Another Saturday Night

Yesterday my neighbor wanted to go somewhere and do something. That was as specific as she got and she wanted me to “make a plan” to do this. English is her fourth or fifth language, and what she meant was that I should come up with an idea and do the driving to implement it. I knew it wouldn’t matter what I came up with because she would have something in mind and she’d politely listen to me and then tell me what we were actually doing as if I’d suggested it. And that was fine, because no matter where we end up it involves food and she insists on paying for that food. Give and take.

It turned out that she wanted to basically go for a Sunday drive on a Saturday. She wanted to enjoy the scenery and specifically talked about the farms and Black Road. She was clear about that. We’d driven home from the Guadalupe Dunes one day taking that route and she’d enjoyed it. Okay, so we headed out. She praised me for the millionth time because I don’t need a map or the GPS. I replied, for the millionth time, that I’ve lived here for three years and this is not a big deal. But then she wanted to know why we couldn’t see the ocean.

You should know that I’ve explained this to her before. More than once. But again I told her that Vandenberg Air Force Base owns a lot of the surrounding area and you either have to be south of it or north of it to get to the ocean. The one exception, which seems to cause my neighbor some confusion, is Surf Beach. Yes, we can drive down Ocean Avenue to that beach, but only because VAFB allows us to. And anytime they want they can close the beach and/or the road. It’s their property and they can do it. Just because. My friend’s response to this is along the lines of, “I looked at the map and there are roads that go right by the ocean. And you can get to them from here.”

Because of my background serving in the military and having to answer people who outranked me and therefore had to be shown respect, and also years of dealing with the elderly, I completely hid my impatience and nicely said, “Those roads are on the base. The Air Force owns the land and we can’t go on the base. I’m not even sure if we could’ve gone on the base back before 2001. But we definitely can’t now, and the only way to see that part of the ocean is by taking the train, as the train does run along the coast, through VAFB property.”

“You can see the ocean from the train?” she asked, with too much enthusiasm.

“Yes, only from the train.”

“So let’s go on the road next to the train. I saw it on the map.”

I tried another tack. I mentioned that the base covers over 99,000 acres of land. I pointed out that it’s the third largest base in the country. I swept my hand back and forth and said, “We’re driving through part of it right now. Everything you see is owned by them. See those signs that say ‘Warning! No Trespassing!’? That’s because this is all theirs.”

“We’re on the base property right now?”

Oh, yeah, I could hear the next words out of her mouth before she uttered them. “Yes, but only because they allow this stretch of road to be used by the public. They don’t allow us to go to the ocean. It’s not allowed.”

When this had continued for more minutes than you’d believe and I’d exhausted every way I could think of to make her believe that it wasn’t simply a case of me withholding the ocean on purpose, I said, “We’d be shot if we tried it. Shot.”

Yes, I just made that up. I was desperate.

I then asked how she was enjoying the farm scenery, which I could’ve sworn was what she originally wanted to see. She made a bit of a “meh” sound and said she was hungry.

We had arrived in Casmalia by then, and I saw a sign for a restaurant. The Hitching Post. I asked her if she wanted to go there, or check out Casmalia, and she hemmed and hawed as I drove past the turn. Then she said, “Oh, did you want to do that?” Getting something decisive out of her is like changing your flat tire right after the lug nuts have been tightened by a power tool.  I made a U-turn and we went to see what Casmalia looked like.

It does not look like a “charming Western town” as I saw it described after looking it up. It looks like a terribly poor town that time forgot. All poverty and trash and no charm. But the restaurant was packed. And they likely weren’t locals patronizing the place, unless the locals spend all their money on Beemers and Range Rovers rather than roofs.

As we approached the restaurant after having driven as far down the main street as we could go (there was a gate at the end and a no trespassing sign and a comment about the base may have been made) and coming back, I asked if she wanted to eat there. She asked if I wanted to eat there. I said I asked her first. Since I couldn’t flip a coin while driving, I said that if there was a parking spot open, we’d stop, and if not, we wouldn’t. Agreed.

There was a parking spot. As we walked toward the door I said, “I can’t believe we’re going into a place we didn’t check out online first.” A man overheard me and said, “You don’t know about this place?” I said no, that we’d just been driving by, and he said, “I came all the way from Sacramento for this BBQ.” And that should’ve been enough to turn us around. But we went in. And the hostess asked if we had reservations. Seriously, the town is SAD and the exterior of the restaurant is forced old-fashioned quaint, and she asked if we had reservations. I said no. She seated us anyway.

The place was decorated with “Whoa, partner, aren’t we western-like” doo-dads, and it was ridiculously loud. So loud that I could read the menu and laugh at what I saw and no one, including my friend sitting just across from me, could hear me do so.

While not in my budget, the steak portion of the menu wasn’t that bad. $29 for the least expensive item, but it included a shrimp cocktail in addition to salad, bread, coffee and dessert. Prices went up from there with a Filet Mignon costing $52. But that’s not what I found humor in. My funny bone was first tickled by a pork chop costing $29. A single pork chop. Please. But then I saw the lobster tail. Not just any lobster tail, of course. One flown in from Australia (because, I guess, the local ones aren’t good enough). $66. Yes, sixty-six dollars for a lobster tail. For that price I want the Aussie guy who caught it to serve it to me, and dab the melted butter from my lips with his own.

My friend, who as I said always insists on paying, was having a mild heart attack. So I attempted to ask her if she’d rather not eat there. But I quickly realized how futile that was. First, she couldn’t hear me, and second, she’d only ask what I wanted to do. So when the waiter, Jordan, came over I told him we were sorry, but we’d have to go, as it was simply too loud to carry on a conversation. The way I was raised, it’s unseemly to shout over your meal, but that’s what all the other diners were doing.

Back on the road, we were still way off the beaten track. And since my friend refused to say where she wanted to go next, I just kept us on the back road, even though I knew there’d be no other places to eat for a while. Ornery is as ornery does.

Finally, when she whipped out her phone and used the GPS to see where we were and how far away food was, I headed back to civilization. We ended up at the Olive Garden (“Where do you want to eat?” “I don’t know, where do you want to eat?” “Wherever you like.” “No, wherever you like.” “The Olive Garden is right there.” “If you recommend it, then it’s fine.” “I’m not recommending it, just pointing out that it’s there.” “If you say it’s good, we’ll go there.” “Uncle.”), where our waitress, Jordan, smiled politely as I laughed at her name.

Bleeding Heart

My neighbor, Dima, asked me if I wanted to do something today. I said I’d planned to walk on the beach. I didn’t mention thinking about swimming out to sea to drown my sorrow about being alone, yet again, on Valentine’s Day. People tend to take those comments seriously and want to call a hotline for you. She was happy to hear that I’d be happy to have her accompany me and we went to Surf Beach, which is owned by Vanderberg AFB.

We walked south a little ways (maybe half a mile or so) and a couple walking toward us said there was a baby seal* up ahead. I could make out a speck in the distance. This has never happened before. I go to this beach a lot and I have never once seen a seal*. They went on to say that there was a mama seal further up the beach and she didn’t look good. I asked if they’d call someone when they got back to the parking lot (because there is zero cell reception on the beach) and they said they would.

Dima wanted to know who they’d call. I said I had no idea, since whenever I hear about wildlife being rescued it happens up near Morro Bay or down in Santa Barbara. But they looked like an intelligent couple and I was sure they’d Google it.

It’s a ridiculously hot day here (sorry to those on the east coast, I can’t appreciate 86 when it should be 66), and it’s the weekend, so there were a lot more people on the beach than usual. And by a lot, probably a total of 50 or so.

We approached the baby seal* and he (I have no idea if it was a he or she, but that was my sense of the little sweetheart) was wary. He looked confused, but knew enough to be afraid of the big humans. I talked to him in my “soothing the animal” voice and he let me get pretty close. But then some kids approached and he freaked, moving toward the surf. I wasn’t sure he could handle the ocean (the couple had said they thought he’d just been born and I had no idea if that was true or not). I told the kids to keep back, not to scare him, and they did.

 Dima wanted to walk on, so I left the little guy and continued, curious about his mother.

When we got to her it was obvious that she was in terrible shape. You don’t need to be an expert on seals* to know that it shouldn’t be possible to walk right up to one and pet it. She was in such distress and there was nothing to do for her. 

We walked on (Dima likes to walk because she thinks it makes the calories in her snacks disappear, bless her heart). We didn’t go as far as I normally do because she was tired (when you’re not used to walking on the sand it’s a harder workout), and when we approached the mama seal* again she was in the process of throwing herself into the ocean.

I don’t know where she found the strength to do it, since she seemed so close to death already (I have a way with animals, but I don’t kid myself that a seal* would let me stroke her fur, on her head no less, if she wasn’t incapable of snapping my fingers off with her teeth). The tide was going out and she would throw herself into a wave and be taken out a bit, then the retreating surf would flip her onto her back where she’d stay, unable to move. Another wave would right her and she’d do it again. Then she just couldn’t move on her own anymore and a wave pushed her face into the sand. I couldn’t stand to watch, and walked away.

When we got back to the baby seal* he looked in our direction, which was also the direction his mom was, then started toward the ocean. I have no idea how these animals communicate, but I said to Dima that I wondered if the mama found the strength to get herself back into the water so that he’d know he should do the same thing. They were too far apart for her to show him, but maybe he could sense it.

He hesitated a bit when the first wave hit him, but then he just dove on in and disappeared under the water. I saw him come up once, but that was it. I truly hope he’s okay and found some other seals* to help him learn what his mama can no longer teach him.

A staff sergeant from VAFB walked up at that time and we told him that he’d just missed the baby, and I pointed out where the mama’s body was further down the beach. He said that in the past when a seal has come up onto the beach and been sick it’s been due to mercury poisoning. He asked if she had any wounds and she did have one on her neck. He told me that if I ever saw something I felt should be reported, like this, to call the VAFB law enforcement desk and they’d know who to send out. The couple we’d met had done just that.

He went off to investigate mama and deal with that and we headed back to the parking lot. As we did, I saw that another airman was walking with a man in the same direction. Walking with doesn’t really describe it. He was slightly behind him, off to the side a bit, and his body language screamed “on guard.” I told Dima we needed to be on firmer sand and moved us away, though we were walking parallel to them all the way back to the parking lot.

Poor Dima wasn’t prepared for the final dune climb off the beach and onto the train tracks. It’s not steep, but it’s a long slog uphill through dry sand after you’ve just walked for an hour and a half and it can cause cursing and heavy breathing. Can? Who am I kidding? Every single time I walk up that dune I curse it. So we got to the parking lot, and then used the restroom, and then went to my car to change out of our beach shoes and go home.

I saw the airman standing over the guy he’d walked up the beach. The guy had his hands cuffed behind his back and was sitting on the curb two cars down from mine. The airman was talking into his radio spelling out the man’s name. I didn’t stare, exactly, since I was raised with manners, but I did take in the situation.

As we drove off I said to Dima that I wondered what the man had done wrong, or how the airman had known that he was wanted, if that was the case. She said, “What? What are you talking about?” So I said something like, “The guy on the beach? The guy the military man just escorted back here? The guy who’s in handcuffs and about to be taken away? Did you not see him?”

She said she hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary and she was fascinated that I had. I wanted to say, “Never ever come here alone to walk, okay?” but I didn’t. I said that I often am the only person walking on the beach and I pay attention to my surroundings and to what’s going on when others are present. That it’s called being prudent. She said, “Even when there are all these families here, enjoying the day?” I said I couldn’t turn off my radar. I had the feeling she felt sorry for me.

So, I watched a beautiful creature’s life end, and saw another go off into the unknown very likely unprepared. Rather than taking away from the day that at least I spent some time with an acquaintance, I focused on how alone I am. Just like the baby seal*. No mom anymore, no idea what might be next, and no red roses on Valentine’s Day. Okay, the seal* is probably unconcerned on that score. But it’s been an unsettling day and I’ll whine if I want to.

*I later learned they were sea lions, not seals.

A Walk at the Beach

Yes, it’s January and 64 degrees and I went for a walk at the beach. But don’t envy me until you see how “relaxing” it was.

I always come home from the beach with a ton of rocks. Every time I tell myself that I won’t pick up more and every time I fail. They are so colorful and each is tempting in a different, gorgeous way. The fact that my apartment could end up becoming a first floor unit if I don’t stop adding more rocks is a concern that I never have while inhaling the salt air and listening to the seagulls screech hello.

Today I decided, before I got done changing into my beach shoes in the parking lot, that I would not bring home a single rock. I would meditate while walking, being mindful only of my breathing and the waves pounding ashore beside me. My walks tend to last about an hour and a half and one can do something as simple as that for an hour and a half. Right?

Yeah, right.

It was by turns sunny and overcast as I walked, and the tide was going out so there was a large expanse of wet sand to walk on. Of course there were also more rocks visible and they were glistening and calling out to me, “Look how pretty we are, especially when wet!”

Me: Nope, not gonna stop to check out that red one. Just walk.

Myself: Really? Do you think we already have a red one like that? That was a nice specimen you just passed up.

Me: Let it go. Don’t start singing that song, concentrate on the waves. This is relaxing, we’re breathing here, we’re not picking up any rocks. They will all be here on the way back if need be.

Myself: If need be? That means we’re going to collect rocks? But what if someone else gets that good one while we’re a mile away? If we’re going to do it, let’s do it.

Me: No. I said that to get us past that particular temptation.

Myself: You lied?

Me: That’s a harsh way of looking at it.

Myself: Green one! Look at the green one! Is that heart shaped?

Me: It is NOT  heart shaped! (stopping to look) It has the vague suggestion of a heart, yes, and it is our favorite, but it’s staying right there.

You might think the blue ones would be my favorites but you'd be wrong. While I like them, the green rocks possess the true siren's call.

Myself: We’re not picking up rocks but we’re not looking at the ocean, either.

Me: I know. Damn it.

Myself: OMG! Do you see that? It’s pearlescent! We have never used that word to describe a rock before. Shells, yes, but never a rock. We have to have that one!

Me: (bending over and picking it up) Yes, we do. There is no argument about that. We've not seen this before.

And then, in the same way that one potato chip leads to another, my pockets became full of green rocks and tawny rocks and a blue hued rock and a black rock that could be visualized in a craft project that will likely never actually happen, and my pockets weighed six pounds more than when the walk started. As usual.

Me: It has to stop.  Ocean, breathing, let the distractions go.

Myself: Look at the nice piece of driftwood.

Me: We have driftwood. We don’t need any more driftwood.

Myself: No one *needs* driftwood, but it’s an unusual shape.

Me: They are all unusually shaped. We’re passing it by.

Myself: Is that an arrow? It is an arrow. Someone has scraped an arrow into the sand. Don’t even think about ignoring that.

Me: sigh…Let’s go see what’s up there on the dune. It’s pointing at something.

It was pointing at the oil drum that Shell had allowed to become garbage in the ocean. Too much for me to cart back in my litter bag.

Heading back, pockets weighing me down, another attempt at mindfulness was made.  Deep breaths that filled my lungs with delicious, salty air, and my gaze on the waves calmed me for about a minute. Then….

Myself: Red alert! Red alert! Man with a backpack approaching!

Me: It’s okay. It’s a holiday weekend and there are a lot of people here (90% of whom stay within sight of the parking lot and don’t venture as far south as I do). The fact that he’s carrying a backpack does not mean he’s chopping off the heads of women who walk alone on the beach and carting them home in that pack. And these kinds of thoughts are exactly why we should be relaxing. No more Criminal Minds marathons on TV.

Myself: Okay, yes, he’s smiling and waving in a friendly manner. Wave back. He’s old. We could take him easily if we had to.

Me: Only if he doesn’t have a gun. A gun would change everything.

I: Oh, for the love of everything that’s holy, shut the hell up! Shut up shut up shut up! Stop talking to yourself, stop following every something shiny, stop obsessing about fellow beachcombers! We are supposed to be RELAXING, damn it. RE-EFFING-LAX!

Moment of silence inside my head.

Me: Being yelled at by myself doesn’t really help in that regard.

Myself: Watch who you’re blaming!

Me: Thinking that being yelled at by I isn’t grammatically correct.

I: I give up! Continue to be an obsessive nerd! Ignore the entire Pacific ocean! Have a freakin’ panic attack if it makes you happy – I’m done!

It should be noted that I is the only one who thinks we should eliminate sugar from our diet.

Me and Myself then enjoyed a lovely encounter with a small, black dog who wanted to be petted and whose owner allowed it, discovered that “Erik hearts Brad” and we should “Spread the Happiness,” 

took a photograph of a piece of driftwood that was definitely too big to cart home,

and kicked a soccer ball back to those playing the game when it came in our direction. That produced cheers of “Girl power, yes!” and allowed the ladies team to score a goal.

I was a complete failure at leaving the rocks alone and spending an hour and a half meditating as I walked. But me and myself got some exercise. And some rocks.