It was a beautiful St. Patrick’s Day morning near Point Mugu when I set out to climb the giant sand dune off PCH with my date, Adrian. Years earlier, at the age of 18, he had lost his vision to a genetic disorder. As we stood at the base of what could have been a lunar landscape, Adrian told me he could faintly see the outline of the massive dune against the sky.
We trudged through the sand until the incline forced us to climb on our hands and knees, but the powdery sand seemed to swallow every step and we kept slipping backward. Thankfully, Adrian was laughing as much as I was. “I feel like I’m rock climbing in quicksand,” he said.
When we finally reached the top, I looked out at the Pacific. I felt badly that Adrian couldn’t see the natural beauty around us. I asked if he could hear the rumble of the waves. He nodded thoughtfully: “I have to pay close attention to distinguish it from the cars.”
We were on our second date, and I had planned a daylong road trip from Los Angeles to Santa Barbara. Among other things, I wanted to see an exhibit by Mexican painter Rufino Tamayo at the Santa Barbara Museum of Art.
“You’re taking a blind person to a museum?” one of my girlfriends had asked incredulously.
I understood her point, but it was hard to pass up the exhibit, since both Adrian’s family and mine were from Mexico. On its own, the museum might have been the wrong place to take him. But as just another stop on our journey, the museum was an opportunity to bond over our shared culture. Standing before the paintings, I tried to describe Tamayo’s style and vivid colors, and how they conveyed emotion.
I’d actually given a lot of thought to planning our day. To avoid encountering a restaurant menu we’d have to read, I’d packed a picnic lunch with finger foods.
We went to the Old Santa Barbara Mission and spread out our blanket under the drooping, willowy branches of a California pepper tree. Later, Adrian told me the gnarled roots poking up through the earth felt like tentacles that might start moving at any moment.
The date turned out to be a hit, and with each date that followed, my perspective evolved. For starters, I stopped focusing on things Adrian couldn’t see. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but to a blind person, sounds, scents, and tactile experiences are worth thousands more.
At a Greek festival in Northridge, the music, fragrant food, and spoken Greek transported us overseas. During a date to a Lakers game, we stopped at the Magic Johnson statue outside the arena and ran our hands over Magic’s bronze Converse shoes. Adrian felt every wrinkle and fold on the laces, which helped connect him to the game.
Adrian and I have been married for 15 years now. Eventually, I stopped trying to describe to him everything that I saw. Instead, I learned to use my other senses to appreciate the ways in which our worlds intersect: tuning in to the sound of water running down a street; feeling a heart-shaped rock in Nichols Canyon; savoring the unmistakable scent of onions sizzling on a taqueria grill.
Embracing all my senses not only drew me closer to Adrian, but also nurtured in me a deeper appreciation for this rich region we call home.
