It was a dark land of dangle-dicks and bimbos. A hunting ground. Night manoeuvres. Emptiness and escape. The mission of the beach was a deadly game and I loved it.

Daylight. Mission Beach was a child's playground. The scent of sea salt, hot asphalt, and garden flowers. Here you lived on the land's edge. The playground was holy ground. Light flooded your stage, the New Age God of health jogged past — chest bare, shorts wet. The volleyball God of the beach. They tended their gardens and lived in a bee hive of dwellings, one on top of the other. "We are here, Lord, your chosen ones. Ready to sun worship." The woman admired the mold free rug on her patio; the children played and yelled awake those who would be better off sleeping and forgetting. A couple met for coffee down the street. Boys skateboarded and left in their wake a vocabulary of "fucks"

because they were too young yet and couldn't. On a good day, the sun sparkled on the ocean. On a bad day the tide brought in fog.

Mission Beach is a land of sun tan oil and sweat. A playground. Sun lovers. Laughter and need. The mission of the beach is to play and nobody played better or harder than me. Mission Beach is a life of extremes.

My life is full of extremes: extreme sport, extreme drinking, extreme efforts, extreme relationships. Desperate relationships. My studio apartment overlooks the beach and harbour. It's prime real state and reeks of my success as a photographer. I see the world through my lens. Carl, my editor and friend, insists it's my mechanical dick. He calls me a butch with a zoom toy. Carl is my friend. I have enemies who would say worse.

Pouring a coffee, I settle with my morning paper on my front patio, enjoying being home after being away so long. The beach is nearly empty this time of the morning and the boardwalk is owned by the jogging sun-bronzed gods and goddesses of fantasy-land. Having no life beyond the voyeurism of my lens, I am content with this hollow existence. It rings true to me.

From the apartment upstairs, the first bars of Jingle Bells ring out. I look up with annoyance. December is an illusion on Mission Beach. It's an excuse to string a few lights and up the prices of drinks. December is red and green cherries speared with plastic swords if we're lucky. Was it Christmas? Surely, not yet. Mission Beach people are immune to such simple belief. We practice only the exotic, and then only if it's in. Christmas is never going to be "in" here. Christmas is for the mid-west along with snow, cold, and barns without air-conditioning.

I return to my paper, enjoying it with grim delight, reading about the horrors of the enlightened world. A twig of mistletoe drops in my lap.

"Oh, I'm sorry." A voice from above.

I look up and see two ripe and full breasts leaning over the balcony. If I was a zoom lens I'd be at maximum extension. The face above is cute. I mentally record my first impressions: great knockers, blond hair cut short, green eyes sparkling, skin a glowing red of painful horror. Newbie to the California sun.

"Nice sunburn. Were you going for the well-cooked look?"

She pulls a face. "It hurts. I had no idea how strong the sun was on the water."

"Live and burn." I hold up the mistletoe. "I believe this belongs to you."

"Sorry. I was putting up some garland."

My eyes drop with difficulty below breast level. Sure enough there is a thatch of poinsettia leaves draped artistically above my head.

"I'll come down and get it."

"Please do. Several gulls are puckering up and I'm starting to feel quite nervous."

I go get another mug and a carafe of coffee. Never let it be said that I'm not a Mission Beach prowler at heart. She arrives barefoot and red on my patio. I focus on her facade. They are a pair of monuments to the female experience. "Now you're here, have a coffee with me."

She smiles. It's quite a nice smile. Open and honest. Not the sort of smile one sees very often in my neighbourhood.

"Thanks, I'd love a cup. I didn't know anyone was living down here."

"I've been away for several months. Your apartment was empty when I left."

"I've been here six weeks. I just have the place on a three month lease." She slips gingerly into a chair. The sun burn hurts.

I busy myself with pouring coffee. "I'm Judy Krane."

"The photographer?"

"Yes."

"I love your work."

"Thanks. You are?" I pass her a cup of coffee. It's my first pass. My next will be more demanding.

"Nancy Steele. I'm an author."

I look up in surprise. "N. G. Steele?"

"Yes. Have you read my books?"

"Everyone in California has read your books. Lesbians, like myself, consider them required reading, straights want to be politically correct, and fundamentalists want fuel for the sacrificial fires."

She laughs. "I guess that's why I'm having to do so much promotional stuff here."

I look at her with open hunger now and enjoy the blush that flows up her cheeks. Holding the mistletoe up, I lean forward and gently kiss her lips. I like the taste and want to go back for a bigger helping but she pulls away and reaches to take the dangerous weed from my grasp. "You are bad."

"Why thank you. So now we know each other so much better, how about we do the bar scene tonight? I can show you my medical

papers so you know I have no nasty diseases and then you can show me a good time."

Nancy scrunches up her nose. "Uck. That is a pathetic line. The bar scene wears thin, very quickly. Besides, it's Christmas Eve. Don't you have plans?"

"No. I'm just back. Do you have plans?"

"Well, not really. I have a few ideas."

"Do they involve sex with me?"

"No. Are you always so bold, Judy?"

"Jude, and yes, always. I see no reason to beat around the bush I want."

"You're rude and crude."

"Thank you again, but flattery will get you nowhere. I have my standards and they usually involve more than a kiss on the first date."

She looks at me closely. "You know what I think, Krane? I think you're all talk."

I wiggle an eyebrow. "Try me."

She drains her coffee mug and puts it on the table with a determined thud. "Okay. Seven o'clock tonight. Wear something comfortable but suitable for a night out."

I blink. She laughs. She won.

I knock on her door a little after seven, appropriately attired in dress slacks, a silk t-shirt and a linen jacket.

"Merry Christmas."

I smile. "Hi."

"Come in."

The place is very much like my own. Corner fireplace, picture window looking over the water, a bar kitchen to the side and bedrooms and bath in the back. What's different about this place is it's decorated for Christmas.

"Is that a tree?"

"Good guess." The response comes from inside a kitchen cabinet.

"Is it real?"

"I had to drive miles to find one."

I go have a closer look. Sure enough it is real and decorated rather nicely with hand painted wood ornaments and little fairy lights.

"Here."

I'm offered a glass of warm spiced wine. There are plates of fruits and nuts, cheeses, crackers, fancy sandwiches, and fruit

cake. I eye the fruit cake suspiciously. It has to be a trap, I figure. No one eats fruitcake. They only make it so you can joke about it.

I get comfortable in a big, over stuffed chair and relax to the Philadelphia orchestra playing a medley of Christmas favourites. What I wouldn't do for sex.

"I thought we'd just have some nibbles before going out."

I laugh. "Nibbles? You've got enough here to keep an average California family going for a month. Where are we going?"

"It's Christmas so the food has to be special. We're going to church. The midnight service."

I laugh into my wine. "There aren't any churches in Mission Beach, just cults and franchised TV religion."

"Of course there are churches. There's a lovely old mission one I found along the coast that will be beautiful."

My good mood starts to evaporate. "You're serious?"

"Very."

"I've come on to a holy roller?"

It's her turn to laugh, "No, silly. I just think that it's good to reaffirm one's basic beliefs now and again."

I give her a look. "God thinks you and I are abominations. There's no room in the inn for our kind."

"It's not the dogma I'm interested in reaffirming, but the message of peace and good will."

"Lady, that's good will to all mankind. Our kind are met with stakes and firewood."

"Let's dance instead of arguing."

I smile. Dancing is good. I stand and offer my hand, pulling her close and burying my head in her hair. It smells of mountain air and wild flowers. I kiss her neck.

"Be good."

"I can be great." But I stop and try to be content with just holding her close.

Later, we eat and laugh a good deal. The wine has gone to my head and I feel mellow and content. I like the music. I like the tree lights and I like sitting here with Nancy. I must be hammered.

A little after eleven, I'm poked from my contented stupor and packed into Nancy's Volvo. I offered my 'Vette but it didn't meet with approval. It appears 'Vettes are for beach bums and Volvos are for Christmas. I had no idea.

The mission is adobe. The wall around has an arched wood door and pots of poinsettias and geraniums line the courtyard. Warm light shines through the windows and music floats behind the ringing of the steeple bell. The church is simple inside, the

wood benches old and worn to a shine with wear. The scent of hot wax, fresh flowers, and old ouk fills the air. People arrive in groups and become one within. The church is a cocoon of peace, an island of normality in a chaotic existence. At first uneasy, I become comforted.