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.