Last Friday, I had a lovely lunch (is there any other kind along Prospect Street?), one that saw me arrive uncharacteristically early. Spare time at the Cove is a precious commodity, so I thought I’d car it along the area before girding myself for impalement in the parking hell that is the Village. Neither the beauty of the drive nor the hunt for a space disappointed amid the intensity of each; sadly, the latter is here to stay as surely as the smell of fresh sea lion caca and the flaps from the business owners forced to endure it. But lo. This Friday would hold something different, something we haven’t had a chance to talk about for at least 12 years, when I moved to San Diego from Ventura. It’s a cinch it was an altogether rare event, but its uncommonness made me (and presumably a lot of others) long for every minute of it, just as we typically pine for the area’s legendary weather. The air! It was actually – well – sweet, as in free of the Cove’s fabled poop fumes from you-know-what! Totally free! I choked on my own amazement as I drove up and down Coast Boulevard, breathing in the splendor the way Joey Chestnut skarfs hot dogs. This was not La Jolla Cove – this was a breezy interplanetary paradise, bedecked with natives of all persuasions who’d never heard of sea lions, much less experienced the pleasure of their all-out olfactory press. Where was I? And could I stay? One guy at the eatery said the Cove’s sea lion count is down this summer, at least to the naked eye. If he’s right, that could account for a lot. Sea lions are loopy for anchovies, one of their major delicacies; the enzymes from both join forces in a stinkfest the size of which led to a 2013 lawsuit that cited the City as liable for the aftereffects of the smell. The City won, with Superior Court Judge Tim Taylor ruling earlier this year that it has no duty to control the ill-effects from sea lions and birds, notably cormorants. Fewer sea lions means fewer sources of poo; add last week’s cooler weather, and things returned to a semblance of what’s supposed to be normal beach life. But these moments are quite few and far between; otherwise, the need for court action and the area merchants’ wholesale hues and cries wouldn’t necessarily have materialized. Unless the sea lions have learned to clean up after themselves, there’s every probability that the smell will return; I just happened to have hit the surface air stream and moderating temps at exactly the right moment (better yet, for at least 90 minutes, the length of my lunch). My companion, who just moved to Encinitas from the East Coast, was unaware of the dilemma out here – she jokingly suggested that we import a make-believe species of shark to dispatch the meddlesome mammals. In a perfect world, that might be a viable solution – but the world isn’t perfect, and for all we know, the raging smell may well repel the few sharks that do reside in the Cove. Meanwhile, until my next trip to Effluvium Row, I’ll thoroughly warm to the memory of this uncanny and welcome moment. La Jolla Cove without the odor? And the Houston Astros lead their division? Must be the ether.
