; a place where you walk, in the state of the automobile; an eminently local place, full of out-of-towners. 

As an East Coast transplant myself, OB epitomized the laid-back California lifestyle to me, and I soon fell into the rhythms of the place,  avoiding getting into my car, or even wearing shoes, for days at a time.  It surprises me, in retrospect, that I never took up surfing. 

I lived two blocks from the beach, right near where the regular beach met Dog Beach, where dogs run free, off leash.  Lots of dogs.  On any given weekend day, there will be maybe 40 dogs in the surf. 

A walk down to the other end of the beach brings you to the Ocean Beach Pier, the longest one on the west coast, with a great little cafe, and an excellent foil for ocean sunsets.

And then there is Newport Avenue, the main drag, with two coffee shops, three diners (one specializing in Greek-Chinese-Mexican cuisine), a sushi place, three mexican restaurants, two tattoo parlors, a few used record shops, a budget cinema, a backpacker hostel, a comic shop, two head shops,  a half dozen or more antique stores, and countless bars and clubs.  Really, why ever leave? 

If you spend any time at all in OB, you soon develop the habit of pausing during your conversations, waiting for the overhead jetliner to pass, until you can be heard again. No matter, really. No one is in a hurry anyway.

In October, I set out to try and catch some representative photos of Ocean Beach. I missed some things. Skateboarders, for example. Or a VW camper van. And no bikers, bon fires, or bikinis either. In fact, I ended up with mostly pictures of places, rather than people. Still, I think I managed to capture a taste of the place. I hope you enjoy the photos!