Malibu and How it Came to Be

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By Linda McK. Stewart
The Golden State of California boasts 840 miles of Pacific coastline – of which Malibu occupies a mere 27 miles.
There, celebrities from stage, screen and television, Wall Street, the marbled halls of government and toppled thrones all over the world who have built their homes and hideaways, conferring on Malibu a near-mythical mystique of over-the-top affluence.
Malibu and its 13,000 residents project all that Californians prize most: people power, carnal beauty, gastronomy, nonstop sunshine and a studied simplicity, which only a rarefied few can afford. Here Privacy and Seclusion rate top priority. Thirty minutes away tour buses navigate nonstop along the manicured streets of Beverly Hills and Hollywood, packed with gawking shutterbugs. No such buses ever desecrate the quiet streets of Malibu.
An unmarked, unpaved road winds up through a chaparral-choked canyon. It ends at the securely locked gates of an estate that just changed hands for something in excess of $50 million. Local opinion termed it “a steal.” All along the pricey slopes of the Santa Monica, mountains that rise above Malibu, mega-mansions dot the landscape. From the lips of Malibu realtors tumble the names of architectural nobility: Frank Gehry, Pierre Koenig, Lester Tobias, Frank Lloyd Wright; their masterpieces overlook dramatic views of Ponderosa pine and palm, of beach and the boundless blue Pacific.
On Cross Creek Road the Malibu Country Mart, spread over 6 acres, is the closest thing to a town center. Here Malibu residents can deposit moppets, plus au pair, at the charming playground while browsing for essentials: designer rompers for their pipsqueaks?  A $28,999 watch
(plus tax) for Papa? And for Mama…well what does she need? I mean really ***ITALneed***END? A house do-over by Armani Casa? Or a tastefully framed, eight-figure Modigliani (Certified Authenticity)?  The printed word may everywhere be on the Endangered List but it triumphantly survives at the Diesel, the mart’s sassy answer to those “electronic readers.” And bravo for the Diesel, self-described as “the cutting edge, high octane, community radiating, independent neighborhood bookstore.”
Come Sunday, 10 a.m. to 3 p.m., the mart holds its legendary Farmers Market. Here front-page luminaries, a Barbra here, a Dustin there, casual in flip-flops and cut-offs, in scruffy sneakers, Dolce & Gabbana shades and gossamer light cashmere, sniff the local raspberries, squeeze the melons and finger the avocados. They pick up their freshly baked baguette. They stroll unconcerned.  Fellow shoppers avert their eyes. Vendors maintain a professional cool. In this rarefied setting, an autograph hunter would be as alien as a Martian. This after all, is Malibu.
The tale of how Malibu came to be is a wondrous tale of American entrepreneurship of a stripe most dear to American hearts. The name Malibu comes from Humaliwo, that means “where the surf sounds loudly,” in the language of the Chumash Indians who prospered for generations all along this part of the Pacific coast. The 18th and 19th centuries brought the expansion of Spanish missions and common European diseases against which the Chumash had little resistance. Soon the Chumash people dwindled from the thousands to a few dozen.
In 1891 Frederick Hastings Rindge, Massachusetts born and bred, transplanted for health reasons from New England to California, acquired 30,000 acres of what was probably the last undivided Spanish land grant. A Harvard graduate, philanthropist and progressive visionary, he transformed the land into a self-sufficient ranch that operated like a small, independent nation. To export the ranch output of hides, beef, grain and fruit in 1902 he built a railroad plus a coastal pier which survived to serve as a vital lookout through World War II. Repeatedly battered by storms, the pier today, rebuilt and extended and open to the public, is a prime Malibu tourist attraction.
No less an attraction is the beachfront Adamson Historic House. It’s a 1930 Spanish Colonial residence, built by Rhoda Rindge Adamson, granddaughter of Frederick Rindge who died prematurely at the age of 48. Three generations of Rindge descendents lived there, spanning two world wars. The house which overlooks Frederick Rindge’s pier, now dubbed Malibu Pier, is listed in the National Register of Historic Places. Fortunately, the house, its lawns and gardens have been lovingly preserved by the California Parks System. It’s the most complete residential showcase of Malibu Tile, produced by the
Malibu Pottery, founded by Frederick Rindge’s wife. The distinctive Malibu Tile is much sought today by California’s prime decorators.
For millions of surfers around the world, the mere mention of Malibu is synonymous with dreams of The Wave, of endless, uncrowded beaches and a laid back way of life that is fast vanishing from the face of the earth. Surfing schools flourish and many accept kids barely out of kindergarten.   All Malibu beaches are open to the public, this despite the lack of enthusiasm by many beachfront householders.
Fortunately, Malibu’s surf and sand does not belong exclusively to the rich, richer and richest. It belongs as well to the hundreds of thousands of beach-lovers, surfers and ordinary tourists who find their way to Malibu every year.  As one wag put it, Malibu is not as much a place as it is  “a sun-drenched state of mind.”