The Malibuans She Was Studying Were Probably Visitors—Just Like Her
In Be Careful in Malibu, there’s a moment when a character decides she won’t sightsee. Instead, she’ll sit on the Malibu Pier and study the Malibuans.
It sounds deliberate. Almost scholarly. As if choosing observation over participation grants her a clearer view of the place and its people.
But the novel doesn’t let that certainty stand for long.
The Malibuans she was studying were probably visitors—just like her.
The line functions less as a punchline than a quiet correction. It exposes a familiar assumption: that distance creates understanding, that watching from the edge confers insight. In Malibu, those assumptions are rarely held.
The pier, after all, is designed for looking. It offers elevation, openness, and the illusion of perspective. From there, everyone appears sortable—locals, regulars, Malibuans. But the book reminds us that visibility is not the same as belonging. The people who are easiest to observe are often the ones passing through.
Within Be Careful in Malibu, “Malibuans” becomes a word loaded with misidentification. Characters use it confidently, incorrectly, or not at all. The ones who truly belong are rarely named. They move through the background, unannounced, uninterested in being seen.
That’s what makes the observation so revealing. The character believes she is studying others, when in fact she is participating in the same temporary choreography as everyone else on the pier. She is not outside the scene. She is inside it.
The novel doesn’t mock her for this. It simply adjusts the lens.
In Malibu, the line between observer and observed is thin. The moment you think you’re watching from a safe distance; the place has already folded you into its pattern. And if you’re not careful, you’ll mistake presence for understanding—and visitors for Malibuans.