1
1964

The surf giveth, and the surf taketh away—thus said the Surf God every morning, noon, and night in his church, which was the universe, the planet, California, the beach, the waves.

On this holy day, the surf would most definitely giveth.

The sand was cool and soft as sugar between her toes, the California sun tolerable, not blasting, because it was February. Yet the day was warm enough that the girls in their vibrant bikinis, and the guys in their board shorts, weren't covered in goose pimples as they danced to the wailing electric guitars of Dick Dale and His Del-Tones—twisting, shimmying, hand jiving. One girl's bikini was covered in long fringe that seemed to pulse with a life of its own as she gyrated so fiercely it was a wonder she didn't snap her pelvis.

Mindy laughed at the sight, then turned to do a groovy little two-step with one of the hunky boys who'd gravitated into her orbit, for today she was the sun itself, radiating joy and contentment. She danced a little Watusi, a little Pony with a side of Mashed Potato. Raising her face to her fellow celestial being in a sisterly salute, she turned her back on the waves lapping the generous beach of Paradise Cove, tucked between tall sandy cliffs and a spindly wooden pier.

If the sand was sugar, then gumballs and peppermint drops dotted the sky in the form of beach balls. Surfboards stood like totems in the sand. And Dick Dale and his boys—all clad in wild Hawaiian shirts, their crew-cut heads bopping up and down rhythmically—continued to give it their all as they cranked through the driving melody of "Let's Go Trippin'." The music—-propelled by that wailing electric organ—almost drowned out the pounding surf as it hurled itself against the concrete pylons of the pier.

This is life, Mindy thought, grinning wildly at the other kids, who returned the joy, all smiling their blinding California smiles, teeth startlingly white against their suntanned faces. And why shouldn't they be happy? They were all gorgeous, all young, all dancing on the beach on a Wednesday afternoon. She caught her sister's eye; Ginger, with her curves, was naturally surrounded by guys with their tongues hanging out, but she managed to give Mindy a sly wink.

This should be my life, Mindy thought, correcting herself. Then, for the first time, the thin edge of the wedge:

Why can't this be my life?

"Cut! Print!" The director, high atop his lifeguard's chair, nodded decisively. The prerecorded music cut out abruptly, leaving Dick Dale and the Del-Tones strumming soundless electric guitars that were not plugged in.

"That's a wrap for the day, boys and girls," the director continued, his words garbled through the cheap loudspeaker. "See you tomorrow, same time, same place, wearing what you are right now."

There was an explosion of chatter and laughter as crew members started coiling cables, switching off the humming generators, and pushing the cameras back up the rickety wooden ramp toward the tent where they'd be protected from the salty night air. The two stars of the movie quickly headed off over the mounds of trucked-in sand to their trailers, assistants throwing terry cloth robes over their pocket-sized movie star bodies, which were coated in makeup, so different from the natural tans of all the locals, Mindy included. She snickered at the absurd hairstyle on the female star, a gravity-defying upsweep coated with hairspray so not a single hair was disturbed by the ocean breeze. Mindy's own hair was blond, bleached almost white by the sun, and conveniently short enough to style with her fingers.

As Dick Dale and his boys packed up their instruments, Mindy ran to grab a sweater she'd stashed behind a loudspeaker, pulling it quickly over her bikini; the sun was sinking fast.

"Hey, Mindy, where are you going?" Paula, the girl in the fringed bikini, came running up.

Excerpted from California Golden by Melanie Benjamin. Copyright © 2023 by Melanie Benjamin. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.