At La Jolla Shores, the old truck bakes in the heat, its metal shimmering under the orange midday light. Two surfboards rest in the back, their wax soft from the sun. The air is thick, carrying the faint smell of salt and sunscreen. Somewhere down the beach, waves slap lazily against the shore, but here it’s quiet, except for the distant hum of traffic and the slow ticking of the truck’s cooling engine. The surfers who came in it have wandered off barefoot, boards left behind, drawn toward the shade and the promise of something cold to drink.