In many cultures, there is not just a spiritual concept of the afterlife, but a physical manifestation. In Norse mythology, the Vikings had Valhalla (literally, “hall of the slain”) for those that died honorably in battle. Lesser known is the Norse Helgafjell (“holy mountain”), a place so sacred that the living could not look in its direction without washing their face first. In Greek mythology, the ferryman Charon transports the souls of the recently deceased across the river Styx to the afterlife.
For Cristina’s children Steven and Adrienne, living in Southern California along the coast provides an excellent opportunity to cross our own Styx and gaze upon beautiful Catalina Island across the ocean as our Valhalla or Helgafjell.
We chose 2/22 to spread Cristina’s ashes for a number of reasons. Cristina’s mother Livia was born in 1922 and died April 22, 2002. Cristina’s sister was born on December 22. And the 22nd would be just short of a month from Cristina’s departure from this world.
Paola, Alba, and David accompanied Adrienne and Steven 26 miles across the sea on a beautiful sunny Friday. Steven last came to Catalina in 2001 to spread the ashes of his father and Cristina’s husband Manuel. His ashes are at Twin Harbors, an area he frequented with his sailboat on the northern part of the island.
We arrived without much of a plan; we knew that we would fine a location to spread her ashes that felt “just right” by allowing the moment to guide us. We walked past the shops and waffle cone vendors and headed up towards the old casino featured in almost every Avalon postcard. We continued until we found a beautiful but secluded resort area that was obviously closed for the off-season. The beach chairs and tables were all covered, but there was a wooden deck at the end of the beach that looked just right.
The five of us opened a bottle of vintage 1995 champagne that Steven had been saving for a special occasion. After all, one thing Cristina taught us all is to celebrate life and she absolutely hated a typical funeral. We remembered fondly that she would always say “I want all the flowers that you were going to buy for my funeral NOW, while I’m around to enjoy them.” And so we obeyed and brought her flowers in life, but none on this trip. This was a celebration — but not a goodbye. Cristina was just moving across the sea to her new residence.
Individually, we went down to where the ocean met the sand. In this part of Avalon, the waves were very small — almost like the gentle lapping of a brook. It is such a serene and peaceful place. A female seagull came by and perched, unafraid, near us while we held our green bottles filled with ashes and spoke some private words to Cristina before emptying the bottle. Steven decided to leave his bottle behind, wedged into the face of the rocky cliff that marked the edge of the beach.
As we walked back to the boat landing to catch our ride home, the sun was setting. Cristina was home now — just across the river. We wouldn’t find out until later that night that the beach we selected was aptly called Descano Beach (in Spanish, “relaxation”). As we were boarding the boat, few of us spoke but we all felt a small bit of emptiness in our hearts. As if reaching out from beyond to slap us around for allowing our smiles to fade, Cristina sent us a message. We had not noticed it before, but a large sign near the landing reminded us to “GO IN PEACE.” And so we did.
Now, every time that any of us drive down Pacific Coast Highway on a clear day, we can look across the sea and know that Cristina and Manuel are nearby, keeping a watchful eye over all of us. And if you know Cristina, you would know that this is precisely the spot where she would want to be for the best people watching — an unobstructed view of the entire coastline with young shirtless beach patrons nearby keeping her entertained.
