BESIDES GETTING NAKED, WHAT ELSE HAPPENED?
I must admit that my first impressions of the vibe at Harbin, and the attitude of the people, weren't too favorable. Between the scrawny hippie with leathery skin and the lady with a ridiculously large smile, everyone seemed a bit... weird. Like they were absorbed in some intense New Age spiritual quest, and here they were at Harbin Hot Springs, and by God they would attain enlightenment!
And then there were the buildings around Harbin - huge teppees, white domes, curved temples. The mood at the pools was too serious, the tacky buildings were too eclectic. The whole scene had the appearance of being a forced gateway into pseudo-nirvana. But it's funny how our impression change quickly. After spending 30 minutes in the communal kitchen, I got a feel for what this place was really about, and my negative thoughts began to evaporate.
First off was a sign on the door: something about the "health department not allowing full nudity" in the kitchen. That's good. Inside, the kitchen was spacious, with multiple commercial refrigerators and every appliance you could ever want. I started chit-chatting with a girl who was preparing soup- when making food everyone relaxs a bit, becomes more sociable. I noticed, also, the incredible level of organization that goes into making the communal kitchen possible. Everyone had their cubby-hole of storage space, every food item was labelled with name and date. Signs ask us to clean up after ourselves, and watch your neighbor's food in the oven. You'd expect the communal kitchen to become one huge mess, what with dozens of people using it, but it remains spotless and clean. I was quite impressed. Ironically enough, because of strict rules of organization, this kind of thing remains possible.
In the afternoon, there were two events I was really looking forward to. First, there was a free yoga class around sunset. It was quite pleasant, although I found the use of pillows, strechy cords, and foam "bricks" a little over the top. Still, it's blissful to do yoga after a day of soaking; your engine's revving up, ask for more, more! Yoga and soaking seem to go hand in hand, and I was stoked they offered it at Harbin.
Then came the big night-time event: The Unconditional Dance Party! What's a dance party without a beer or two, though? The whole "no alcohol" rule seemed reasonable during the day, but I figured beer can hardly be called "alcohol"; so we enjoyed a pale ale while hiding in the car. Samantha and I then strolled confidently into the indoor event center, and we heard the boom-boom-boom of a bass line cranking. There were lights flashing in multi-colors, strobes blinking erratically, and a crowd 50 strong grooving madly on the floor. Hordes of young ladies and blokes were dancing, where they came from I do not know, because there were mostly middle-aged folks at the pools. But here was a genuine dance party, without the awkward sleazebag and slutty girl mixture evident in night clubs everywhere. Everyone was good-looking and just going off.
By 10PM the DJ had wrapped it up, but we were grateful. You can only burn steam for so long, when your body's limp from a day of hot springs relaxation. We walked out, the dancing sweat dried up on our skins, and felt the chilly nip of the night air. Brrrr! Turns out there was an outdoor shower next to our campground, so we decided to be brave and get cleaned up. The worst parts are taking off clothes and later putting them back on- but the actual shower was glorious, hot and powerful with a full view of the stars above.
Time for bed, and we curl up into the back of the Chevy Blazer. It's really cold. Sometimes I wish I'd make some money and afford the comforts of a room. It sure would be nice right now, not to mention more pleasurable with the girlfriend! Instead of being cramped in a tight space and barely warm. But then moments come along like the one in the hot shower, star-gazing hand in hand, which would never have happened if we'd invested in a comfortable room. It's all worth it for a few moments of raw nature, raw beauty.
The next morning we wake up at dawn. Our 24 hours is nearly up, and I've got to return for work. Of course, we have a final soak before getting on the road. Not too long or else we might feel sleepy. Just long enough to get that re-lax-ed feel, that warm tingly feeling... like the fountain of youth has finally given in, and found a little nook in your own body to reside in.
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
Harbin, part 2
HARBIN: FIRST IMPRESSIONS
We pull up to the gate at Harbin at 8:20AM. Right away I see a big sign that proclaims: NO drugs, alcohol, celphones, pets, cameras, or fire allowed at Harbin. Ok, a bit extreme, but I can handle that. We pay the gatekeeper $25 each and head straight to the hot tubs. I have no idea what to expect. We walk up the hill towards the pool area, and despite it being freezing cold (the sun doesn't get into the valley till 9:00AM) there's a naked guy walking around casually. Geez, I wonder how he's not cold. Those hot springs must really do the trick!
Then I see the sign "Dressing Room" above a door and head for it. Suddenly, I woman with a towel around her waist walks out of the door, which made me halt. You know that feeling when you almost walked into the restroom of the opposite sex? So I felt the simultaneous confusion of that embarrased feeling and the insecurity of not seeing a sign indicating Men's or Women's sides. Was this dressing room, uh, Co-ed?
Samantha took the initiative and walked into the dressing room, so I warily followed her, noting that there were both ladies and gentlemen in the room, in various levels of undress. Ok... I needed a moment to transition to this new reality, so I quickly looked around for a restroom, where I could escape into for some brief solitude. Buy myself an minute or two.
After a few minutes, I had adjusted psychologically, so I had a rinse-off in the shower, and then slithered my way into the large warm pool. Ahhhh. It felt great. I was happy that Samantha was there - I could just tag along with her. I can't imagine being a novice AND solo at one of these co-ed bath houses. Nudity in the dark hours of the night, outdoors in a remote hot spring or beach is one thing; nudity in the bright fluorescent lights of a bathroom is more shocking.
But everyone was extremely respectful. No one made eye contact. Everyone seemed to concentrate intensely on the point two feet in front of their bodies, whether it be for relaxation, a spiritual exercise, or just to keep from staring at others, I do not know. I suppose this is natural. Nudity among strangers requires a serious mood; everyone acts cool, non-chalant, like this is no big deal, so that everyone can remain comfortable.
I read an important sign: "Any sexual activity in and around the pools, or uninvited advances, will result in immediate expulsion from Harbin." I made a mental note not to make any sexual advances.
I crawled over to the hot plunge. Whereas the large warm pool was a balmy 100-102 degrees, the hot plunge is closer to 110 degrees fahrenheit. It is absurdly hot! I learned at Tassajara that you can't ease your way into extreme heat or cold; you have to be committed, and immerse yourself quickly. The sharp pain that blasts your skin (especially the feet) only backs off when you're all the way in the pool. Breath slow and deep, and try not to move very much, otherwise it hurts. I notice a white guy getting out of the water, his skin blistering red like that of a boiled lobster, up to where the water line touched his neck. Like a very intense sun burn. Damn it's hot! I leave after about 1 minute.
I crawled over to the cold plunge. Here is the reward! The flash of cold brings intense relief to my skin, whereas my internal temperature remains high. The result is a wonderful hot/cold tingle which made me feel like a million bucks. I got out of the pool and felt the volume of my lungs expanding, my body pumped up like a gorilla in heat - I could just bang my fists on my chest and shout like Tarzan! But I contain myself because this is a "sacred" environment. There are signs everywhere to be silent. So I breath deeply and go to the sauna.
And so it continued. - alternating between sauna, warm pool, hot and cold plunges. After 45 minutes my body was releasing so much heat I could comfortably walk around naked, even if it were snowing outside. All my muscles where tender and relaxed. I was slightly out of it though, not being used to these intense temperatures, so Samantha and I went for a walk, really enjoying the NorCal mountain air.
....to be continued
We pull up to the gate at Harbin at 8:20AM. Right away I see a big sign that proclaims: NO drugs, alcohol, celphones, pets, cameras, or fire allowed at Harbin. Ok, a bit extreme, but I can handle that. We pay the gatekeeper $25 each and head straight to the hot tubs. I have no idea what to expect. We walk up the hill towards the pool area, and despite it being freezing cold (the sun doesn't get into the valley till 9:00AM) there's a naked guy walking around casually. Geez, I wonder how he's not cold. Those hot springs must really do the trick!
Then I see the sign "Dressing Room" above a door and head for it. Suddenly, I woman with a towel around her waist walks out of the door, which made me halt. You know that feeling when you almost walked into the restroom of the opposite sex? So I felt the simultaneous confusion of that embarrased feeling and the insecurity of not seeing a sign indicating Men's or Women's sides. Was this dressing room, uh, Co-ed?
Samantha took the initiative and walked into the dressing room, so I warily followed her, noting that there were both ladies and gentlemen in the room, in various levels of undress. Ok... I needed a moment to transition to this new reality, so I quickly looked around for a restroom, where I could escape into for some brief solitude. Buy myself an minute or two.
After a few minutes, I had adjusted psychologically, so I had a rinse-off in the shower, and then slithered my way into the large warm pool. Ahhhh. It felt great. I was happy that Samantha was there - I could just tag along with her. I can't imagine being a novice AND solo at one of these co-ed bath houses. Nudity in the dark hours of the night, outdoors in a remote hot spring or beach is one thing; nudity in the bright fluorescent lights of a bathroom is more shocking.
But everyone was extremely respectful. No one made eye contact. Everyone seemed to concentrate intensely on the point two feet in front of their bodies, whether it be for relaxation, a spiritual exercise, or just to keep from staring at others, I do not know. I suppose this is natural. Nudity among strangers requires a serious mood; everyone acts cool, non-chalant, like this is no big deal, so that everyone can remain comfortable.
I read an important sign: "Any sexual activity in and around the pools, or uninvited advances, will result in immediate expulsion from Harbin." I made a mental note not to make any sexual advances.
I crawled over to the hot plunge. Whereas the large warm pool was a balmy 100-102 degrees, the hot plunge is closer to 110 degrees fahrenheit. It is absurdly hot! I learned at Tassajara that you can't ease your way into extreme heat or cold; you have to be committed, and immerse yourself quickly. The sharp pain that blasts your skin (especially the feet) only backs off when you're all the way in the pool. Breath slow and deep, and try not to move very much, otherwise it hurts. I notice a white guy getting out of the water, his skin blistering red like that of a boiled lobster, up to where the water line touched his neck. Like a very intense sun burn. Damn it's hot! I leave after about 1 minute.
I crawled over to the cold plunge. Here is the reward! The flash of cold brings intense relief to my skin, whereas my internal temperature remains high. The result is a wonderful hot/cold tingle which made me feel like a million bucks. I got out of the pool and felt the volume of my lungs expanding, my body pumped up like a gorilla in heat - I could just bang my fists on my chest and shout like Tarzan! But I contain myself because this is a "sacred" environment. There are signs everywhere to be silent. So I breath deeply and go to the sauna.
And so it continued. - alternating between sauna, warm pool, hot and cold plunges. After 45 minutes my body was releasing so much heat I could comfortably walk around naked, even if it were snowing outside. All my muscles where tender and relaxed. I was slightly out of it though, not being used to these intense temperatures, so Samantha and I went for a walk, really enjoying the NorCal mountain air.
....to be continued
Harbin, part 1
HOT AND COLD, ETERNAL YOUTH
Fountains of youth do exist! They're called hot springs. You can find them in most places where volcanic or tectonic activity exist, which makes California a hot springs haven.
I was first introduced to hot springs in Santa Barbara's backcountry, the "Big Caliente" springs. Along with watching the sunset over the ocean, laying in steaming water with stars shining above became my idea of relaxation.
I began to search for other hot springs. During my college years I'd often go snowboarding at Mammoth Mountain, a mountain which is actually a dormant volcano. Hence there were many popular and deserted hot springs in the area, and they became a mandatory stopping point to address both sore muscles and a general need for hedonism.
I discovered an interesting connection between hot springs and secluded beaches around the world: they are places where nudity suddenly becomes socially acceptable. It's quite remarkable how getting naked in the parking lot is frowned upon, but as soon as one walks two hundred feet to the sand or springs then nudity is just fine. I appreciate places that are an exception to the rule.
So far I was just an amateur at hot springs; dabbling in midnight dips with friends, mucking around with candles or beer. Then in September this year I received my initation into the "serious" world of soaking. I spent two weeks with my girlfriend Samantha at the Tassajara Zen Center, in the Big Sur wilderness area. There was hiking, waterfalls, and monks in black robes; but the standout in Tassajara was its bathhouse. We soaked at least twice daily and left feeling like royalty.
Back home in Morro Bay, I found out about a little spot called Franklin's Pond. Actually it's a warm swimming pool with concrete sides and a muddy bottom. Doesn't sound appealing? Well the water temperature is somewhere around perfect, leaving your body comfortable enough to flounder for hours, without getting too hot or cold. Healing properties of this pond are as of yet undocumented, but everyone from 90 year olds to injured athletes go there to soak.
The search hot springs continued. The next logical destination was Eselon, the famous (but pricey $$) center of alternative artists, dancers, and bodyworkers perched on the cliffs of Big Sur. I'd love to go there someday, but it's currenlty beyond my budget. Then Samantha made a new discovery: Harbin Hot Springs, north of San Fransisco.
"Harbin is like a poor man's Eselon." said our friend Stacey, who had been there several times. He raved about how great it was, but still, it was a 5 hour drive from Morro Bay. Then on the week of December 15th, it so happened that both Samantha and I had work off three days in a row. Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, perfect for a mid-week jaunt to Harbin with a quick stopover in SF City. "How about a little vacation to indulge in hot spring delight?" was Samantha's proposal.
I was stoked on the idea, but a skeptical little voice in my mind cried out. "It's probably an overpriced retreat with overrated warm tubs". My bank account was just above minimum bill-paying capability, and my credit card was maxed out. Plus, I had a ton of things to do at home.
But after one look at the website (http://www.harbin.org) the creative spark of imagination was on fire. Multiple hot & cold pools, free yoga classes, dance parties, a theatre with daily movies, all for $25/person camping fee? I read about the 150 full time residents, and realized Harbin was a community, not a tourist trap.
I had a vision: intact in the mountains of NorCal, a remnant of the 60's hippie/love movement, free-spirited and wonderful. Nostalgia for times the older generation speaks of, and my own curiosity for alternative experiences, made going to Harbin more and more irresistible.
The website tells us that although Harbin isn't a nudist colony, clothing-optional is the standard in the area. Nudity might repel some folks. But I consider any opportunity to be naked around strangers an interesting social experiment. Because nudity is taboo in our society, you never know how different groups of people will react together when they can see each other's private parts. Will it be awkward, indifferent, or wonderfully liberating? This was a chance to do some investigative work into human nature.
So the decision had to be made. How would I choose to experience the week of December 15th, 2004? Should I venture to an unique destination, and gamble that my financial distress would be paid off by good memories? Or should I stay home responsibly and do the chores that ensure my weekly sustenance? They say that our best attributes are also our greatest flaws, and I must admit that this is a weakness of mine: I just can't say No to a new experience. Take note. If anyone ever wants to take advantage of me, just suggest a crazy/unconvential adventure, and if there is a slim financial window that will support it, I probably won't back down. Heck, if there's memories to be had, and someone else is motivated to do it, then why shouldn't I? I'm just a sucker for life's interesting moments. So I called Samantha and packed my bags.
THE SAN FRANSISCO MAGIC
Driving north on the 101 Freeway towards San Fransisco, lovely Samantha in the passenger seat. I started calling some old friends who now live in San Fransisco. The essential component of any road trip is a surprise visit to an old friend who doesn't expect your visit. Alex P, from the UCSB tribe of free-spirited artists and globetrotters, answered his phone. "Yeah Beadle come over and check out my new apartment in the Castro!" We'll be there in two hours.
After meandering ten times through downtown SF in the confused stupor of country bumpkins, or that of any tourists unfamiliar with a big city, we finally find a convenient parking spot on Castro Avenue. It's a beautiful warm sunny day. Contrary to what everyone says about SF's foggy cold weather, every time I visit the weather is impeccable, like the city is trying to lure me back more often, reeling me in with its gemstones of sunshine. "Can a city exert that kind of power? Could it really be a conscious entity, one which chooses its inhabitants?" I wonder. That might explain why every city has its own identity.
We find Alex's apartment and stroll right in. We climb three sets of near-vertical stairs to reach the flat, just like in the movies. The apartment is unbelievable, classic Victorian style with a modern finish. Alex is passed out on his mattress. I jump on him in familiar Beadle-style greeting. "What's UP BUDDY!!" Evidently Alex and company had a big party last night, and he was having trouble getting out of bed. Two of his roommates were crashed on the couch. It's 4PM - shouldn't they have recovered by now? But hey, what do I know about big city parties.
"25 bottles of wine, a lot of good food. Yeah man it was the best." Alex nods, and tells us about the party in his unshakeably charismatic tone. Samantha and I hear about his endeavors in wonder. We take a tour of the pad, and Alex now talks about his landlord. "He's a Marxist-theory professor, an old guy with amazing long white hair, and he charges us two-thirds the market value for the rent. Pretty cool, huh?" What a great landlord. The tour ends on the rooftop with a great view of the city. The orange light glinted over the stacked rooftops of the city. Whereas endless rows of buildings are typically a sore sight a nature-boy like myself, I was surprised at how beautiful the architectural ensemble was, a Victorian symphony of three-story homes.
"See, the street down there?" Alex points his finger towards the hustle-bustle of the traffic. "The pizza shop I work for is across from the Castro Theatre."
The Castro was, incidentally, the setting for the Big Bang of the '60s gay movement, the beginning of a worldwide shift in perception towards homosexuals, the dialogue of which continued in this year's presidential elections: shall we forbid or accept gay marriage? I didn't expect to find the answer to such a polemic social question in my brief 3 hour visit to the Castro.
We walked down the street to the pizza shop. Alex was about to start his night shift of pizza deliveries, wearing a plush coat and red scarf, walking with the enthusiastic gait of an award-winning delivery boy. If should a thing exists, then Alex deserves it. He handed us a big slice of gourmet veggie pizza, then walked out the door with two boxes.
As I ate my artichoke & mushroom pizza, I thought. "What a funny coincidence. After graduating college, I was also working at a pizza shop and a catering job." (Side note: Alex is also working at a catering job) We're both graduates from UCSB, with more than enough qualifications to get a full time job. So why do we choose this unglorious lifestyle?" It's all about the flexible vagabondhood I guess. We have good food, just enough money coming in to pay simple bills, and ample time for the things we live for: surfing, sailing, music, writing. A refined version of being a bum.
Soon I ended my daydreams, and left Alex P and the Castro behind, going in the direction of the Golden Gate Bridge. It was nighttime, the lights of the city shimmered over the Bay, and then we went around a corner and it was all gone. After an hour and a half we were in mountain roads, slowly curving around tight corners, just keeping my eyelids open by willpower. We weren't too far from Harbin, but we pulled the Chevy Blazer into a side street, made a cozy bed of blankets and sleeping bags, and passed out until dawn.
...to be continued
Fountains of youth do exist! They're called hot springs. You can find them in most places where volcanic or tectonic activity exist, which makes California a hot springs haven.
I was first introduced to hot springs in Santa Barbara's backcountry, the "Big Caliente" springs. Along with watching the sunset over the ocean, laying in steaming water with stars shining above became my idea of relaxation.
I began to search for other hot springs. During my college years I'd often go snowboarding at Mammoth Mountain, a mountain which is actually a dormant volcano. Hence there were many popular and deserted hot springs in the area, and they became a mandatory stopping point to address both sore muscles and a general need for hedonism.
I discovered an interesting connection between hot springs and secluded beaches around the world: they are places where nudity suddenly becomes socially acceptable. It's quite remarkable how getting naked in the parking lot is frowned upon, but as soon as one walks two hundred feet to the sand or springs then nudity is just fine. I appreciate places that are an exception to the rule.
So far I was just an amateur at hot springs; dabbling in midnight dips with friends, mucking around with candles or beer. Then in September this year I received my initation into the "serious" world of soaking. I spent two weeks with my girlfriend Samantha at the Tassajara Zen Center, in the Big Sur wilderness area. There was hiking, waterfalls, and monks in black robes; but the standout in Tassajara was its bathhouse. We soaked at least twice daily and left feeling like royalty.
Back home in Morro Bay, I found out about a little spot called Franklin's Pond. Actually it's a warm swimming pool with concrete sides and a muddy bottom. Doesn't sound appealing? Well the water temperature is somewhere around perfect, leaving your body comfortable enough to flounder for hours, without getting too hot or cold. Healing properties of this pond are as of yet undocumented, but everyone from 90 year olds to injured athletes go there to soak.
The search hot springs continued. The next logical destination was Eselon, the famous (but pricey $$) center of alternative artists, dancers, and bodyworkers perched on the cliffs of Big Sur. I'd love to go there someday, but it's currenlty beyond my budget. Then Samantha made a new discovery: Harbin Hot Springs, north of San Fransisco.
"Harbin is like a poor man's Eselon." said our friend Stacey, who had been there several times. He raved about how great it was, but still, it was a 5 hour drive from Morro Bay. Then on the week of December 15th, it so happened that both Samantha and I had work off three days in a row. Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, perfect for a mid-week jaunt to Harbin with a quick stopover in SF City. "How about a little vacation to indulge in hot spring delight?" was Samantha's proposal.
I was stoked on the idea, but a skeptical little voice in my mind cried out. "It's probably an overpriced retreat with overrated warm tubs". My bank account was just above minimum bill-paying capability, and my credit card was maxed out. Plus, I had a ton of things to do at home.
But after one look at the website (http://www.harbin.org) the creative spark of imagination was on fire. Multiple hot & cold pools, free yoga classes, dance parties, a theatre with daily movies, all for $25/person camping fee? I read about the 150 full time residents, and realized Harbin was a community, not a tourist trap.
I had a vision: intact in the mountains of NorCal, a remnant of the 60's hippie/love movement, free-spirited and wonderful. Nostalgia for times the older generation speaks of, and my own curiosity for alternative experiences, made going to Harbin more and more irresistible.
The website tells us that although Harbin isn't a nudist colony, clothing-optional is the standard in the area. Nudity might repel some folks. But I consider any opportunity to be naked around strangers an interesting social experiment. Because nudity is taboo in our society, you never know how different groups of people will react together when they can see each other's private parts. Will it be awkward, indifferent, or wonderfully liberating? This was a chance to do some investigative work into human nature.
So the decision had to be made. How would I choose to experience the week of December 15th, 2004? Should I venture to an unique destination, and gamble that my financial distress would be paid off by good memories? Or should I stay home responsibly and do the chores that ensure my weekly sustenance? They say that our best attributes are also our greatest flaws, and I must admit that this is a weakness of mine: I just can't say No to a new experience. Take note. If anyone ever wants to take advantage of me, just suggest a crazy/unconvential adventure, and if there is a slim financial window that will support it, I probably won't back down. Heck, if there's memories to be had, and someone else is motivated to do it, then why shouldn't I? I'm just a sucker for life's interesting moments. So I called Samantha and packed my bags.
THE SAN FRANSISCO MAGIC
Driving north on the 101 Freeway towards San Fransisco, lovely Samantha in the passenger seat. I started calling some old friends who now live in San Fransisco. The essential component of any road trip is a surprise visit to an old friend who doesn't expect your visit. Alex P, from the UCSB tribe of free-spirited artists and globetrotters, answered his phone. "Yeah Beadle come over and check out my new apartment in the Castro!" We'll be there in two hours.
After meandering ten times through downtown SF in the confused stupor of country bumpkins, or that of any tourists unfamiliar with a big city, we finally find a convenient parking spot on Castro Avenue. It's a beautiful warm sunny day. Contrary to what everyone says about SF's foggy cold weather, every time I visit the weather is impeccable, like the city is trying to lure me back more often, reeling me in with its gemstones of sunshine. "Can a city exert that kind of power? Could it really be a conscious entity, one which chooses its inhabitants?" I wonder. That might explain why every city has its own identity.
We find Alex's apartment and stroll right in. We climb three sets of near-vertical stairs to reach the flat, just like in the movies. The apartment is unbelievable, classic Victorian style with a modern finish. Alex is passed out on his mattress. I jump on him in familiar Beadle-style greeting. "What's UP BUDDY!!" Evidently Alex and company had a big party last night, and he was having trouble getting out of bed. Two of his roommates were crashed on the couch. It's 4PM - shouldn't they have recovered by now? But hey, what do I know about big city parties.
"25 bottles of wine, a lot of good food. Yeah man it was the best." Alex nods, and tells us about the party in his unshakeably charismatic tone. Samantha and I hear about his endeavors in wonder. We take a tour of the pad, and Alex now talks about his landlord. "He's a Marxist-theory professor, an old guy with amazing long white hair, and he charges us two-thirds the market value for the rent. Pretty cool, huh?" What a great landlord. The tour ends on the rooftop with a great view of the city. The orange light glinted over the stacked rooftops of the city. Whereas endless rows of buildings are typically a sore sight a nature-boy like myself, I was surprised at how beautiful the architectural ensemble was, a Victorian symphony of three-story homes.
"See, the street down there?" Alex points his finger towards the hustle-bustle of the traffic. "The pizza shop I work for is across from the Castro Theatre."
The Castro was, incidentally, the setting for the Big Bang of the '60s gay movement, the beginning of a worldwide shift in perception towards homosexuals, the dialogue of which continued in this year's presidential elections: shall we forbid or accept gay marriage? I didn't expect to find the answer to such a polemic social question in my brief 3 hour visit to the Castro.
We walked down the street to the pizza shop. Alex was about to start his night shift of pizza deliveries, wearing a plush coat and red scarf, walking with the enthusiastic gait of an award-winning delivery boy. If should a thing exists, then Alex deserves it. He handed us a big slice of gourmet veggie pizza, then walked out the door with two boxes.
As I ate my artichoke & mushroom pizza, I thought. "What a funny coincidence. After graduating college, I was also working at a pizza shop and a catering job." (Side note: Alex is also working at a catering job) We're both graduates from UCSB, with more than enough qualifications to get a full time job. So why do we choose this unglorious lifestyle?" It's all about the flexible vagabondhood I guess. We have good food, just enough money coming in to pay simple bills, and ample time for the things we live for: surfing, sailing, music, writing. A refined version of being a bum.
Soon I ended my daydreams, and left Alex P and the Castro behind, going in the direction of the Golden Gate Bridge. It was nighttime, the lights of the city shimmered over the Bay, and then we went around a corner and it was all gone. After an hour and a half we were in mountain roads, slowly curving around tight corners, just keeping my eyelids open by willpower. We weren't too far from Harbin, but we pulled the Chevy Blazer into a side street, made a cozy bed of blankets and sleeping bags, and passed out until dawn.
...to be continued
Friday, November 12, 2004
Near death of the Punkin Seed
STORM IN PORT SAN LUIS
Sailing is intimidating because of all the things you do not know. There is simply no way to know the weather; and most everyone doesn't know what to do if the weather gets bad. What if the sails rip? What if the mast breaks? What if you go overboard? On a sailboat, the unpredictable is inevitable.
The Punkin Seed's glory days.
Although you can't learn to sail by reading books, it sure is easier to sail once you've compiled a ton of info. One little piece of advice which I knew - but did not follow, and paid consequences for- was how to anchor a dinghy off a pier: set a stern anchor and tie off the bow on a diagonal to the pier, so that the dinghy is kept off the pilings. Problem is, when I arrived at Port San Luis with a storm kicking in, all I could think about was getting onto dry land.
When I had motored into port at midnight, I had thought strange that there were no other boats in the anchorage. The soft lights atop the masts of other boats are a kind sight when anchoring at night in a new harbor, but I would get no such reassurance. In the morning, I still lay alone, except for a brightly painted red boat which lay on the rocks just inside of where I was. It was big and bold, a converted fishing boat which had evidently succumbed to the last storm.
Still, though, I wasn't worried about my sailboat the Raza. The almighty Bruce anchor had 200 feet of scope, giving me a 7:1 ratio on good holding ground. I was worried about my tender the Punkin Seed, the 7ft fiberglass wonder. She didn't have either a stern cleat or a stern anchor, so she'd be at the mercy of the storm. No matter how much I valued my dinghy, the exhaustion from sailing single-handed from Santa Barbara left me uncaring; I just wanted to get away from the 25 knot winds and sheeting rain.
While the wind blew from the northwest, the Punkin Seed lay nicely to the south of the pier, bopping up and down. However, the forecast was for the wind to switch to the southeast, which might be destructive to the dinghy. I went to town to take care of chores and all the things I'd neglected while dealing with the boat. Life is put on the backburner when your boat is on the line.
I had just checked my bank balance and mailbox when I noticed the flags were flying from the opposite direction. I raced my van back to Port San Luis, having to slow down because buckets of water were coming from the sky. Pouring rain, just what I needed. I arrive at the pier, jump out of the car, and squint throught the grey mist, hoping to see a white speck next to the pier: but I see nothing. I ran out to the end of the pier and saw one small corner of the Punkin Seed fighting to stay above the surging water, the rest of it underwater.
Later I realized that the only thing that saved the Punkin Seed from ultimate destruction was that it was underwater; if I had remained above water the swells would have smashed it to bits on the pilings. But at the time, I thought I was witnessing the the last sinking moments of my tender. Two Harbor Patrol guys were cruising by so I asked for their help. They looked at it for awhile but said they couldn't do much.
"Legally, we're not supposed to aid in salvage operations." The bigger guy said half-apologetically.
"A salvage operation? I'm just trying to keep it from sinking."
"Well, I'd say it's a lost cause even if you manage to save it. Whatever you do, don't hurt yourself."
A lost cause? That sure fired me up; I was going to do everything to show those guys that the situation was far from a lost cause. It took me awhile but finally the snagged bow line came unravelled; and I started dragging the submerged dinghy towards the beach. Like a stubborn mule I pulled, the rope cutting into my hands, the elements going crazy all around.
"Punkin Seed! At least I'm going to give you a decent burial!"
I pulled and pulled, the dinghy getting stuck every 10 seconds in the pilings, then finally releasing onto the beach. I pulled it on the sand, and as I stood there drenched and sweaty, I surveyed the damaged. In my opinion, definitely not a lost cause.
Sailing is intimidating because of all the things you do not know. There is simply no way to know the weather; and most everyone doesn't know what to do if the weather gets bad. What if the sails rip? What if the mast breaks? What if you go overboard? On a sailboat, the unpredictable is inevitable.
The Punkin Seed's glory days.
Although you can't learn to sail by reading books, it sure is easier to sail once you've compiled a ton of info. One little piece of advice which I knew - but did not follow, and paid consequences for- was how to anchor a dinghy off a pier: set a stern anchor and tie off the bow on a diagonal to the pier, so that the dinghy is kept off the pilings. Problem is, when I arrived at Port San Luis with a storm kicking in, all I could think about was getting onto dry land.
When I had motored into port at midnight, I had thought strange that there were no other boats in the anchorage. The soft lights atop the masts of other boats are a kind sight when anchoring at night in a new harbor, but I would get no such reassurance. In the morning, I still lay alone, except for a brightly painted red boat which lay on the rocks just inside of where I was. It was big and bold, a converted fishing boat which had evidently succumbed to the last storm.
Still, though, I wasn't worried about my sailboat the Raza. The almighty Bruce anchor had 200 feet of scope, giving me a 7:1 ratio on good holding ground. I was worried about my tender the Punkin Seed, the 7ft fiberglass wonder. She didn't have either a stern cleat or a stern anchor, so she'd be at the mercy of the storm. No matter how much I valued my dinghy, the exhaustion from sailing single-handed from Santa Barbara left me uncaring; I just wanted to get away from the 25 knot winds and sheeting rain.
While the wind blew from the northwest, the Punkin Seed lay nicely to the south of the pier, bopping up and down. However, the forecast was for the wind to switch to the southeast, which might be destructive to the dinghy. I went to town to take care of chores and all the things I'd neglected while dealing with the boat. Life is put on the backburner when your boat is on the line.
I had just checked my bank balance and mailbox when I noticed the flags were flying from the opposite direction. I raced my van back to Port San Luis, having to slow down because buckets of water were coming from the sky. Pouring rain, just what I needed. I arrive at the pier, jump out of the car, and squint throught the grey mist, hoping to see a white speck next to the pier: but I see nothing. I ran out to the end of the pier and saw one small corner of the Punkin Seed fighting to stay above the surging water, the rest of it underwater.
Later I realized that the only thing that saved the Punkin Seed from ultimate destruction was that it was underwater; if I had remained above water the swells would have smashed it to bits on the pilings. But at the time, I thought I was witnessing the the last sinking moments of my tender. Two Harbor Patrol guys were cruising by so I asked for their help. They looked at it for awhile but said they couldn't do much.
"Legally, we're not supposed to aid in salvage operations." The bigger guy said half-apologetically.
"A salvage operation? I'm just trying to keep it from sinking."
"Well, I'd say it's a lost cause even if you manage to save it. Whatever you do, don't hurt yourself."
A lost cause? That sure fired me up; I was going to do everything to show those guys that the situation was far from a lost cause. It took me awhile but finally the snagged bow line came unravelled; and I started dragging the submerged dinghy towards the beach. Like a stubborn mule I pulled, the rope cutting into my hands, the elements going crazy all around.
"Punkin Seed! At least I'm going to give you a decent burial!"
I pulled and pulled, the dinghy getting stuck every 10 seconds in the pilings, then finally releasing onto the beach. I pulled it on the sand, and as I stood there drenched and sweaty, I surveyed the damaged. In my opinion, definitely not a lost cause.
Thursday, November 04, 2004
A Single-Hander's Log Book
SAILING AROUND POINT CONCEPTION
Monday, November 1st
11:30AM
Sunny blue skies, light offshore winds. A perfect day in Santa Barbara. Matt the Mechanic is the water taxi out to my sailboat, the Raza. "Bro, just look at this weather. You're gonna be fine. Seriously." The forecast is also ideallic: light variable winds until the end of the week. But this is a big deal to me. Single-handing a sailboat up the coast for 120 miles is no light matter, especially for someone who 8 months ago knew nothing about boats.
The learning curve has been intense.
Matt the Mechanic drops me off, and motors away in his dinghy. He waves in farewell, and I wave back, thinking, "I can't believe I'm actually going to do this." But you do whatcha gotta do. So I hoist the mainsail, pull the anchor, and head out to sea.
1:15PM
Westerly breeze 10-11 knots in the Channel, which gives the ocean a slight rustle, but not enough to start whitecaps. At first I head at a bearing of 210 degrees, in a southwesterly direction. Then as I get further offshore the wind swings to the north, and eventually I'm heading to 250 degrees. According to my archaic, early 90s GPS, my speed is about 3.5 knots.
I turn on my VHF radio and listen to the automated weather observations: Anacapa Island NE wind 40 knots with 50 knot gusts. Only 35 miles away it's blowing gale force, while I'm cruising in easy winds. The "Santa Ana" winds are in full effect, blowing hot dry air from the desert towards the ocean. Anacapa Island lies offshore from a valley which funnels and magnifies the offshore winds, creating wind waves up to 4 feet tall. You really don't want to be in the middle of that.
But I'm heading in the opposite direction, towards Point Conception - the "Cape Horn of the Pacific". Santa Ana winds are rare, but they do create mellow conditions around the Point. During normal weather patterns though, the wind howls all day at the Point from the north-west, and together with the large swells and currents also coming from the north-west, makes the task of travelling north-west very difficult. That's why it's taken me a month and a half to finally do this trip; trying to coordinate time off work with brief windows of calm weather was tricky. But when I suddenly had a week off work, and noticed that the Santa Ana winds were blowing, I decided to go for it.
3:30PM
I'm about even with UC Santa Barbara, and 6 miles out to sea. It's taken me two and a half hours to cover the same distance a car drives in 20 minutes. Slow going!
The genoa - the big headsail - is balancing the mainsail perfectly, so that the boat sails straight without having to touch the tiller. Everything has to be just right, the wind speed, the sail trim and size; then you can go into the cabin and make a sandwich, come back and the boat is still on course. Pushing along, bit by bit, with the power of the wind.
6:30PM
The wind died down. I have two choices: motor towards shore and anchor for the night, or just float in the Channel until the wind picks up at dawn. It's one nice thing about being alone. I don't have to feel responsible for someone else's safety or comfort, I can make my own choices - wisely or not! My energy level is very high (though I could fall asleep in an instant), and I don't feel like wasting the time to find an anchorage. I'd heard reports that the boat will make slight headway overnight if you let her drift; or at least, she won't loose ground. I leave my running lights and anchor light on so other boats can see me. So I begin to take down GPS coordinates to make sure I'm not going in the wrong direction. After all, I don't want to get too close to the shipping lanes or oil platforms while I sleep down below.
6:45PM
Latitude: 34d 20.82 N
Longitude: 119d 56.42 W
Wind west 5 knots, sails down (bare poles). Boat is rolling around wildly.
11:00PM
Latitude: 34d 19.65 N
Longitude: 119d 50.15 W
Wind calm. Oil platforms far away. Shipping lanes are at 34d 16.00N so they're still far away.
------------------------------------------
Tuesday, November 2nd
1:30AM
Light easterly wind, decent enough for sailing. I feel rested and ready to go. However, my battery is almost dead, since I left the lights and GPS on all night, and the battery hasn't been recharged since before the trip. The only way to charge the batteries on my boat is by plugging into shore power, or running the engine. There is a special battery just for the ignition, so I fire up the Atomic 4, my precious yet fickle engine - motor sail up the coast, until my secondary battery charges up.
WISH LIST: solar panels or wind generator.
3:00AM
Shut down the Atomic 4. Hoist up the genoa, balance the sails under light breeze as best I can, and fall asleep in the cockpit. I'm tired. Wake up every once in awhile to make sure things are Ok, going in the right direction.
7:00AM
The Raza is cruising up the coast on her own. Although we've had our share of arguments in the past, now that we're homeward bound and there's no turning back she's behaving herself quite nicely. As the sun is rising, bringing that magical glow that only dawn reveals, we cruise by the big bright oil platforms, like floating casinos. "Harmony" and "Heritage" are their names, as written in the nautical chart.
Oil being one of the great political issues of our generation, suddenly I'm reminded that today is Election Day! I'll have to really hustle north if I'm going to make it to civilization by this afternoon, and fulfill by democratic obligations. Actually, it's borderline impossible for me to make it, but I still use that as motivation to keep going. I've got to sail north as fast as possible, get my vote out, change my country!
9:30AM
Approaching Cojo Ancorage. This is the point of No Return, the last south-facing beach before Point Conception and the fury of the central coast. Usually, sailboats spend the day at Cojo, wait until midnight when the winds are calmest and motor around the Point. But the buoy reports on the radio tell me it's blowing SSE 5 knots at Conception, a rare blessing. I decide I can't miss this opportunity. Plus, the latest forecast had an abrupt change, saying that the wind on Wednesday (tomorrow) would pick up to a dangerous 15-25knots. I'd have to wait at least a whole other day at Cojo until the weather calmed down. So I went for it.
10:00AM
Just before the Point, the wind dies down. I knew it would pick up again in 1/2 a mile but without sail power I'd spend all day getting there. I crank up the Atomic 4. And it promptly stalls. That's weird. I try it again- it barely starts, then stalls again! What now. My heart is in my throat. We're at a critical point and the Atomic machine is letting me down. Don't quit on me, Number Four! I fire her up again and vrooom! give her full throttle and hope whatever was clogged burns off. It seems to work, after a few huffs & puffs. The Raza is feeling kind today, so far. Knock on wood. Not to say that I couldn't sail all the way north, especially with the current conditions. But given my inexperience I really like to have the Atomic power to fall back on, when the going gets rough.
4:30PM
Slow... slow... so slow. Sailing is so slow. The Raza advanced about 18 nautical miles in 7 hours. Just under 3 knots speed. But it is very beautiful- flocks and flocks of seals swim right by, jumping clear out of the water where the boat's wake makes the surface glassy. As the sun is about to set, the sky becomes littered with wispy clouds, indicating high altitute wind. Though it is glassy calm right now, the wispy clouds tell me that tomorrow the wind will be tooting. The automated weather forecasts have changed throughout the day, gradually predicting that the conditions on Wednesday (tomorrow) will be worse and worse. From "a chance of showers", to "likely thunderstorms, 30 knot winds, 12 foot seas". Now the mission isn't to arrive in time to vote; it's to find safe harbor before the storm. The sunset lights up the clouds, both mesmerizing beauty and a reminder of tomorrow's violent seas.
The anxiety begins the build. Decisions need to be made... I have three choice of anchorage. The closest is Point Sal, 5 miles away, next to Vandenburg Airforce Base; there is no harbor or protected waters, so it'd be a sketchy anchorage at best. The next anchorage is at Port San Luis, 16 miles away; they have a harbor patrol, 3 piers, and I'd be close to home. The final choice would be Morro Bay, my destination 31 miles away; but I ruled out the chances of getting there without total exhaustion. Different parts of me wanted different things. My adventurous part wanted Point Sal, because it was unexplored territory (inaccesible by the public) and it was the closest- my energy level was pretty shot already. I always have to consider the possibility that the motor might fail at any moment. My sensible part wanted Port San Luis, guaranteed safety and ability to go into town if needed. And my grumpy part, which was getting tired of dealing with this boat saga, wanted Morro Bay so I could get all this out of the way. Between watching the amazing sunset and listening to the storm forecast, I debated my options.
As luck would have it, by the time I got to Point Sal darkness was complete; and there was no way I'd try to anchor in pitch black, if I could avoid it. Though it was tempting, I discounted that option, thank goodness, for the storm which came was fiercer than all the forecasts. As I set my course for Port San Luis, I looked at the glowing lights at Vandenburg Airforce Base. The missile silos, warehouses, and landing strips were ringed in lights like the bonfires of an invading army.
7:00PM
The wind is calm, I rely completely on the Atomic to get me to the harbor. I give up worrying about whether or not I'll arrive. I'm tired of stressing out. The storm will come; I will do my best to reach safety; if I get caught in it then I'll deal with it. The Atomic feels really solid though, kicking forth like a young buck. When the smells of the home port mix with an approaching storm, the engine finds its gallop.
1:00AM
The moon rose like a yellow serpent's eye behind the mountains. I stare at it, transfixed, as the hours roll by, running on caffeine and adrenalin. Finally I pull into the harbor, weaving through the red and green indicator lights.
"Port San Luis Harbor Patrol, come in, Port San Luis Harbor Patrol, this is the Raza. Over."
I don't know where I was going in this dark harbor. Minutes roll by before I get a response.
"This is Port San Luis Harbor Security. Come in vessel Raza. Over."
It's great to hear a voice to guide me into safety, as the cold wind is already strengthening. The Harbor Security tells me to anchor between the steel and wooden piers. There's no boats nearby, so it's hard to judge where to anchor. I bring out my jury-rigged depth sounder and find a safe depth of 30 feet, toss the anchor, make sure it's set, and close the hatches.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhh........
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.....
Thank you Raza.
Thank you Atomic.
Thank you wind and sea.
Thank you warm blanket and multiple pillows that I curl up into, and sleep soundly until the rain starts hitting in the morning.
Monday, November 1st
11:30AM
Sunny blue skies, light offshore winds. A perfect day in Santa Barbara. Matt the Mechanic is the water taxi out to my sailboat, the Raza. "Bro, just look at this weather. You're gonna be fine. Seriously." The forecast is also ideallic: light variable winds until the end of the week. But this is a big deal to me. Single-handing a sailboat up the coast for 120 miles is no light matter, especially for someone who 8 months ago knew nothing about boats.
The learning curve has been intense.
Matt the Mechanic drops me off, and motors away in his dinghy. He waves in farewell, and I wave back, thinking, "I can't believe I'm actually going to do this." But you do whatcha gotta do. So I hoist the mainsail, pull the anchor, and head out to sea.
1:15PM
Westerly breeze 10-11 knots in the Channel, which gives the ocean a slight rustle, but not enough to start whitecaps. At first I head at a bearing of 210 degrees, in a southwesterly direction. Then as I get further offshore the wind swings to the north, and eventually I'm heading to 250 degrees. According to my archaic, early 90s GPS, my speed is about 3.5 knots.
I turn on my VHF radio and listen to the automated weather observations: Anacapa Island NE wind 40 knots with 50 knot gusts. Only 35 miles away it's blowing gale force, while I'm cruising in easy winds. The "Santa Ana" winds are in full effect, blowing hot dry air from the desert towards the ocean. Anacapa Island lies offshore from a valley which funnels and magnifies the offshore winds, creating wind waves up to 4 feet tall. You really don't want to be in the middle of that.
But I'm heading in the opposite direction, towards Point Conception - the "Cape Horn of the Pacific". Santa Ana winds are rare, but they do create mellow conditions around the Point. During normal weather patterns though, the wind howls all day at the Point from the north-west, and together with the large swells and currents also coming from the north-west, makes the task of travelling north-west very difficult. That's why it's taken me a month and a half to finally do this trip; trying to coordinate time off work with brief windows of calm weather was tricky. But when I suddenly had a week off work, and noticed that the Santa Ana winds were blowing, I decided to go for it.
3:30PM
I'm about even with UC Santa Barbara, and 6 miles out to sea. It's taken me two and a half hours to cover the same distance a car drives in 20 minutes. Slow going!
The genoa - the big headsail - is balancing the mainsail perfectly, so that the boat sails straight without having to touch the tiller. Everything has to be just right, the wind speed, the sail trim and size; then you can go into the cabin and make a sandwich, come back and the boat is still on course. Pushing along, bit by bit, with the power of the wind.
6:30PM
The wind died down. I have two choices: motor towards shore and anchor for the night, or just float in the Channel until the wind picks up at dawn. It's one nice thing about being alone. I don't have to feel responsible for someone else's safety or comfort, I can make my own choices - wisely or not! My energy level is very high (though I could fall asleep in an instant), and I don't feel like wasting the time to find an anchorage. I'd heard reports that the boat will make slight headway overnight if you let her drift; or at least, she won't loose ground. I leave my running lights and anchor light on so other boats can see me. So I begin to take down GPS coordinates to make sure I'm not going in the wrong direction. After all, I don't want to get too close to the shipping lanes or oil platforms while I sleep down below.
6:45PM
Latitude: 34d 20.82 N
Longitude: 119d 56.42 W
Wind west 5 knots, sails down (bare poles). Boat is rolling around wildly.
11:00PM
Latitude: 34d 19.65 N
Longitude: 119d 50.15 W
Wind calm. Oil platforms far away. Shipping lanes are at 34d 16.00N so they're still far away.
------------------------------------------
Tuesday, November 2nd
1:30AM
Light easterly wind, decent enough for sailing. I feel rested and ready to go. However, my battery is almost dead, since I left the lights and GPS on all night, and the battery hasn't been recharged since before the trip. The only way to charge the batteries on my boat is by plugging into shore power, or running the engine. There is a special battery just for the ignition, so I fire up the Atomic 4, my precious yet fickle engine - motor sail up the coast, until my secondary battery charges up.
WISH LIST: solar panels or wind generator.
3:00AM
Shut down the Atomic 4. Hoist up the genoa, balance the sails under light breeze as best I can, and fall asleep in the cockpit. I'm tired. Wake up every once in awhile to make sure things are Ok, going in the right direction.
7:00AM
The Raza is cruising up the coast on her own. Although we've had our share of arguments in the past, now that we're homeward bound and there's no turning back she's behaving herself quite nicely. As the sun is rising, bringing that magical glow that only dawn reveals, we cruise by the big bright oil platforms, like floating casinos. "Harmony" and "Heritage" are their names, as written in the nautical chart.
Oil being one of the great political issues of our generation, suddenly I'm reminded that today is Election Day! I'll have to really hustle north if I'm going to make it to civilization by this afternoon, and fulfill by democratic obligations. Actually, it's borderline impossible for me to make it, but I still use that as motivation to keep going. I've got to sail north as fast as possible, get my vote out, change my country!
9:30AM
Approaching Cojo Ancorage. This is the point of No Return, the last south-facing beach before Point Conception and the fury of the central coast. Usually, sailboats spend the day at Cojo, wait until midnight when the winds are calmest and motor around the Point. But the buoy reports on the radio tell me it's blowing SSE 5 knots at Conception, a rare blessing. I decide I can't miss this opportunity. Plus, the latest forecast had an abrupt change, saying that the wind on Wednesday (tomorrow) would pick up to a dangerous 15-25knots. I'd have to wait at least a whole other day at Cojo until the weather calmed down. So I went for it.
10:00AM
Just before the Point, the wind dies down. I knew it would pick up again in 1/2 a mile but without sail power I'd spend all day getting there. I crank up the Atomic 4. And it promptly stalls. That's weird. I try it again- it barely starts, then stalls again! What now. My heart is in my throat. We're at a critical point and the Atomic machine is letting me down. Don't quit on me, Number Four! I fire her up again and vrooom! give her full throttle and hope whatever was clogged burns off. It seems to work, after a few huffs & puffs. The Raza is feeling kind today, so far. Knock on wood. Not to say that I couldn't sail all the way north, especially with the current conditions. But given my inexperience I really like to have the Atomic power to fall back on, when the going gets rough.
4:30PM
Slow... slow... so slow. Sailing is so slow. The Raza advanced about 18 nautical miles in 7 hours. Just under 3 knots speed. But it is very beautiful- flocks and flocks of seals swim right by, jumping clear out of the water where the boat's wake makes the surface glassy. As the sun is about to set, the sky becomes littered with wispy clouds, indicating high altitute wind. Though it is glassy calm right now, the wispy clouds tell me that tomorrow the wind will be tooting. The automated weather forecasts have changed throughout the day, gradually predicting that the conditions on Wednesday (tomorrow) will be worse and worse. From "a chance of showers", to "likely thunderstorms, 30 knot winds, 12 foot seas". Now the mission isn't to arrive in time to vote; it's to find safe harbor before the storm. The sunset lights up the clouds, both mesmerizing beauty and a reminder of tomorrow's violent seas.
The anxiety begins the build. Decisions need to be made... I have three choice of anchorage. The closest is Point Sal, 5 miles away, next to Vandenburg Airforce Base; there is no harbor or protected waters, so it'd be a sketchy anchorage at best. The next anchorage is at Port San Luis, 16 miles away; they have a harbor patrol, 3 piers, and I'd be close to home. The final choice would be Morro Bay, my destination 31 miles away; but I ruled out the chances of getting there without total exhaustion. Different parts of me wanted different things. My adventurous part wanted Point Sal, because it was unexplored territory (inaccesible by the public) and it was the closest- my energy level was pretty shot already. I always have to consider the possibility that the motor might fail at any moment. My sensible part wanted Port San Luis, guaranteed safety and ability to go into town if needed. And my grumpy part, which was getting tired of dealing with this boat saga, wanted Morro Bay so I could get all this out of the way. Between watching the amazing sunset and listening to the storm forecast, I debated my options.
As luck would have it, by the time I got to Point Sal darkness was complete; and there was no way I'd try to anchor in pitch black, if I could avoid it. Though it was tempting, I discounted that option, thank goodness, for the storm which came was fiercer than all the forecasts. As I set my course for Port San Luis, I looked at the glowing lights at Vandenburg Airforce Base. The missile silos, warehouses, and landing strips were ringed in lights like the bonfires of an invading army.
7:00PM
The wind is calm, I rely completely on the Atomic to get me to the harbor. I give up worrying about whether or not I'll arrive. I'm tired of stressing out. The storm will come; I will do my best to reach safety; if I get caught in it then I'll deal with it. The Atomic feels really solid though, kicking forth like a young buck. When the smells of the home port mix with an approaching storm, the engine finds its gallop.
1:00AM
The moon rose like a yellow serpent's eye behind the mountains. I stare at it, transfixed, as the hours roll by, running on caffeine and adrenalin. Finally I pull into the harbor, weaving through the red and green indicator lights.
"Port San Luis Harbor Patrol, come in, Port San Luis Harbor Patrol, this is the Raza. Over."
I don't know where I was going in this dark harbor. Minutes roll by before I get a response.
"This is Port San Luis Harbor Security. Come in vessel Raza. Over."
It's great to hear a voice to guide me into safety, as the cold wind is already strengthening. The Harbor Security tells me to anchor between the steel and wooden piers. There's no boats nearby, so it's hard to judge where to anchor. I bring out my jury-rigged depth sounder and find a safe depth of 30 feet, toss the anchor, make sure it's set, and close the hatches.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhh........
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.....
Thank you Raza.
Thank you Atomic.
Thank you wind and sea.
Thank you warm blanket and multiple pillows that I curl up into, and sleep soundly until the rain starts hitting in the morning.
Sunday, October 31, 2004
bring the RAZA back home!
STUCK AT THE SANTA BARBARA ANCHORAGE
Some things are so wonderful, yet at the same time so god-damn-tough, that you have to wonder: is it all worth it? All the hassles, joys, and insecurities! At the end, of course, it's always worth it. But there are critical moments along the way when success seems impossible, and we'd rather just crawl into a corner and forget about it all.
The blessing and curse of owning a sailboat: those critical moments of stress can be amplified to new heights. Case in point: a month and a half ago, I anchored the Raza, my 29ft Columbia, at East Beach in Santa Barbara. She has been there ever since, leaving me to wonder and worry about her wellbeing from afar - 100 miles away, from my home in Morro Bay.
In September my friend Dave and I returned from a surf adventure out at the Channel Islands. The trip was awesome. Everything from the weather, wind, and swell went smoothly; even my fickle motor behaved itself. The mission was particularly an accomplishment given that 8 months beforehand I knew nothing about sailing - and there I was, cruising in search of waves! But on our return to Morro Bay we had some difficulties with the weather. The winds turned gale-force, and we were forced to abort the mission. The gods must have figured, "Enough is enough. This kid thinks he can just brave the seas without experience and get away with it? Ha! We'll give him some sweet struggles to remember."
With the North West winds blowing 25 knots, we returned to Santa Barbara, anchored her near the pier, and headed on our separate ways. Dave had to return to school; I was busy at work. Several weeks went by, and the boat was left on Faith alone. Then the first storm of the season slammed the coast with phenomenal strength, and I had to drop everything and go tend to the Raza. I jumped on the next train to Santa Barbara, arriving just as the wind and rain began to pound.
I had to move my boat into the harbor, as fast as possible. Three foot swells were already starting to cap all around, sending the Raza into a frenzy. Pulling up the anchor was near impossible - the 20 knot gusts would push the boat back with much more power than I could reel her in.
Turns out this was the first time I'd ever pulled the anchor on my own; usually I have a buddy along, which makes life a lot easier and safer. The situation was particularly precarious because the historic Santa Barbara pier lay 50 feet away on my lee shore - the wind would push us straight into the pilings if I lost control. But thankfully the old 1964 Atomic gas engine held up, and I managed to get the anchor on board and motor into the calm harbor. Like an overheating car which is fine until it slows down enough, I must have boiled over because as soon as I pulled into the slip I passed out. For the rest of the day I slept, with the drip drip of the rain pleasantly above.
PLEASE MR.RAZA, CAN WE GO NOW?
My plan was to wait out the storm, recruit some crew during the weekend, and take the boat back north. By chance luck that weekend had a very decent weather forecast, favorable for beating upwind around Point Conception. The prevailing head wind is brutal for those heading north, and to pick a good weather window is essential. It was lucky that the weather window was coinciding with a weekend- when others have time off to help me sail. After all, at this stage I wasn't even considering doing the journey alone.
But there were two things I didn't count on: One, is that people have lives. And lives always change! Even though they might usually be free during a weekend, you just never know. My brother's wife got sick; my friend had to attend an infrequent Saturday class. Dave, my first mate from the Islands trip, said he'd commit despite his upcoming midterms - as long as he was back in San Diego by Sunday night. And there was no way I could guarantee that. I began to think the unthinkable: I may have to do this journey alone.
There was a second thing I didn't count on, to further complicate my trip north: my boat has feelings. The Raza is fairly relaxed vessel, usually in a good mood. But when she doens't want to travel, she's like a fat grumpy dog which doesn't budge. My friend Matt Khach, mechanic extraordinaire and great guy, confided, "Whenever you plan to go somewhere, whether you leave the boat behind or bring it with you, you've got to ask her: Are you going to be OK? Are you sure?? Because if she's not OK, you just have to change your plans." You know the boat has taken over your life if you're making decisions according to what convenient to them, not necessarily what we want to do. But that's how it is!
So you've probably guessed by now that the Raza refused to make the journey north, whether I was alone or not. I had a series of engine problems which kept delaying my trip until I ended up missing the good weather window. I was besides myself in frustration.
In retrospect I realized it was for the best. Boats, like most inanimate objects (and occasionally primitive life forms) have a much better sense of intuition that I do. Clearly, the Raza knew that I wasn't yet ready for the solo journey. I can respect this opinion, but I remained bummed: why do I have to keep waiting?
PULL BACK & GET SOME PERSPECTIVE, BOY.
Two days later I returned by train to Morro Bay and found out why I had to wait. I'd had two assumptions about the journey north around the infamous Point Conception: 1)I need at least one other crew member to help me out. 2)Only a fool would try to sail around the Point; everyone motors north when the wind is calm. Since the prevailing headwinds are so strong in that area, attempting to sail upwind is a recipe for a time-consuming, wet, and painful experience. No one sails north around the Point anymore, these days.
Enter centerstage Mike "Moxie", the dread-locked dude I met at 2 Dogs Coffee. Mike sailed his 27ft Catalina single handed all the way to the Mexican border and back, without a motor. During the last storm in Santa Barbara, he had pulled into the harbor the same day I did. When the weather cleared, and I was wasting time and money on my faulty engine, Mike was sailing up the coast to Morro Bay. Sure it took him a lot longer than if he'd just motored - but he still got there at a reasonable time. I knew such a feat was possible; I just hadn't met anyone who'd actually done it.
Suddenly, the world of my possibilites expanded dramatically. My previous assumptions were replaced: One, I can bring the boat up the coast alone, if I have to. Two, I can sail north without a motor, if I have to.
This realization was huge. Now I was ready to do the trip.
TO INFINITY AND BEYOND
My boss gives me a week off work. I check the weather. Winds: light to moderate. Swell charts: a few pulses, but nothing major. Sunshine is in the forecast; no fog. I pack my bags and head for the train station.
I stare out the window in the train. The countryside is rolling by quickly. This is an old train; the windows have millions of scratches which turn the sun's rays into an orbital rainbow. I watch the setting sun over the ocean - the very same ocean I plan to cross in a few days. Possibly alone. Possibly without using my motor. Possibly I will have fun. The critical moment of hassle, joy, and insecurity is being extended indefinitely; and when I get to the other side, oh how wonderful it will be.
Some things are so wonderful, yet at the same time so god-damn-tough, that you have to wonder: is it all worth it? All the hassles, joys, and insecurities! At the end, of course, it's always worth it. But there are critical moments along the way when success seems impossible, and we'd rather just crawl into a corner and forget about it all.
The blessing and curse of owning a sailboat: those critical moments of stress can be amplified to new heights. Case in point: a month and a half ago, I anchored the Raza, my 29ft Columbia, at East Beach in Santa Barbara. She has been there ever since, leaving me to wonder and worry about her wellbeing from afar - 100 miles away, from my home in Morro Bay.
In September my friend Dave and I returned from a surf adventure out at the Channel Islands. The trip was awesome. Everything from the weather, wind, and swell went smoothly; even my fickle motor behaved itself. The mission was particularly an accomplishment given that 8 months beforehand I knew nothing about sailing - and there I was, cruising in search of waves! But on our return to Morro Bay we had some difficulties with the weather. The winds turned gale-force, and we were forced to abort the mission. The gods must have figured, "Enough is enough. This kid thinks he can just brave the seas without experience and get away with it? Ha! We'll give him some sweet struggles to remember."
With the North West winds blowing 25 knots, we returned to Santa Barbara, anchored her near the pier, and headed on our separate ways. Dave had to return to school; I was busy at work. Several weeks went by, and the boat was left on Faith alone. Then the first storm of the season slammed the coast with phenomenal strength, and I had to drop everything and go tend to the Raza. I jumped on the next train to Santa Barbara, arriving just as the wind and rain began to pound.
I had to move my boat into the harbor, as fast as possible. Three foot swells were already starting to cap all around, sending the Raza into a frenzy. Pulling up the anchor was near impossible - the 20 knot gusts would push the boat back with much more power than I could reel her in.
Turns out this was the first time I'd ever pulled the anchor on my own; usually I have a buddy along, which makes life a lot easier and safer. The situation was particularly precarious because the historic Santa Barbara pier lay 50 feet away on my lee shore - the wind would push us straight into the pilings if I lost control. But thankfully the old 1964 Atomic gas engine held up, and I managed to get the anchor on board and motor into the calm harbor. Like an overheating car which is fine until it slows down enough, I must have boiled over because as soon as I pulled into the slip I passed out. For the rest of the day I slept, with the drip drip of the rain pleasantly above.
PLEASE MR.RAZA, CAN WE GO NOW?
My plan was to wait out the storm, recruit some crew during the weekend, and take the boat back north. By chance luck that weekend had a very decent weather forecast, favorable for beating upwind around Point Conception. The prevailing head wind is brutal for those heading north, and to pick a good weather window is essential. It was lucky that the weather window was coinciding with a weekend- when others have time off to help me sail. After all, at this stage I wasn't even considering doing the journey alone.
But there were two things I didn't count on: One, is that people have lives. And lives always change! Even though they might usually be free during a weekend, you just never know. My brother's wife got sick; my friend had to attend an infrequent Saturday class. Dave, my first mate from the Islands trip, said he'd commit despite his upcoming midterms - as long as he was back in San Diego by Sunday night. And there was no way I could guarantee that. I began to think the unthinkable: I may have to do this journey alone.
There was a second thing I didn't count on, to further complicate my trip north: my boat has feelings. The Raza is fairly relaxed vessel, usually in a good mood. But when she doens't want to travel, she's like a fat grumpy dog which doesn't budge. My friend Matt Khach, mechanic extraordinaire and great guy, confided, "Whenever you plan to go somewhere, whether you leave the boat behind or bring it with you, you've got to ask her: Are you going to be OK? Are you sure?? Because if she's not OK, you just have to change your plans." You know the boat has taken over your life if you're making decisions according to what convenient to them, not necessarily what we want to do. But that's how it is!
So you've probably guessed by now that the Raza refused to make the journey north, whether I was alone or not. I had a series of engine problems which kept delaying my trip until I ended up missing the good weather window. I was besides myself in frustration.
In retrospect I realized it was for the best. Boats, like most inanimate objects (and occasionally primitive life forms) have a much better sense of intuition that I do. Clearly, the Raza knew that I wasn't yet ready for the solo journey. I can respect this opinion, but I remained bummed: why do I have to keep waiting?
PULL BACK & GET SOME PERSPECTIVE, BOY.
Two days later I returned by train to Morro Bay and found out why I had to wait. I'd had two assumptions about the journey north around the infamous Point Conception: 1)I need at least one other crew member to help me out. 2)Only a fool would try to sail around the Point; everyone motors north when the wind is calm. Since the prevailing headwinds are so strong in that area, attempting to sail upwind is a recipe for a time-consuming, wet, and painful experience. No one sails north around the Point anymore, these days.
Enter centerstage Mike "Moxie", the dread-locked dude I met at 2 Dogs Coffee. Mike sailed his 27ft Catalina single handed all the way to the Mexican border and back, without a motor. During the last storm in Santa Barbara, he had pulled into the harbor the same day I did. When the weather cleared, and I was wasting time and money on my faulty engine, Mike was sailing up the coast to Morro Bay. Sure it took him a lot longer than if he'd just motored - but he still got there at a reasonable time. I knew such a feat was possible; I just hadn't met anyone who'd actually done it.
Suddenly, the world of my possibilites expanded dramatically. My previous assumptions were replaced: One, I can bring the boat up the coast alone, if I have to. Two, I can sail north without a motor, if I have to.
This realization was huge. Now I was ready to do the trip.
TO INFINITY AND BEYOND
My boss gives me a week off work. I check the weather. Winds: light to moderate. Swell charts: a few pulses, but nothing major. Sunshine is in the forecast; no fog. I pack my bags and head for the train station.
I stare out the window in the train. The countryside is rolling by quickly. This is an old train; the windows have millions of scratches which turn the sun's rays into an orbital rainbow. I watch the setting sun over the ocean - the very same ocean I plan to cross in a few days. Possibly alone. Possibly without using my motor. Possibly I will have fun. The critical moment of hassle, joy, and insecurity is being extended indefinitely; and when I get to the other side, oh how wonderful it will be.
Friday, October 29, 2004
Motorcycle Diaries
A FILM BY WALTER SALLESI always wondered what was the fascination with Che Guevara. It's apparently really hip to have a poster or t-shirt with Che's yellow silhouette on a black background- I see it all over college campuses. An eerie, romantic emblem of communism in the middle of capitalism. Motorcycle Diaries is a story about Che's travels through Latin America - giving us glimpses of how he developed into a passionate revolutionary - directed by brazilian Walter Salles. By the way, who hasn't seen "Central Station", also directed by Salles? A great movie about despair and hope.
But back to Motorcycle Diaries. It was produced by Robert Redford, so it has a thick Hollywood veneer, making it "prettier" than it had to be. But it is still an effective story of how a journey can transform an individual. Che stepped away from his confortable Buenos Aires life, and his eyes opened to the world of social injustice. Brief encounters with men and women struggling developed his natural gift of empathy- we know from history that this gift erupted into a revolutionary spirit.
Many of us are fortunate enough to travel these days, and travel also opens our eyes. "Us" being the cosmopolitan, privileged generation of the 20th century who finds travel to exotic countries to be a feasible way to spend time. It's quite amazing, actually, that you probably know someone (maybe yourself?) who has been to Thailand, Egypt, or Australia. Travel remains the ultimate luxury. Even Che, which is remembered as a "man of the masses", came from a wealthy family in Argentina. Being wealthy, though, made the adventure a possibility, which made his revolution a reality. Not everyone is inclined to social revolution. But everyone is affected by travel.
I speak not of tourism, which is largely for the sake of entertainment, for the sake of photographs and souvenirs to show off back home. I speak of travel for the sake of experience, the immersion into a different culture, or simply to struggle through a foreign land. Preferably, you'll have very little money, not much of a plan (or at least, a plan that is constantly changing), and an open-ness to whatever happens next. When we have to rely on our ingenuity and spontenaity to get from point A to B, then we get a glimpse of who we are.
It is possible to get a glimpse of our true nature when we're not travelling- that is, when we're living our day-to-day activities of work, school, and friends. But those glimpses are obscured by thick layers of familiarity. What we are familiar with carries loaded stereotypes, so even when an unconventional thing happens we still assume it is conventional. One of the attractions of travel is that everything is unconventional- it's all stimulus, new-ness, excitement. But the positive side effect is that we really have to look into things, stare at them, because it is hard to figure out what is not conventional to our mind. That is what Che did: he looked at things, stared at them, and he changed. Everytime you throw yourself out there into the unknown, you also change. The question is, what are you becoming?
But back to Motorcycle Diaries. It was produced by Robert Redford, so it has a thick Hollywood veneer, making it "prettier" than it had to be. But it is still an effective story of how a journey can transform an individual. Che stepped away from his confortable Buenos Aires life, and his eyes opened to the world of social injustice. Brief encounters with men and women struggling developed his natural gift of empathy- we know from history that this gift erupted into a revolutionary spirit.
Many of us are fortunate enough to travel these days, and travel also opens our eyes. "Us" being the cosmopolitan, privileged generation of the 20th century who finds travel to exotic countries to be a feasible way to spend time. It's quite amazing, actually, that you probably know someone (maybe yourself?) who has been to Thailand, Egypt, or Australia. Travel remains the ultimate luxury. Even Che, which is remembered as a "man of the masses", came from a wealthy family in Argentina. Being wealthy, though, made the adventure a possibility, which made his revolution a reality. Not everyone is inclined to social revolution. But everyone is affected by travel.
I speak not of tourism, which is largely for the sake of entertainment, for the sake of photographs and souvenirs to show off back home. I speak of travel for the sake of experience, the immersion into a different culture, or simply to struggle through a foreign land. Preferably, you'll have very little money, not much of a plan (or at least, a plan that is constantly changing), and an open-ness to whatever happens next. When we have to rely on our ingenuity and spontenaity to get from point A to B, then we get a glimpse of who we are.
It is possible to get a glimpse of our true nature when we're not travelling- that is, when we're living our day-to-day activities of work, school, and friends. But those glimpses are obscured by thick layers of familiarity. What we are familiar with carries loaded stereotypes, so even when an unconventional thing happens we still assume it is conventional. One of the attractions of travel is that everything is unconventional- it's all stimulus, new-ness, excitement. But the positive side effect is that we really have to look into things, stare at them, because it is hard to figure out what is not conventional to our mind. That is what Che did: he looked at things, stared at them, and he changed. Everytime you throw yourself out there into the unknown, you also change. The question is, what are you becoming?
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
Dread-Locks in the Periphery
A CHALLENGING CONVERSATION
At 2 Dogs coffee shop in Morro Bay, I met a guy who completely changed my perspective on sailing. As I ordered my yerba mate, I noticed he had sailing pictures in his laptop. I said Hi. He looked at my kind of funny - it turned out we'd met before. 5 weeks ago I was in Santa Barbara anchoring my sailboat when the dread-lock dude and his lady friend showed up, having just sailed their 27ft Catalina from San Fransisco.
They yelled over the water, "How's the anchorage?"
"Pretty good! It's all sand, good holding ground." I shouted back.
The couple rowed their dinghy towards our boat.
"Hey, by the way, where's a good place to eat around here?"
Turns out they were headed down to Mexico. However, as I talked to dread-locks at the coffee shop in Morro Bay, I found out that his lady friend had to leave for work, and he went all the way down to Ensenada and back to Morro Bay where I now saw him, all on his own. And get this: for most of the way, without a motor!
Actually, he had a motor but it broke down the day he left San Fransisco - he claims this is the best thing that could have happened, because he REALLY learned how to sail. He sailed from Santa Barbara to Morro Bay in 3 days, upwind. Meanwhile, I've been spending weeks trying to coordinate this very trip. My boat is stuck at the Santa Barbara anchorage, and when I finally commit to doing the journey on my own, the motor has issues. So I didn't go. Of course, Dread-Locks didn't even have a working motor so this was never a problem for him.
I feel like I'm fairly gung-ho most of the time, veering towards the edge of reality, but this guy is really in the Periphery. Food Not Bombs, Homes Not Jails, what is he talking about? This is part of his network of existence in San Fransisco, where an alternative community finds livable, unused buildings to squat for free, and gathers packaged, healthy food from supermarket dumpsters. He recently did an experiment: to spend a year without using money.
How is this possible when you're living in the City?? Immersed in the ultimate urban setting, yet completely out of the system. Instead of creating waste, they are absorbing waste. By helping homeless people live in unoccupied buildings, they're making the most of perfectly livable spaces. By taking perfectly healthy food from the dumpsters of supermarkets and specialty food factories, they eat for free - not to mention reduce the landfills.
This lifestyle is not for everybody. In fact it's only possible because of the abundance in our society. But just to think that it is POSSIBLE is an amazing reflection of our culture.
At 2 Dogs coffee shop in Morro Bay, I met a guy who completely changed my perspective on sailing. As I ordered my yerba mate, I noticed he had sailing pictures in his laptop. I said Hi. He looked at my kind of funny - it turned out we'd met before. 5 weeks ago I was in Santa Barbara anchoring my sailboat when the dread-lock dude and his lady friend showed up, having just sailed their 27ft Catalina from San Fransisco.
They yelled over the water, "How's the anchorage?"
"Pretty good! It's all sand, good holding ground." I shouted back.
The couple rowed their dinghy towards our boat.
"Hey, by the way, where's a good place to eat around here?"
Turns out they were headed down to Mexico. However, as I talked to dread-locks at the coffee shop in Morro Bay, I found out that his lady friend had to leave for work, and he went all the way down to Ensenada and back to Morro Bay where I now saw him, all on his own. And get this: for most of the way, without a motor!
Actually, he had a motor but it broke down the day he left San Fransisco - he claims this is the best thing that could have happened, because he REALLY learned how to sail. He sailed from Santa Barbara to Morro Bay in 3 days, upwind. Meanwhile, I've been spending weeks trying to coordinate this very trip. My boat is stuck at the Santa Barbara anchorage, and when I finally commit to doing the journey on my own, the motor has issues. So I didn't go. Of course, Dread-Locks didn't even have a working motor so this was never a problem for him.
I feel like I'm fairly gung-ho most of the time, veering towards the edge of reality, but this guy is really in the Periphery. Food Not Bombs, Homes Not Jails, what is he talking about? This is part of his network of existence in San Fransisco, where an alternative community finds livable, unused buildings to squat for free, and gathers packaged, healthy food from supermarket dumpsters. He recently did an experiment: to spend a year without using money.
How is this possible when you're living in the City?? Immersed in the ultimate urban setting, yet completely out of the system. Instead of creating waste, they are absorbing waste. By helping homeless people live in unoccupied buildings, they're making the most of perfectly livable spaces. By taking perfectly healthy food from the dumpsters of supermarkets and specialty food factories, they eat for free - not to mention reduce the landfills.
This lifestyle is not for everybody. In fact it's only possible because of the abundance in our society. But just to think that it is POSSIBLE is an amazing reflection of our culture.
Monday, April 26, 2004
Tabula Rasa Lifestyle
THE NEW SAILBOAT LIFE
In the search for affordable housing, I came accross an unconventional idea: living on a sailboat. Since I work at a restaurant that overlooks the bay, I was greeted with a daily view of inspiration: achored sailboats, flocks of birds, and the sunset. The prospect of free rent, peaceful solitude, combined with a million dollar view, was too enticing to dismiss. After a month of intensive research I settled on a 29ft Columbia sailboat, and a bank loan which would essentially leave me bankrupt. But hey, it's home owner-SHIP, right? Excuse the pun...
The challenge was that the home port of this lovely boat (to be named the Tabula Rasa), was in Long Beach; given my very limited sailing experience, the prospects of my surviving a single-handed 200 mile journey up the coast to Morro Bay seemed dim. As luck would have it, the owner of the boat volunteered to sail with me to Santa Barbara, to give me a "sailing lesson". I had also met a recent graduate from SF's Marine Institute, who, even though her expertise was with navigating container ships, was convinced that this was an adventure worth undertaking. Lastly, a tall ship sailor turned massage therapist (friend of mine) took pity on our plight - "Point Conception ain't no piece of cake" - and joined our eclectic crew on the last minute.
The only imagery that comes to mind, when I think of that memorable sailing trip, is that of a sadistic rollercoaster, taking hellish drops before careering into a heavenly ascent. The speed at which everything would turn into the chaos of black proportions, and then swing into dream-like order, was astounding. An overheating engine, a leaking gas tank, the ensuing seasickness sprouting from gas fumes, were some of our tribulations; cruising under sail with dolphins, basking in the sunshine enroute to Santa Barbara, singing and storytelling during the nighttime 4 hour shifts, were some of our more blessed moments. Unpredictability! how invigorating.
When we pulled into Morro Bay Harbor, I felt very fortunate indeed. Of course, the difficulties didn't just cease; there remained issues of safe anchorage, battery power for my lights, the porta-potty, access to drinking water, etc... After some serious organizational stress though, I managed to arrive at an ideallic situation: my little taste of free ocean-side living!
Wednesday, February 11, 2004
Finding a Nest in SLO
MOVING TO THE CENTRAL COAST
The summer after graduation, I tackled the traditional "backpack Europe on a shoestring" adventure; and when I returned to the States, I had many choices to make. My family lives in Brazil, and since California continues to feel like home, the question remained: where do I live? Returning to Santa Barbara had a strong appeal, but it seemed too... convenient. I roamed the coastline, visiting friends, occasionally applying for jobs, and that's when I stumbled into SLO county. I was immediately drawn to the coastline, full of great waves; and plus, the small-town atmosphere and pristine environment seemed ideal for me right now. I thought, what a perfect place to embrace a lifestyle of simplicity and non-material happiness, in my post-college transition.
I wanted to keep my priorities simple: surf all day, work at night, and pursue all those things I'd left for the "backburner". In college, we have so many ideas, but no time to follow through with them. Finally, the opportunity is here, and though self-discipline is not an easy feat, I'm taking the first baby steps towards those ambitions that have remained dormant: I'm developing my writing skills, in the form of a novel and magazine articles; getting certified in massage therapy, which I'll accomplish by mid-April; and delving into yoga, tai chi, and capoeira. I'm also reading an exorbitant amount, which is a very rewarding process when done for one's personal pleasure and study. It took me a good 5 months, of wandering and rambling, to figure out how to mold my new life; but through luck and perseverance, I feel the puzzle pieces are finally coming together! The last few years at UCSB were one big jumble of "study study... party-eat-sleep... study study...". Now it's all about balance and continuity, a predictable and even mundane routine. How refreshing. It feels like I have breathing space, time to absorb all the stimuli, and look forward to where the surge of creative momentum takes me.
Perhaps the standard path would be to commit to a "serious job" and make lots of money. But for the time being, I'm having a great time serving pizzas and bartending, two evening jobs which keep my days free. I wake up at sunrise, surf or mountain bike in Montana de Oro, enjoying the ocean and rolling hills. I'll work for a few hours (which gives me ready access to good food), then read & write to my heart's content. And to top it off, I have massage school three times a week. As for the future, I'm looking forward to working at an international company starting sometime next year. I'd like to use the skills I learned at school, so I'm continuing to study Chinese and European languages, as well as exploring all kinds of intellectual tangents. This is perhaps the greatest thing about "down time": studying for one's own sake, which, in turn, helps develop personal energy and motivation. I must accept that future obligations may well lead me to a "9 to 5" career job, which is enough to set the heart of any carefree wanderer a-trembling; so how could I entertain that possibility, without first, fully embracing this current ideallic lifestyle? I just hope that I can continue to balance those two sides, being structured yet free form, as time goes by. My fortune was to have left college with such momentum for learning, and a thirst for experience, that I search for novelty and beauty on a daily basis - and for this I can only be thankful to my friends, my professors, and my family.
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