Cowabunga Christmas Read Online Free Page A

name.
    The
cove allegedly provided another kind of refuge, however, and snippets of that
heritage could be found in town and at the resort. Corsario Cove was named for corsarios—the
Spanish word for corsairs, more often called pirates. Supposedly, they found the
cove an inviting place to hide out, forage, and take on fresh water between
episodes of pillaging and plundering. Like most corsairs, they were a mercenary
lot, quite literally. Paid by one crown to harass the ships owned by another,
money spoke to the pirates that came ashore at Corsario Cove. Town lore had it
that the monks, perhaps taking a lead from St. Albinus the patron saint against
pirate attacks, bought off the pirates using their meager resources and ardent
prayer. They stopped the pirates from wreaking havoc on the locals who showed
their gratitude to St. Albinus by giving the town his name.
    Making
a go of monasticism isn’t so easy these days. In the first decade of the 21 st century, the Monks sold off part of their holdings and the resort was built.
The whole area reminds me of Avalon Bay at Catalina Island. A scaled down,
upscale version of the island community, the Sanctuary resort is paradise for
those who can afford it. Fabulous food, lavish suites, a high staff-to-guest
ratio, and services of all kinds entice, as well as the glorious seaside setting.
There’s high end shopping here at the resort, in addition to all those village
shops that vacationers seem to find endlessly fascinating. I’m not a big fan of
shopping, but the history of the place grabbed me despite my skepticism about
pirates. The local tales about piracy don’t quite fit with the California
history I learned in school. I am a fan of spas; a side effect of
hanging out with Jessica Huntington. The one here is a little slice of heaven,
according to the resort blurb.
    Luxurious
amenities, interesting history, and spa services aside, the real reason we
chose this spot was for the surfing. Corsario Cove is little known outside surfing
circles, and not even widely known among surfers living outside California. That’s
a near perfect situation as far as Brien is concerned. A quasi-permanent
community of surfers, vagabonds, and beach bums hang out on the less developed
side of the cove where the cliffs rise up out of the sea. Their community is tucked
away in woods that run to the bottom of the cliffs and almost to the beach.
    We
slowly worked our way around the perimeter of the patio that encompassed a
large hot tub and pool, decorated with handmade tiles. The area was furnished
with lounge chairs, umbrellas, bistro tables and cabanas. Stucco walls,
dripping with bougainvillea, lined either side of the expansive terrace we were
trying to inspect without becoming distracted by the view. The side walls, connected
in front by lacy wrought iron, enclosed the terrace without blocking a
spectacular view of the ocean. We stopped to gaze at it. The California
sunshine, sparkling like diamonds on the rhythmic movements of the water, enchanted.
Brien reached out and took my hand.
    Sprawled
out below us was a much bigger complex of hot tubs and pools, also equipped
with cabanas, chaise lounges, tables and umbrellas. A separate play area with
kiddie pools and water slides, some with a pirate theme, teemed with children
and their parents. Squeals and laughter floated up to us.
    Situated
on that lower terrace, farther from the hotel but closer to the beach, all
those amenities sat amid a golf course of perfectly manicured greens and
startlingly white sand pits. A cart path at the edge of the course ran from the
terrace, down to the beach, and over to a dock with a small boardwalk on the side
of the cove, opposite the secluded surfer hangout. That cart path also ran up
to our hotel level and off in both directions a few steps below us. At check-in
they told us we could take that path into the village by golf cart, bicycle, or
on foot.
    Unlike
earlier this morning, the cove was placid at the