Quick Take
If you've lived in Santa Cruz long enough, you've likely seen and maybe even experienced some pretty weird things. But nothing might be weirder than the feeling that the sun is rising in the wrong place. Daniel DeLong tells the story of his attempt to make sense of this odd local phenomenon, something the various specific parts of his brain have battled over for years.
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Early one morning in the mid-1980s as I was driving southbound through Santa Cruz on Highway 1, the sun was in my eyes. Like, directly in my eyes, rising up above the southern horizon right there in front of the windshield.
As I was driving south. Through Santa Cruz. Directly into the rising sun.
To reiterate: The sun was rising in the south.
I distinctly recall the moment when the prefrontal cortex of my hominid brain called down to my entorhinal cortex, or “EC” (the part of the brain that signals which direction you are facing) and said, “Dude, the sun doesn’t rise in the south. So we can’t be driving south. We have to be driving east.” (And yes “dude” is appropriate. It was the 1980s, I was in my very early 20s and living in California.)
My EC however (which was hanging out deep in the seedy cerebral nether regions with my hippocampus) completely rejected this notion. “No way dude,” it said. “We’re traveling south. I can totally feel it. Can’t you feel it?”
My prefrontal cortex thought about this for a moment before replying. “I don’t really feel stuff. I’m just informing you of reality, and the reality is that the sun DOESN’T rise in the south. We are traveling east.”
My EC laughed. “Yeah, whatever dude. You’re never going to convince me of that.”
“Yes, I will.”
“No. You can’t.”
“Can.”
“Can’t.”
“Can!”
“Try!”
So my prefrontal cortex, using some extra advanced high school science-level knowledge about how the sun and the Earth and the whole solar system works, attempted to convince my EC that — based on our location on the planet and everything else – there was NO WAY the sun could be rising in the south.
That we were, in fact, traveling eastbound. (Note: kids, this was long before GPS and smartphones and even digital compasses on your dashboard. So consider that question answered.)
My prefrontal cortex even deduced the reason why my EC was so confused:
When you live on the West Coast, your internal compass puts the ocean to the west. Period.
Santa Cruz, however, sits on the north end of a very large, semicircular bay. So when you’re standing, say, by the lighthouse at Seabright Beach and facing the water, it naturally feels like you’re looking westward toward the vast Pacific, when in fact you’re really looking south across the much less vast (but still pretty big) Monterey Bay.
And if it’s even just a little bit foggy (which it often is) it’s not possible to see Moss Landing or Pacific Grove or any part of Monterey County in the distance that might provide a reference point to tell your brain that it’s wrong.
Not that it would necessarily make a difference.
Even seeing some distant object (like the stacks of the Moss Landing Power Plant) that you know for a fact lies to the south of Santa Cruz might not be enough to snap your internal compass into pointing the correct direction. (At least it never has for me.)
“So,” my prefrontal cortex concluded, “this isn’t your fault. There is a legitimate reason you believe the sun is rising in the south. But we all know that it can’t be. It’s literally impossible. You need to get over this.”
But my EC just chuckled. “It’s all good, bro. Just go with it.”
“I can’t go with it! It’s wrong!”
*smile* *shrug*
Thus began my decadeslong struggle with “Santa-Cruz-induced-internal-compass-dysfunction,” the official medical term for this condition. (Not really; but it should be.)
Santa Cruz has a long and proud tradition of being weird.
Besides all the unique and colorful characters that defy mundane description (professional street performers, gay rednecks, hippies who drive lifted pickups, etc.) we’re the home of “The Lost Boys,” at least one legendary cave, a few notable serial killers (fortunately a trend that’s largely in the past), some weird things that are now gone (or soon will be) like a museum dedicated to Bigfoot, a Santa Claus-themed amusement park that was closed only on Christmas Day, and a derelict ship made of concrete that once housed a posh restaurant.
And many weirdly cool things that are still here, like the Mystery Spot, and our 100-year-old roller coaster built of wood.
To name just a few.
But nothing has ever felt weirder to me than the uniquely Santa Cruz experience of watching the sun rise somewhere other than in the east, and being incapable of intellectualizing myself out of that feeling.
MORE FROM DANIEL DELONG
A couple of weeks ago, my wife and I had a good view of Santa Cruz’s iconic wooden roller coaster from our room at the Dream Inn, where we’d come to celebrate 20 years together. We sat on the balcony with our morning coffee, listening to the waves and the volleyball players, watching the pelicans circle around the wharf and seeing the light sparkle on the water as the sun rose … in the west.
I had to consult a map to confirm that, yes, our room on the ocean side of the Dream Inn tower faced virtually due east. (I knew it did, not that seeing it on a map corrected my inner compass at all). And with a cottony marine layer in the near distance obscuring even the cliffs of Soquel Point, there was nothing to show me I wasn’t gazing off toward Hawaii and Japan. (Not that seeing something like that would have changed my internal compass either.)
No matter what, it was flat-out impossible for me to feel like I was looking east, even though I knew 100% that I was. My very soul and every cell in my body screamed it: I was looking west.
West, toward the rising sun.
From somewhere deep in my skull I heard my EC snicker. (My hippocampus seemed to think it was pretty funny too.)
But it’s all good.
After 40 years in Santa Cruz, my prefrontal cortex and EC and all the other seemingly disparate parts of my brain have reached an accord: Even though we all know it to be completely untrue, and totally crazy, we all just accept the fact that in Santa Cruz the sun sometimes rises in the south.
And sometimes even in the west.
How wonderfully weird is that?
Daniel DeLong is a retired firefighter who over the years has learned it’s better to just embrace the weirdness and go with it. Dude.