At the Edge of the World
Examining the Ruins of the Sutro Baths
Land’s End is at the edge of the world; well, perhaps from my perspective. On most days, an ominous mist chokes the coast line, making it impossible to distinguish a cargo ship from Godzilla. Those careless imbeciles at the beach are not prepared for such a wretched encounter, but I am.
I had to endure 123 grueling steps and a precipitous hill that insulted me upon my descent to the beach. “This is what you get for not hitting the gym,” it said.
As I reached my destination, ancient ruins suppressed by foliage greeted me. Perhaps this is what it would feel like to discover El Dorado - probably not.
Western Gulls bathe in the ruins, once aptly known as the Sutro Baths. It is unrecognizable from its former glory days. Once upon a time, it was regarded as the world’s largest swimming pool. Now it appears to be the world’s largest cesspool. It reeks of death and decay. Adolph Sutro would be displeased. At least the gulls don’t seem to mind.
As I got lost in thought, walls closed in around me, and I was transported to the precipice of structural innovation – a three acre aquatic metropolis. Light shimmered through the glass roof lined with 600 tons of iron columns. The chatter of thousands echoed throughout the colossal structure. A man wearing a striped full-body swimsuit lunged from the high dive. Others were sitting at the bleachers, observing the swimmers below. Sutro Baths did not have one pool but seven. A woman ran and dove into one of the pools. As soon as she came into contact with the water, the walls crumbled, the water putrefied, and the chatter turned into ghostly murmurs. Sutro Baths is now a shell of its former self. I glance at the coast line and see surfers waiting to catch that next wave.
“Look, a cave,” an inquiring voice chimes. My attention was apprehended from the musing tumbling of the waves as I turned to the right. I followed the man who expressed his interest in the tunnel that seemed to whisper a menacing lullaby. “It goes deeper than I thought,” he said.
The cave’s floor produced minuscule black rocks that cooled flesh upon contact. “Cold as ice,” I thought.
As I neared the end of the cave, a supernatural zephyr whistled in my ears, liberating me from any worldly stress. A seagull drifted past in the distance and assured me that this was not a dream. Right when I had reached a meditative state, a group of intruders barged in, yelling at the top of their lungs. “Hey, if I had a telescope I bet I could see Japan!” one of them pronounced. I decided it was time to leave.
As I exited the cave, the Cliff House arrived in my line of sight. It mocked the ruins below – a structure that stood the test of time. People laughed and rejoiced as they scoffed down their braised lamb shanks with Israeli couscous inside its warm confines. Down below, the concrete skeleton of the ruins continue to be trampled upon, day in and day out, without any recognition of its past. It now serves no purpose. It is merely a barrier to the beach.
Groups of people cautiously cross the rubble to get to the watery shore. One misstep would mean certain doom. The pool of sludge was anticipating its next victim as it slowly digested two glass bottles floating at the top. It would only be a matter of time before it got what it wanted.
As I began to backtrack, I came upon a trail that led to a lookout. At this point, the cave was directly below me. A sign read “DANGER” in bold white lettering with a blood red background. It continued, “… hazardous cliffs, stay on this side of wall.” That distinctive warning did not stop people from crossing the weathered brick wall.
One daredevil in particular caught my attention. He had a fishing pole in hand and was trying to catch perch. He wore tattered jeans and the laces on his brown boots were not tied. I decided to talk to him and soon learned that his name was Darryl. “Darryl, the derelict,” I thought. I asked him what brought him out here and why he chose this spot. “I come here when the weather is decent and the water is calm. It makes it easier to catch fish,” he said as he scratched the salt and pepper stubble on his face. “When I sit on the cliff and look below, it reminds me how close we are to death.” I didn’t know what to make of his remark. But he also had a Budweiser in hand and a joint hanging from his lip, so it was difficult to read too far into it. He cast out another line after re-baiting his hook with a mutilated sardine while gulping down a swig from his beer. “Life is interesting”, I thought.
To the left of Darryl was a boy with no regard for his life. He was perched at the edge of the cliff, tossing Greywacke stone at the unsuspecting gulls below. He was silent. The only audible sound he produced came from the rocks as they met the earth below, narrowly missing the intended target.
I walked back down the trail, retracing my footsteps. The ruins didn’t seem to change a bit since I left them. Walking back up that insidious hill and those many wooden steps seemed easier this time around. Maybe it was because I had other things occupying my mind. As I made my way to the parking lot, I looked back. The ruins glanced back in despair, reminiscing the good ol’ days.
