Recent Visit by Cowabungas

The members of the Cowabunga Croquet Club visited Dana Point last week. Some of us stayed with our friend Jerry, who is a camp host, at Doheny State Beach. One member rented a condo. Another member got a campsite for his RV. We all had our extreme croquet mallets and surfboards. Much fun ensued.

The campground looked well used, dry and brown. Still a beautiful location but nearly overrun by ground squirrels and to a lesser degree by their buddies, mice. The days were warm and the nights were balmy to cool. Gorgeous fall weather with ample surf. Tokens have replaced quarters in the showers. Two and one-half minutes for a fifty cent token, or twice the price from just a few months ago. Oh well, California is drought stricken and water cost increases should be expected.

Our croquet games were played on the massive lawns of the day use areas. We had wickets placed at long distances from each other, but did not infringe on anyone's use of the area. Some homeless folks stopped to watch. We put on a show for them as we collected ample sunshine. Since all of us are from Oregon, exposure to sun boosted our spirits but didn't help my game. What a splendid venue for croquet.

Three Cowabungas plus a spouse, all of whom are Duck fans, went to the nearby Surfin Cowboy sports bar to watch the Oregon football team play Washington. Most of the big screen sets were tuned to the USC game. Just one lonely flat screen was devoted to the Duck game for the seven or eight fans present. For the eleventh straight year, the Ducks thrashed the Dawgs.

I will not name the wife of a Cowabunga who rode Jerry's bike around the campground and returned to the campsite only to topple over onto the pavement. It was like watching Arte Johnson of the Laugh-In program fall over on his tricycle. Luckily, she was only bruised and found the event humorous but painful.

Each evening we were in Dana Point, we celebrated the birthday of the charter member of the Cowabunga Croquet Club. What a lucky guy to be feted daily for aging. He handled it with grace albeit with some coughing and laughter. He also scored an official visit to an unnamed northern Santa Barbara County renowned set of surf breaks.

A partial solar eclipse occurred during our stay. As Oregonians, we could not distinguish the eclipse and bathed in the evidently diminished light as though it were summer at home.

I am looking forward to returning to the campground next spring for three months of who-knows-what. I hope the Cowabungas in whole or in part visit. I also hope the rodents take a permanent vacation.

Mission Accomplished

It's over. Our last duty day ended last night. Having worked the entire four day Memorial Day weekend, we now know what the worst can be.

This urban beach park is situated in a beautiful location. Because it is so inviting and convenient, the park is ravaged on holiday weekends. Campers arrive and party, party, party. They leave their garbage stacked high on and around trash cans. Broken tents, canopies, chairs coolers, clothing, footwear, tiki torches are common sights. 36 packs of empty beer cans, wine bottles, bottled water containers, energy drink cans and plastic garbage bags fill the trash containers. Homeless folks search the trash for returnable containers, carrying the loot in huge bulging plastic bags, trying to dodge the Rangers.

The bathrooms, showers, and water stations are used and abused daily. Somehow the maintenance folks keep things working, or at least enough working.

Most days, I walk the beach using a grasper to remove litter. I can fill a large bag in no time. Not all of the litter is left by campers. A great deal comes from the ocean. That is another story for another time.

Park staff and their court-ordered helpers do a great job of cleaning and restoring order to the campground and day use areas daily. The park rangers police the area with a light but effective touch. They have always responded when summoned.

Next year, we will return for three months wearing the recently mandated blue shirts: blue shirts for the Blues Festival, yeh. The Camp Host blog will resume next spring. That's it for now.

She's Back and She Did Not Yield

The bikini walker took a middle of the road approach today, Memorial Day. Wearing her baby blue bikini and neon green running shoes, she slowly walked down the middle of the park frontage road stopping traffic and eliciting comments from passers by. She acknowledged no one and said nothing, She merely glided by languidly as though in a trance. Her ample physical attributes undulated in the sunshine. Drivers honked at her and yelled for her to get out of the way. She did not yield. She did not yield.

Stuff Happens

Memorial Day weekend is upon us. Campers are maniacally pursuing fun. Radios are blaring, not tuned to the same station, iPod, stream. Fully erected tents are being moved from one campsite to another. RVs with slide outs protruding are slowly moving to new locations from erroneously entered sites. Children are frantically riding all kinds of leg powered devices clockwise and counter clockwise throughout the campground with hungry looks in their tired eyes.  An episode of domestic violence broke out and was quelled by the rangers. Someone stole a woman's wallet. Someone exploded a shit bomb in a restroom. A camper who is a plumber got locked in an unshit bombed restroom. People are passed out in the sand. Exhausted campers are searching for coffee. Red Bull cans dominate other energy drinks at the trash cans. Two ducklings were rescued and delivered to the kiosk. Lost property is piled up at the kiosk. A homeless lady sitting in a wheelchair covered completely by a blanket is resting or sleeping in the day use area. The fog has thickened and a light mist covers the campground. The weekend is half over.

Blues News

As the Doobie Bros finished their encore set, I realized this festival was for the many persons suffering from maladies requiring the use of medical marijuana. Although it could be said the festival was also for those needing to intake as much alcohol under the intense sunshine as possible. Or, maybe the festival was for the profit of the promoter. Whatever the reason for it, the festival was a success and a rousing hoot as well.

A guy from Baltimore, Maryland, raved about the performances of Buddy Guy, Gregg Allman and the Doobie brothers. The two-time Senior International Cow Pie Toss champion from Vale, Oregon, loved Ruthie Foster, buying three of her CDs and an unrelated parrot shirt. James Intveld & Rosie Flores filled the passion bucket of snap brim hat guy from Santa Ana, California, who also wore more ink than the Sunday edition of the LA Times.

As the fog finally rolled in to hide the sun, an outbreak of hand dancing broke out among the beyond middle age set. This genre of dancing involves swaying slowly to the music with arms flailing and wrists jerking and hands wobbling. Sort of a hand jive with Tourette's syndrome.

After the concert back at the campground, a couple from Texas were standing next to their fire pit locked in a swaying embrace. He stood behind her with arms encircling her waist, her head resting on his chest. A half pint of Southern Comfort sat next to beer bottle on the picnic table. A bayonet-like device was stabbed into the table. As politely requested, they shut off their loud car radio and crawled into their little tent. A train passed by and then quiet hours began, except inside the tent.

Flags

The yellow happy face flag flying under the L.A. Angels banner atop a monster RV properly describes the feelings of Angels supporters this season. The Angels are in second place in their division.

Flying lower than the Angels flag, the American flag with a peace symbol instead of the stars is atop a flagpole anchored to a green vintage VW camper van. The van has a tent annex attached to the side door. Under the tent's awning sit two senior hippie citizen. They have been traveling over one year in their van. They don't know when their travels will end.

The recent widower had a San Diego Chargers flag flying over what his son described as a hasty and ill-considered newly purchased humongous diesel-pusher RV. Since it was NFL draft day, I visited with the father who was eager to discuss Chargers football, especially the glory days. We had a lengthy conversation about Charger heros of old.  I left his campsite thinking that maybe his new RV was a good purchase and the son was pissed about the cash spent for it.

Sitting atop a flagpole on a huge Monaco motorhome on beach road, a bright blue light blinked in the night sky. Was it a beacon alerting aircraft or ships at sea? What purpose did it serve? A small solar panel and battery assembly on the pole provided power to the light. Under the assembly, a small American flag fluttered.

Another huge motorhome backed into a beach road site. After leveling the RV, the shaggy haired, red-faced middle age guy raised his telescoping flagpole. His hooked two flags to the line. The topmost flag was an Oakland Raiders pirate banner. Under it flew a multicolored parrot with a cocktail and the sentence, "It must be five o'clock somewhere." The owner found a can of  Miller Lite and saluted the flag.

Bikini Winds

I don't know how she does it while Santa Anas gust. Her skin should look like leather the color of the Speaker of the House. Walking as she does daily during the heat of the day with ear buds in place, no hat and the barest of bikinis, the comely woman strolls down the center of the frontage road next to the campground. She is in no hurry evidently and steps out at a leisurely pace.

Having briefly glanced her way nineteen or so times (remember the eye cannot trespass), I have often wondered to what is she listening. Is it Euro trance music? A mantra loop? Also, I wonder if her bikini is made from sun resistant material? What sunscreen does she use, if any? Why doesn't she wear sunglasses? Shouldn't she be wearing corrective shoes to prevent her swaying gait? Wouldn't over the shoulder straps offer more support than a halter top? 

These persistent questions will never be asked and answered. They are the product of a mind affected by Bikini winds.

VW Camper Vans

Our park must be on the list of  required visiting for  VW Vanagon campers. I have seen more well-maintained Westphalia campers than Eurovans. In almost every case, the Vanagon owner is a middle-aged white guy who admits having spent way too much on caring for his van. I have spent considerable time listening to the histories of the vans and looking at the customizations.

The best van I have seen is an 1984 Vanagon owned by a special ed teacher and his second grade teacher wife. They live on a 70' motor cruiser moored in Redondo Beach but camp in their van frequently even though working. Their van is tan in color with custom roof racks, tailgate racks, brake light fixtures etc etc etc. The sound of the well tuned engine is deep and resonant, like a muscle car. The wide tires give it a military look. Enough said.

Mention must be made of the green and yellow 1968 van with pop up top. I remarked to the owner that I would very much like to take his van to an Oregon Ducks home football game. He said he would like to go to a game as well, having heard that Autzen Stadium is a great football venue.

Halfway Point

We've been here one month and a few days. This hosting gig is full of farewells and hellos. Campers come and go. New dogs and RV's appear and vanish. Problems remain the same, i.e. illegal parking, loudness after hours, no tags, expired tags, unleashed dogs etc.

Californians and others seem to enjoy immensely this park and beach life. Their joy in barbecuing, pitching horseshoes, staring into campfires, dipping in the ocean, getting drunk, talking with friends, playing with their kids is readily apparent. They are loving this place to ruin, despite the great work by maintenance workers.

We said goodbye to our guests, Jen and Jerry. They were great camping companions. We hope the enjoyed their stay as much as we did.

Mystery Van Part Deux

It is no longer a mystery. There is no dead body, no meth lab, nothing mysterious. This is just an RV owned by some local who lives in it and periodically leaves it in an unpaid campsite knowing it won't be towed for 72 hours. The Rangers are wise to this ploy. I was not until today. I am, however, concerned about the group of quiet and polite Canadians at the other end of the campground.

Showering Strategies

Having been using the coin-operated public showers for a month, I have developed a routine for getting clean for a quarter. I shared the routine with our friends, Jennifer and Jerry, who have been camping with us. They offered some interesting possible enhancements to my routine.

Whenever possible, I opt for the northwest corner shower which has a good mixing valve but only two hooks for hanging things. I always take two quarters, in case the first quarter is rejected. I place the second quarter on a shelf  along with a bar of soap. Next, I apply shampoo/conditioner to my dry head, lean into the shower, deposit the coin and await the stream of cold water on my head. Quickly, I lather up, rinse in the now properly mixed hot water and do not repeat. Next, remembering the orders of my Marine Corps drill instructor, I apply soap to all the required areas. A thorough 360 degree rinse follows. I then await for the abrupt cessation of the water.

Jennifer suggests I pre-position a bar of soap in an armpit, so as to not have to reach for it in the slippery shower. Jerry said to use a body wash, eliminating the shampoo/conditioner and bar of soap. Someone reminded me of soap on a rope. I think Jerry's simple solution makes the most sense and will be implemented in May, after exhausting my current supply of soap and shampoo. In the meantime, I will try Jennifer's suggestion.

The Mysterious RV

The well used Tioga RV was buttoned up tight with reflective windshield sun screens all around. It was not supposed to be in campsite 104 according to the morning list. No sounds were coming from the RV, as were no smells. Absent a valid tag, I wrote a pink slip and placed it under a wiper blade  reminding the owner to go to the kiosk to register and pay.

At noon rounds, the Tioga was still there as was the pink reminder. Still, no sounds or smells from the vehicle. It vaguely reminded me of the RV meth lab from Breaking Bad. Its continued presence was brought to the attention of the Rangers who left a citation under a wiper blade.

Since today's temperature is near 100, we hope there is no dead body within the RV.  What is in the RV? Who owns it? When will the mystery be solved? Why do I care?

Rain

The weather forecasters were spot on, many spots on. Rain started falling Friday evening at about 10:15 p.m., just as I was cautioning the campers in site 87 about their loud music. All along the beach, campers grabbed their kids, liquor and beer and headed for shelter. Campfires started sputtering and smoking.

With the rain, the wind increased. Soon a near gale was rearranging camping tents, chairs, screen rooms, canopies, anything not securely fastened. Then the rainfall increased. From within our trailer, I heard car engines starting, men yelling, kids laughing. It was now after midnight and sleep was a stranger. Just after 2:00 a.m., more car doors slamming, and someone yelled for Bill. We continued tossing and turning in our trailer, knowing that our outside possessions were secure.

At 5:45 a.m., we unplugged the EZGO cart and got the morning census paperwork. Fallen tree branches, some of them quite large, covered the pavement. A few occupied campsite were pools of water. Easy-up canopies were upside down lodged against vehicles and RV's. Campers were wandering the campground like zombies searching for their belongings. The piddly storm, by Oregon standards, was spent and so were we.

Earth Day Remembrance

Every afternoon on my scheduled days, I have been picking up litter on the beach. Outfitted with an industrial strength grasper and a white 30 gallon garbage bag, I comb the beach between the lifeguard towers. Usually, I find plastic bottles, plastic remnants, plastic bags, cigaret butts, dog shit, broken toys, broken flip flops, ketchup packets, beer cans and bottles, and the occasional dead creature.

On April 22, Earth Day, I was doing litter patrol when a little boy walked up to me and asked what I was doing. I told him I was picking up trash, trying to keep the beach clean. I let him use the grasper to pick up a large piece of expanded polystyrene and deposit it in the bag. I told him he had now done something good for the environment on Earth Day and I thanked him for doing so. He hung around for a while then disappeared as I meandered down the beach.

Today, a woman came to the campsite inquiring about firewood. As she was leaving, she said yesterday her 5 year old grandson returned from having used the trash grasper and said it was Earth Day. He told her he had learned about Earth Day at school. He asked whether they could pick up trash. He had a plastic beach toy, like salad tongs, and used it to collect some trash. The woman said he wanted to remove a dead pelican he had seen near The Boneyard, but she dissuaded him from going that far up the beach. She added that he is an inquisitive child of whom she is quite proud.

I thanked the woman for telling me about the boy. I told her that I had no idea that our brief encounter would result in stirring him to action on his first Earth Day at the beach. "Cool, very cool," I said.

Confession

If I were in the confessional with Father Guido Sarducci hearing my confession. Here's what I would say: Bless me Father for I have become a slacker, easily seduced by beach life. I brought my ukulele with me determined to practice when not intensively hosting. I have practiced three times so far, Afternoon naps or surf sessions preempt practice. I intended on going on day trips to cultural venues like the Mission at San Juan Capistrano or the Surfing Heritage Museum. Instead, naps, surf sessions and happy hours have preempted such excursions. I planned to meditate by the ocean but writing these blogs posts seems to have taken precedence. Living mostly outside consumed by wind, surf, tides and sun I am perfecting a life of slackadociousness. Is that a bad thing , Father?

Excuses Excuses Excuses

Campers at Doheny State Beach are subject to mostly common sense rules, such as no generators operating after 8:00 p.m., park at your assigned campsite, no dogs off leash and quiet time after 10:00 p.m. They are given the rules when they enter the park after paying the required fee. Each car is given a tag to be displayed from the windshield, indicating campsite assigned, date of expiration and the last three characters of the license plate.

Daily the camp hosts cruise the campground in an EZGO electric cart with knobby tires, checking for compliance with rules and issuing pink reminder citations when appropriate. Sometimes the camp host investigates complaints about noise or barking dogs or whatever. Because they are special, nearly every camper offers a reason or justification for their rule breaking.

"I thought generators were permitted from 8:00 a.m to 10 p.m., not 10:00 a.m to 8:00 p.m."

"We needed the generator to heat the baby's milk." "I need to finish watching this program."

"My dog only barks when provoked." "He's friendly and is good off leash."

"We didn't know the day use permit didn't allow us to park in the campground."

"I am only going to park here for ten minutes to unload grandma and her things."

"I couldn't fit my car in the camp site because it is too small for our RV and car."

"I am homeless and hide in the shower at night to be safe." (Ok, this is a true statement and an excuse.)

"Can you come back later to discuss this? I am busy right now."

Every special person has his or her rights. But few acknowledge their responsibilities.

Fired Up

It is the Kahlua laced second cup of coffee that prompts me to add another post to an already burdened and increasingly trivial internet. Oh well, I am a man of few words seduced by the ease of use of an iPad.

Here's to the children and their mother who found a dead baby sea lion on the beach. They started to bury it but thought it wise to consult the camp host who fortunately was wearing his vest. I thanked them for reporting their finding and told them to do nothing more. The lifeguard I contacted said he would check the carcass to determine whether researchers might be interested in it. Absent such interest, he said he would bury it in a suitable location.

This is probably the same carcass floating in the Doheny surf lineup yesterday. Certainly smells the same. That reminds me, I haven't showered since surfing this morning.

Pat and I enjoyed a fine pre-Easter meal provided by our fellow camp hosts, Pam and Gail. We ate outside under a canopy near a campfire. It was a nice social evening with Pam and Gail, their sons and daughter-in-law.

We are grateful to our friends, Patti and Stan, for turning us on to this gig.

Lastly, we are also pleased to learn that our dear friends, Russ and Bev, will become grandparents during the 2014 football season. A duckling for Matt and Mandy.

Invested

This is not about buying into the program or stock market. This is about the made in China vest issued to us. When we need to be taken seriously or officially, we don the garment and become invested.

The vest has 20 compartments either zippered, velcroed, snapped or not. There may be more compartments, but 20 are all I have discovered and more than enough for me and my LED headband, cell phone, pens, cart keys, other keys, hand sanitizer, napkins in lieu of Kleenex, campground rules, pink reminder citations and found objects. If I receive a phone call when wearing the vest, it is often a struggle to answer the call before it goes to voicemail. Without the vest, I am just some guy in a Rip Curl bush hat with all the gravitas of The Dude.

Maybe I should just wear the official polo shirt donated to me by Gail, the other male camp host, and a great guy.

Random Images

From my deluxe camp chair with folding wings for a cooler and beer holder, I can see Lifeguard station 9. It is a typical SoCal lifeguard structure. Tall enough for a good view of the beach with an overhanging roof to provide shade and sturdy aluminum railing. When occupied by a lifeguard, the hurricane shutters are raised and the tinted glass windows are exposed. The reflectivity of the window makes it similar to an electronic picture frame. The image displayed in the window is of a wave breaking on the beach. The larger the wave, the more volume of the sound of it breaking on the sand and cobblestones. Occasionally a bird will fly by the window, but mostly breaking surf entertains me.

 A camper unfamiliar with starting a fire can almost always be detected by the smell and smoke of something plastic being used to help ignite a chunk of wood. Kindling is often a 12 pack cardboard beer box. I have seen damaged flip flops, sunscreen tubes, Starbucks cup covers and Gatorade containers used as fire enhancers. The aroma of such a campfire reminds me of my first visit to Sayulita, Mexico, where trash fires were the norm.

Many campers are inspired to decorate their sites with cutesy signs, banners, lights, plastic animals, flowers or gnomes. Some sites look like a scene from Sanford and Son without Redd Fox in view. Some of the motifs of current camp sites include Easter bunnies, patriotic slogans, biblical aphorisms and family crests or coats of arms. My favorite site is the one where an Oregon Duck windsock flies. Our site. Go Ducks.

The Camp Host is a Scavenger

I admit it. As the campground empties daily, I seek out the forgotten or orphaned wood. This morning after surfing while walking back to my camp site, I spied a stash of wood under a bush at site 73 which was vacant. Using my towel, I loaded as much as I could carry. Had to make two more trips. We now have a growing wood pile.

Aside from leftover wood, we have been given gallons of water and a Beck CD, Morning Phase, or something like it. I have spent no time with Beck but will now thanks to a friendly youth baseball coach from Nevada who heard me playing Van Morrison the other day and thought I would enjoy Beck.

I ardently wish someone would leave me an unopened bottle of Jameson Irish whiskey or a six pack of Victoria beer.

A Day To Remember

Wanting to get in a surf before the late afternoon paddle out memorial for Hobie Alter here at Doheny State Beach, I finished the noon census and suited up. Set waves on a lowering tide provided some nice right slides. My Andreini Glider cut through the slight chop for some long rides in 60 degree water.

Upon returning to our campsite, I found a crying child in the arms of a woman who had discovered him at water's edge with a red face, loaded diaper and crying for mama. Pat had notified Ranger Red who arrived quickly. With years of experience, he turned on his vehicle's external loudspeaker and announced to the campground that a lost little boy could be retrieved at camp host site 96. Shortly after the announcement, a frantic woman arrived from the beach. She grabbed the kid and indicated he escaped from his nap. Ranger Red announced that the lost mother had been found and reunited with her child. A number of campers clapped as the reunion unfolded.

With 3000 persons expected for the paddle out, Pat and I were asked to do traffic control at the entrance of the campground. So, we parked the EZGO blocking one lane of ingress, and deployed a no day use parking sandwich board sign. Dressed in our official vests and polo shirts, Pat encouraged drivers to observe the 15 mph speed limit and proceed to the south overflow lot. I gestured just like the traffic cop I should have been. If only I had a whistle.

We each managed to sneak a peak at the ceremony. It was moving. Many boats and boards in the water with a large crowd on the beach. I imagine those who arrived late and had to park in the overflow lot were cursing having to carry their boards and kayaks such a long distance. We took many photos but probably didn't do justice to the event. Hoist a glass to Hobie, a pioneering figure in the surf and boating industry, and a Southern California legend.

George Carlin Stuff

Remember Carlin's old routine about people and their stuff. I am reminded of that routine when I see all the stuff campers bring with them. Yes, I brought stuff with me but not as much as can fit into a toy hauler. I didn't bring drying racks, wood pellet barbecues, sofas and recliners, 55" HD televisions, for example.

When I saw the big screen TV set outside, powered by a heat pump sized generator, playing a movie for twelve campers, I thought of George. I also thought of George when I saw the two obese campers sitting in their matching recliners. The enticing odor of meat being grilled on a wood pellet fired barbecue made me think of George.

I often think of George Carlin, having worked as a sound crew member on a television program, Operation Entertainment, on which he appeared in the late 1960's. He was thin with a rapid-fire delivery and so damned funny. When I see campers and their multiple dogs, I cannot help but think of George's line about pet ownership ending badly. I miss George.

Lunatics

You heard me. Lunatics. I and my fellow campers were lunatics last night. We awakened during the night to see the event only to find that high fog blurred the moon. The revelers in campsite 91 twice had to be cautioned, first by Pat and then by me, to cheer down as their beer fueled conversation grew louder from 1030 p.m. to midnight. All we got last night was sleep deprivation.

Lunar Eclipse Tonight

At  about 12:07 a.m. tonight or Tuesday to be exact, a total eclipse of the moon is supposed to be visible. Since Pat and I rode our bikes to San Clemente and back today, I will need to set my watch to wake us for the event.

The ride to San Clemente with the wind at our back was great. We made it to the State Park then went to the pier. The wind from the west ratcheted up but did not dissuade spring break sunbathers from exposing themselves in the warm sand. Since the eye cannot trespass, I carefully examined the scenery.

The ride back to Dana Point against the wind was tedious. Traffic on the Pacific Coast Highway was thick and fast. Trains roared by the bike lane and the sun was unrelenting. Still, living life outside on the southern California coast is splendid and seductive. I hope the eclipse will be as spectacular as today.

Sunday Musings

As I sit outside in the shade looking out at the sparkling ocean, smelling the smoke of fading campfires, listening to the passing conversations of campers and the steady drone of portable generators, I see my reflection in my iPad screen on which I am typing. The guy I see  has become The Camp Host: an answer man, agent of the park police, litter patroller, affable old guy and seller of avocado firewood.

The avocado firewood story is one of sadness, at least from the point of view of the growers who are cutting down trees due to lack of available water. The guy who delivers the firewood tells of growers whose primary cash crop is the wood of trees which should be bearing the delicious green fruit loved by so many. A camper burning the wood has no idea he is enjoying a fire which is a precursor of higher avocado prices. The camper probably does not know that Mexican organized crime gangs are hijacking truckloads of avocados being sent to export terminals. Evidently, avocados have become an increasing valuable commodity given the California drought.

The firewood in my fire pit was scavenged from a vacated campsite. It is not avocado wood. I wonder what its story is?

Woody Festival

Over 200 woodies rumbled down the frontage road to the south day use lot for an all day event. The wagons ranged from gorgeous to works-in-progress. Most of the drivers looked as old as their vehicle. Some of the woodies had vintage boards on top or hanging out the back. I was miffed by the guy carrying a twin fin on top. Twin fin! Since when is a twin fin a vintage board. My friend, Russ, who is a vintage car collector, would dig the chrome, wood and diamond tuck and roll. Hats off to the guy sporting this license plate on his woodie: VIIAGRA.

During morning census, it was apparent on the pavement that some campers enjoyed too much grog last night. A group of about 40 celebrated a reunion last night and unlike last year, no one from the party was arrested.

Going to buy some blues festival tickets today, since we don't have to work on May 18 and were unable to wangle a volunteer assignment. Our friends Art and Pat will be here from eastern Oregon to get down and be funky at the festival. I have a bottle of Presidente awaiting them.

Life on the beach is good. Gotta go.

Getting It Done

We have adapted to life in a small space. Even the many trains passing within 30 yards no longer are annoying. Night sounds are identifiable. Hot 2.5 minute showers for 25 cents do the job. Routine has been established and we are comfortable.

Campers come and go. The most interesting RV's are here one day and gone the next. The RVs driven by those who live permanently in them stream into the park day use areas daily at 6 a.m. They have yearly day use passes allowing them to be present from 6 a.m. to 10 p.m. Where they park at night is unknown.

The weather has been great these last few days. Mornings and evenings are cool. Daytimes are warm. Typical SoCal marine climate prevails. We are seduced by the sun, the flowering plants, the varying colors of the warming ocean. Dolphins patrol the Bight of Capistrano, as this section of the coast is officially known. These rhythms prompt me to remember what life was like when Pat and I lived in Seal Beach many years ago. She worked in a bank and I cleaned and painted boat bottoms at a small shipyard in the Long Beach Marina.

Last night, we watched a program concerning San Diego history. It features a guy named Ken Kramer who does a fine job of finding interesting subjects and explaining their importance. Since I lived in San Diego from 1956 through 1960, I found the program, About San Diego, brought back many memories. One segment was especially compelling. It was about a KCBQ disc jockey named Happy Hare. I had not thought nor heard of Happy Hare in many, many years. But, he was an important part of my life when I received my first radio as a kid. I listened to KCBQ whenever I was in my room at our houses on Point Loma. The station's DJ's introduced me to the world of pop and rock and roll music. I can remember being awakened by music and leaving home to walk to school with the last song I heard playing in my head.

Of Late

Having now completed our first two days as solo hosts, we are convinced we earn our keep. Being responsive to campers all day, obtaining and selling firewood, telling folks to shut down their noisy generators, and doing the twice daily site checks fill the day. I would be remiss to mention that there is considerable downtime and opportunity for naps, exercise and ocean recreation.

Living outside most of the day makes for deep sleep at night. I especially enjoy the 25 cent, 2.5 minute hot shower in the evening and walking back to the trailer through the barbecue and campfire smoke. Feeling a little feral here, and liking it. Wearing one's cleanest dirty clothing is easy.

I have met a number of interesting characters in the campground. One elderly surfer living in his VW camper van told me that he can no longer surf having undergone transplants on each knee, one of which became infected and still pains him. He now stand up paddles a very long paddleboard, since he cannot kneel. The guy simply steps onto his board at a sandy beach, waits for waves to float him, then paddles like hell. 

Another guy, JR, claims to know former host Jerry D. He said he interviewed Jerry at a local Starbucks for his YouTube channel. JR said he lives in his van and is trying to eke out a living on the internet.

Many people have commented about the Oregon Ducks wind sock prominently
displayed at our campsite. Evidently, campers wearing UCLA Bruin hats do not speak well of the Ducks. It doesn't appear USC supporters visit the campground and display their allegiance.

Got to surf SanO yesterday. Planning on paddling the sup today. Pat bought a 10' sup. We paddled throughout the Dana Point Marina in windy but sunny weather. Then, I surfed small Doheny waves. Hope I don't get sick. Wasn't worth the risk.

I called my beloved Aunt Mary on the occasion of her 84th birthday.

Time to brush my teeth. Don't want to get to feral.

Final Destination

Late in the afternoon of March 31, we arrived at Doheny State Beach in Dana Point, CA, our home for the next two months. We were temporarily assigned to site 122 in order for the hosts in site 96 to vacate on April 1. The wind was strong from the north with lowering clouds but 64 degrees.

Pam and Gail, the hosts who are staying through May, welcomed us. They schooled us in the duties of a host. I shadowed Gail as he made his evening generator check. That night rain fell heavily, filling the San Juan Creek to near the top of the berm separating it from the ocean. The Creek is a toxic pool of upstream who-knows-what and local bird excrement. When it breaches the berm, the near shore waters are polluted for days and water contact is NOT recommended.

At 0615 hrs on April  2, I  accompanied Gail as he did the campground census. It was cold and damp. Campers complained about the standing water in a few campsites. I thought, but did not say, that the camper should arrange the campsite to accommodate the weather especially predicted rainfall. We met our supervisor who gave us an orientation tour of the entire park. We completed all the required paperwork and were assigned keys, vests and firewood sales materials.

As we were returning to our site, I noticed that the berm had been breached, some said by kids with shovels, others said the Creek just overtopped the berm. Anyway, that breach ruined the chance of surfing what appeared to be a nice chest high swell at the right tide.

As soon as I figure out how to do it, I'll be posting photos. BTW, Stan and Patti, Vicki send her best. Every official we have met have asked about you.

Santa Barbara

Pat, Craig and I went to the free Carl Jung art exhibit at the Pacifica Institute in Montecito. I didn't know that Jung was an artist. After seeing his work, there is no doubt that he had talent. Mandalas and psychedelic realism with Hindu and Buddhist symbols coupled with archetypes can inflame one's senses.

Pat and I went to the Chumash Painted Cave in the Santa Ynez mountains. The trip up the San Marcos pass with the Santa Barbara Channel Islands in the background was beautiful. The narrow and winding road to the cave was populated by demented drivers, bent on going to fast for conditions. The cave was worth the trip. Nicely colored artwork, with a protective iron grate, in a shallow cave with easy access prompted Pat to take many photos.

During  our stay I surfed Devereux three times, twice with Craig. The first time was the best as the swell was chest high. The other two days were wind swell with no oomph. I noticed my 11' Andreini Glider had blotches of oil, presumably from the 1969 oil spill and ongoing oil extraction. The water was too cold for my 3/2 wetsuit. I ended two sessions shivering. Stupid me for not getting a 4/3 and 3 mil booties with gloves.

We left El Capitan on March 31 for our final destination.

We left Oregon on March 24 and drove south, staying at unremarkable campgrounds the first two nights. The trailer towed well over the mountains and down I5. Gasoline prices soared the farther we penetrated California. Rain dropped on us from Sacramento southward. Satellite radio offered relief from the monotony of driving.

Upon stopping for a meal break at the junction of I5 and Hwy 41, we met a guy and his wife who were traveling to Los Angeles for an Alzheimer Foundation event. He asked where we were from and I told him the Oregon coast. He said he had a friend in Otter Rock. Turns out the Otter Rock guy was a friend of a friend. What a chance encounter and interesting conversation.

After enduring intense rain squalls near San Luis Obispo, we arrived at our Santa Barbara County destination, El Capitan, and set up camp. Well, we unhooked the trailer, leveled it and put out the slider and awning. Home for the next few days. As the skies cleared and the wind rose, I freed a cork from a bottle of red wine and downed a few glasses. Sleep came easily that night.

Today, we went to the Santa Barbara Police Dept. for a "live scan" which is a requirement for serving as a camp host. Ten bucks each to be fingerprinted. Later, I got a haircut at what appeared to be a very popular Hispanic barber shop in Goleta. The oldest barber in the shop, about 40, did a fine job even though I was unable to select a number style. You know those numbered photos of guy sporting a particular haircut. The chart went to 38 styles but I just told my guy to give me an Ivy League, then explained what that meant. Upon entering the truck where she was sitting in the 70 degree cab, my wife looked at me and shook her head. Not the first time she has done that. Oh yeah, one of the other barbers in the shop had to leave for an appointment with his probation officer. 

We will be leaving circa March 24 for our camp host assignment. Deciding what to bring is proving to be difficult, since we have weight restrictions. I usually pack sparingly, thinking I can add what I find I lack at our destination. I did load my Kindle with eight books and am taking a ukulele.

With our certified driving histories in hand, we are ready to undergo the necessary criminal background checks. Upon being successfully vetted, we will be authorized to drive  the camp host quad and receive money for firewood purchases.

I have arranged to report two days early so we can shadow the current hosts. Our friend, Jerry, who served as a camp host at the same park last year, has briefed us about what to expect. I look forward to two months of  adventure

Introduction

On April 1, 2014, I and my wife are scheduled to begin a two month stint as camp hosts at a state park. The identity of the park will be revealed upon starting the gig. In the meantime, we will be preparing for the adventure and may solicit solutions to problems we face.

We will be living in a small but well equipped Lance 1575 travel trailer and are taking bikes, and various watercraft with us. The trailer has an awning, slide-out dinette, solar panel, microwave, stove top, furnace, 3 way refrigerator/freezer, bathroom with shower, propane, and a queen sized bed. Having only camped for a few days at a time, living in the trailer for two months will be a challenge, even though we've been married for 44 years.

So what is a camp host. Here is the official general description:

Camp host duties vary according to each park but generally include providing visitor information, staffing visitor centers and museums, maintenance projects and general housekeeping. Most hosts work approximately 20 hours a week and, in exchange for those services, the hosts are provided with a campsite during their stay.