The Semiotics of the Beachtown Truck

In praise of this iconic form of coastal Californian transport

Most people in a surf town want to live in walking or biking distance to the water. One’s proximity to the water is more important than your car, or the car’s make or fanciness. A skateboard or a rusty bike is an honorable form of transport to get you to the waves, the harbor, or that weathered bench overlooking the Pacific Ocean. For most folks, however, a car is also a necessity.

The symbolism is rich behind one’s choice of car in Beachtown Bohemia. Your car is a specific means of self-expression and a sort of visual language that corresponds to the particular geography and culture of the place. In a beach town, it is of utmost importance in terms of street-cred that your car be a.) at least 20 years old b.) a little dinged-up and rusty from exposure to the salt air and c.) have California plates. No self-respecting beach town bohemian ever suped-up their ride. That is the tell-tale sign of a Valley: caring too much about a sporty car with glossy wheels and a shiny paint job. A Valley’s car vanity is looked down upon, causing them to stand out when they drive through town like a brand new pair white sneaks. (Note: Low-riders and the Chicano culture involving glamorously refurbished street-racing cars are given a hall pass in this arena. Low riders tend to be hugely admired in Beachtown Bohemia and are excluded from these generalities.) The bottom line, in general, is that a new and glitzy car screams Kook. I have observed that the ideal form of transport in Beachtown Bohemia in many cases, is a truck.

Pale blue Ford spotted near my studio; two trucks outside the legendary Santa Barbara Surfing Museum in the Funk Zone, now-shuttered

Camper trucks ; late 20th C truck stripes make me think of feathered hair.

Small trucks carrying beach people to analog efforts involving sun and saltwater.

I’ve never owned a truck (I didn’t even own a car until I was past thirty) but they’re part of my internal definition of Beachtown Bohemia in the same way that I feel an diehard allegiance to pelicans, carne asada tacos, sandy feet, and the color of pale grey that wood turns when it’s been bleached by the sun for a few decades. Small trucks in particular are very Beachtown Bohemia. They are the preferred mode of transport for carptenters, surfers, Professors of Marine Biology, sculptors, chefs, fishermen… you get the idea. My favorite ballet teacher growing up was a sultry Scandinavian with beautiful feet and a low voice who had retired from a professional career at Pacific Northwest Ballet; she drove an Isuzu pickup.

The smaller trucks of the 1970s and 80s offer a particular charm. When I see a good one, I snap a picture and sometimes paint it. Trucks remind me of people who use their hands in their line of work. Of the iconoclast house painter who drives up to your curb playing Django Reinhardt and surprises you even further by being bilingual in Japanese and having an abalone shell collection. The truck-owning blue blood antiques dealer in San Francisco who specializes in 18^th Century French treasures, carefully transported in blankets in the back of his Mazda B-series. The elderly activist who founded the Environmental Water Caucus and has side gig as a river guide to inner city youth. The Mexican historian and poet with a wife named Tila and house in Baja that he rented to Timothy Leary a few times. These descriptions are all based on real people I have known who drive small trucks. Can you feel the spirit of this little vehicle? It’s hard to find another type of car with so seductive, so democratic, so west coast a scent.

Spotted this in Ventura. Dust penmanship not by me.

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