No Mas

Just like Roberto Duran, I say no mas. I have had enough. What once was a place of stoke has now become a gulag. Well maybe that is an exaggeration. But you get my drift.

With the recent change of season from spring to summer, the campground seems different and not in a positive way. It is drier, dustier with June gloom mornings. There are more campers committed to raving in the their campsites, loosing their dogs, and jamming their generators. Did I mention the free range, barely civilized children circling the campground like velociraptors. Everyone is a DJ providing more types of music than is available on Sirius radio. Shower rooms in the evening are best entered wearing waders.

What's with all the so-called service dogs. They are abundant. I rarely see any services being provided by such dogs. Mostly, it seems they are surrogate children, pampered and indulged. Doing early morning rounds, I have often seen unleashed dogs peeing and pooping on the beach with owners nearby with no doggie bags in hand.

Do not get me started on the misuse and abuse of handicapped parking placards.

By every morning, the campground has become a Motel 3, not even measuring up to Motel 6 standards. Trash cans are stuffed with every conceivable type of refuse. Fruit and vegetable refuse is left on the beach since it is biodegradable not needing to be canned.

Let me be clear that the maintenance folks really do a good job of cleaning and repairing the facilities. For about three hours each day, the campground looks presentable. Thereafter, the cycle of degradation begins.

If I sound like a grumpy old man, sleep deprived and generally pissed off, I might be. But be assured that each camper is treated politely. After all, everyone is special in this campground. I just need to go home.

Body Cam?

Camp hosts need body cams. Just like police, camp hosts encounter the homeless, the weird, the hostile and zombies. Having a body cam would document the stupidity, avarice, rudeness and cluelessness of those who visit the campground. It would prove that hosts are always polite, helpful and caring servants of the park.

Imagine this scenario. While investigating an after 10 p.m. excessive noise complaint, a host encounters a zombie. You know, one of those night time transient wanderers who look for unsecured, easily saleable items to steal. The host speaks thereby activating the camera. He says, "Hello. At what site are you staying? Do you need help?" All the while, the host's headlamp is lighting the scene for better footage. Confused by the host's graciousness, the zombie mumbles something about not hassling him. The host says, "Well, maybe the ranger can sort this out." The zombie turns and shuffles away through the beach entrance and disappears into the night.

When the ranger arrives. He accesses the video footage, identifying the zombie as a regular campground lurker. The ranger leaves to visit the zombie's known nighttime squat to offer assistance.

Post Memorial Day Weekend Thoughts

What once was interesting now is annoying.  Boorish people, sun burned, drunk, loud, rude and argumentative, no longer provide me with entertainment. Being awakened by irate campers late at night complaining about revelers only causes me to lose sleep. Campers who demand firewood ignoring the closed for the night sign deserve nothing.

The excesses of the Memorial Day weekend crowd diminishes the camping experience. The piles of wornout, broken or abandoned gear surrounding the trash cans is appalling. The heaps of trash bags broken into by night time creatures reek. The acrid smells of fires started with petrochemicals, including all types of plastics plus garbage reminds me of third world countries I have visited.

Have I mentioned the late night comings and goings of campers in loud vehicles, the emergency car alarms activated by the stupidly loaded, the clanking of trash can lids by early morning zombies searching for returnable bottles and cans. Consider them mentioned.

If I sound like a grumpy old man, maybe I am. Too many people crammed closely together lacking common courtesy for their fellow campers has harshed my mellow. Now I understand why other hosts live in giant, above the fray RV's. Maybe I will buy some concrete block and raise my small trailer.

This Guy

He is kind of ratty like his RV. The Tea Party slogans hand painted on his RV are borderline racist. He  always contests any warning notice issued to him. He believes I am committed to making his life miserable.

I really don't want to have anything to do with this guy. However, he parks off the pavement, parks outside the white lines, claims he has a tow car despite having an inoperable towing hitch. He does not check out at noon. This guy is incorrigible.

I have seen the basket full of medication containers sitting in the passenger seat of his RV. Perhaps he does have medical/psychiatric issues. Maybe he doesn't take his medication per instructions or at all. Whatever the reason for his misbehavior, I have had enough of this guy to last a lifetime. Unfortunately for me, this guy is a frequent flyer committed to spending his days at this park and in this campground.n

They Are Among Us

They are here. Waiting. Lurking. Infiltrating. Hidden until I find them.

What are they doing? Gathering intelligence? Coordinating with others? Awaiting instructions? What instructions? To attack? To intimidate? To instill terror?

How did they get here? By land or sea or air? Maybe with the help of others. What others? With whom are they conspiring and why?

When I locate and capture them, they never talk. Many of them are armed with modern weapons, although some carry swords, spears or lances. Their animal helpers are dangerous in and of themselves and are not easy to corral. Today, while on beach patrol, I captured a militant carrying a semi-automatic pistol. As I took him into custody, I was vigilant for an ambush by his comrades, but none was forthcoming.

I now have eight combatants in my equivalent of Guantanamo, and two lethal beasts. I am sure that more are out there. Despite securing the campsite perimeter by installing motion-actuated lights, I am thinking that a moat might be necessary.

Eliciting the support of others in the apprehension of  the combatants, I showed the captives to a camper kid. He remarked that I have nice collection of plastic action figures.

Blues Festival.

It's over. The vehicles, the people, the music, the drunkeness, the free range children have quit the park. No more lighter fluid drenched campfires, s'mores residue, broken camping gear stacked against garbage cans, nighttime screams of ecstasy and angst, generators switched on after midnight.

Goodbye Bonnie, Boz, Los Lobos, The Mavericks. Your music was solidly professional despite crappy audio mixing. A beautiful venue and fair weather made for a good outdoor concert, except for the frigging zombies.

You ask, zombies? I tell you they are real, ugly and rude. Nearly all of them are white, late middle-aged to young seniors. The women wear flowing skirts and upper body coverings that do not manage to cover that which should never be revealed in public except by permit. The men wear Harley Davidson shirts, pork pie hats, smedium t-shirts, tropical themed shirts. Both sexes sport ink on their limbs, backs, stomachs, hands , including scary neck art.

As they pour beer or wine or mixed drinks down their gaping pie holes, they begin to move, undulating unnaturally to the over amplified blues. They stand in front of their Tommy Bahama low back chairs swaying from the waist, moving their rounded shoulders and weaving their arms through the air while flapping their hands ostensibly in sync with the music. As dusk approaches, these mostly gray or dyed hair creatures resemble those plastic air-filled comic vinyl characters found at children's birthday parties or in front of small businesses in strip malls. THEY ARE ALL HIDEOUS, SHAMEFUL AND DISGUSTING and they amuse me greatly.

I forgot to mention a sub genre of the zombies. These are the hulks firmly seated within their canvas chairs, usually vaping pot or pouring vodka into their lemonade. Speaking of vaping...... Is it the preferred method for ingesting medicinal weed? Anyway, watching these folks trying to rise from their close to the ground chairs is a hoot. I could distinguish those who desperately needed to urinate from those who were going for food. The urine loaded crowd kept their thighs tightly together and relied on their chairs for support. The hungry crowd crawled on the ground after rolling from their chairs, usually finding a standing friend to assist them to their feet.

A good time was had by all, at least until they got to their cars and tried to navigate out of the park and onto the freeway. As for me and she-who-must-be-obeyed, we walked back to the campground along the beach at high tide, amused and glad to be returning to our trailer trash existence.

A Story I Want To Tell

Sitting next to the firepit on a Saturday night after a day of surfing, watching children play outside, and after a few glasses of Costco's finest plonk, I thought of stories I would like to tell the children. A perfect venue for story telling is located at the other end of the campground, the campfire center.

I would summon the little noisemakers and their helicopter parents to the campfire center and tell them a goodnight story. Perhaps, it would be the story of the grunion and sand snakes.

 

Good evening everyone. This is the time of the year when both the grunion and sand snakes emerge. The grunion come from the ocean onto the sand to begin the cycle of life. The sand snakes come from within the sand on the beach and crawl inland seeking the warmth of campfires and the toenails of those near the campfires.

The grunion wiggle and squirm through the wet sand after the sun has well set. The sand snakes slither and undulate upon the sand in darkness. The grunion are small fish with small mouths. No so the sand snakes whose long bodies are distinguished by their bulbous heads with large mouths containing rows of fangs.

People who stay up late and wear boots can watch the grunion spawn and then retreat to the comfort of their sleeping bags. Others encounter sand snakes by surprise in their flip flops or sandals. Often the initial meeting with a sand snake is a punctured big toenail and subsequent ripping of it from the toe.

Don't worry young ones. Lost toenails grow back after a few months. The pain of their removal, although great, subsides in hours. It helps to soak the feet in cold salt water. But, if there is too much blood, be careful not to wade far from shore. There are, of course, sand sharks waiting in the shallows.

Goodnight all. Thank you for your attention. Now children stop your crying. Sleep well and tight and don't let the sand snakes bite. I must now go to my trailer and remove my boots as my feet are too warm.

Big South Swell

It finally arrived this weekend: a powerful long period south swell from a storm off the coast of New Zealand. Surfers of all types, short boarders, long boarders, and damnable sweepers, drove into the parking lots as soon as they were open on Saturday.

The long paddle to the outer reefs was easy Saturday as the swell built. By Sunday, the sweepers, with their mechanical advantage, got out first. Prone paddlers had to power through the walls of white water. Unfortunately, a sideshore wind developed eventually turning onshore. The waves became sectiony although many long rides were possible on sups.

The spectacle of big waves breaking on outer reefs was remarkable. Some jet skis cruised through the outer reefs. Two standup surfers were killing it off Poche, a break well east of the campground. Some fool launched into the beach break, swimming outside the surf line. Although never in trouble, the guy took quite some time to return to the beach where a lifeguard spoke to him. I know not what was said.

I surfed the rising surf and managed to catch some good waves. When the lineup became crowded with aggressive and mouthy paddlers, I caught my last wave only to have jerks takeoff in front of me causing me to prone out in the soup. My dawn patrol strategy was well intentioned but ineffective.

The sand berm protecting the campground was breached at high tide on Sunday and Monday nights. The waves pushed seaweed and flotsam into a few beach front campsites. No campers had to leave but their sites were messy. The day use parking lot nearby was partially flooded and much debris covered the asphalt.

A full moon illuminating the surf breaking on the outer reefs is a scene I will fondly remember long after the big south swell has waned.

Bikers Ahoy

Dee and Waino walked their beach cruiser bikes pass our campsite. Dee asked for directions to the Surf and Sea Motel. We gave her detailed directions which seemed to overwhelm her. Then I volunteered to escort them along the route. Waino remarked he had fallen three times since leaving the motel and that he had heart surgery not to long ago. I looked at my spouse and started loading their bikes into the back of our truck.

The bikes had been provided by the motel. They were sturdy and in good shape. The motel also provided helmets. Dee had hers on backwards but looked cute and enthusiastic. Waino just looked beat. His hands had road rash from the falls.

When we arrived at the motel I unloaded the bikes and Dee insisted I accept payment for my time and service. I declined. She insisted on taking photographs of me and Waino. She said she would post the photos on their website. Then she hugged and thanked me for helping 83 year old Waino.

Busted

While counting the floaters under my eyelids, my spouse conducted the noon campground check. As she passed our campsite, she said that a stash of wood was available at site 38. I immediately opened my eyes and looked for my gloves. When she returned after completing her rounds, I drove the electric cart as rapidly as its engine and conditions permitted to #38. Sure enough, a huge pile of termite killed soft wood was stacked neatly next to a bush. Also nearby was a box of kindling, a few camp chairs and a ratty table cloth on a picnic table. Since it is not unusual for campers to leave behind camping gear, I loaded the cart and sped back to my site where I neatly piled the wood. Then, I returned to load the remaining wood.

After stacking the second load, I experienced a feeling of having scored a great salvage victory. Just then, the dos Cowabungas arrived from a grocery shopping trip to Ralph's. I proudly showed them the  stash of wood and said, "We are going to have a big, big fire tonight." Suddenly, a car pulled up and a man and woman got out. The man said someone had removed his firewood from their site, #38. He said he noticed tire tracks which appeared to match the host cart. I admitted I had removed what I thought was abandoned wood. He said they had gotten in to the site early to drop off the chairs and wood and tablecloth. I told him I would return the wood asap.

With the help and pointed commentary from the dos Cowabungas, we reloaded the cart. I shamefully drove slowly to site 38 where the guy help me unload and restack the wood. After the second returned load was stacked, I drove back toward my campsite but got sidetracked by the presence of a new Mercedes Benz Sprinter van.

The van owner, a surfer and electrical contractor, invited me on a tour of the van. It was brand new and would accommodate 11'6" boards. He said his brother-in-law saw the wood pile in site 38 and suggested they quickly glom on to it. The surfer declined since he sensed the wood was not abandoned. He said he saw me remove and return the wood and was glad he resisted temptation.

It is said that firewood warms you twice. First when you get it and secondly when you burn it. In my case it was three times. Getting it, returning it and burning with shame. Busted.

Dos Cowabunga

It was a pleasure to host two esteemed members of the Cowabunga Croquet Club recently. Miguel and Geraldo arrived with a croquet set and three longboards. We managed to play three days and surf a few days. Miguel was bummed that his favorite break wasn't optimal. Both Cowabungas also got to experience a rare Southern California event: rain.

The croquet setting is a sprawling lawn in the park adjacent to the beach,  palm tree surrounded with transients, homeless persons and surfers walking through offering comments. Miguel engaged an oddly dressed transient woman in a conversation about croquet and English manors and English history. Miguel also launched a shot which went into the parking lot possibly damaging a vehicle parked therein, although he did not admit nor deny the result.

Every morning circa 6 a.m., Geraldo brewed coffee and checked the surf. We managed late dawn patrol sessions without Miguel who was trapped in his walrus tent by hungry and tweaking mice. When he managed to hit the lineup, Miguel forged ties with two local curmudgeons, aggressive AARP types. Miguel got his share of waves. Geraldo and I also scored nice peelers in glassy conditions with gray skies which made identifying incoming waves difficult. Also, Geraldo taught Miguel how to do laundry at the laundromat next to Bubba Kahuna' food emporium.

On Friday night, adjacent campers decided to drink to much beer, stay up late and argue. Geraldo, trying to sleep in his van's rooftop hideaway, finally went ballistic and decided to intervene. He is, after all, a bona fide camp host here at the campground albeit in the fall. So, he charged the noisemakers' camp site with his flashlight at head height, so as to conceal that he wasn't wearing official camp host clothing. How do I know this is what happened? Well, I was standing at the defaulters campfire blinded by Geraldo's light while admonishing them to cheer down. Once Geraldo knew I was on the case, he retreated to the safety and comfort of his van. It was nice to have backup when having to restore order after midnight at a site full of drunks.

One benefit of hosting Miguel is the constant updates about sporting events. With his black transistor radio held up to his good ear, Miguel was the campsite Sports Center commentator. I miss the, "Warriors up three." Or, "the Pelicans are up by nineteen." Sitting by himself in a turquoise plastic chair deep in the shadows, Miguel would issue updates between scarfing shortbread cookies.

As the two Cowabungas departed in Geraldo's van today, I knew I had to concentrate on repairing my relationship with she-who-must-be-obeyed. So, we went to Home Depot. Upon returning, we ate Costco shrimp and quinoa salad with avocado at the wooden and recently bleached picnic table looking out at the tranquil ocean. Life is good, except for the mice which missed tormenting Miguel.

Oh What I Have Seen

Just as the ears cannot, the eyes, also, cannot trespass. So, I look and look and see much that surprises me here in Southern California.

The guy on the road bike was pedaling fast but something was unusual about his motion. I was looking at him from his right side. As he passed me, I saw that he had only a right leg. I wondered how many times he had fallen, how he managed to keep his balance. Was he a veteran of recent wars? Then he was gone from view.

Last years' bikini walker has not been seen. Maybe the temperature is to moderate. Perhaps in May she will emerge.

A guy with a Jeep suv painted army green with big black-rimmed offroad tires and cargo boxes, jerry cans, metal ammo boxes and a rooftop tent with folding ladder was encamped nearby. He cordoned off his campsite with towing straps and ropes. He and his guard dog patrolled the perimeter. His neighbor flagged me down to ask whether black helicopters might be following the Jeepster. We laughed, but the point was taken.

The old couple pulled into their handicapped campsite and started unloading their small Ford car. I visited them to check on their camping tags. The woman, who was driving, had a small service dog in her lap. I knew it was a service dog because it was wearing a service dog pack from which the lady removed the dog's papers certifying it was a service dog. Then the woman told me she and her ailing husband were living in their car mostly since emerging from bankruptcy due to medical bills. They lost their home she said. I watched as they unloaded their car and tried to set up a large tent. Eventually, with the help of other campers, the tent was raised. The next morning, the tent was twisted and on the ground. Their belongings were sitting on and in the tent. The Ford was gone. They returned late in the afternoon and campers once again helped raise and anchor their tent. They lady told me they were trying to save money by camping. I doubt they are up to it.

The tattooed young man watched as his female partner juggled the two children while breaking camp and stuffing the gear into the old Honda Accord. They were already an hour past checkout time. The guy complained about his partner not hurrying and yelled at the kids to be quiet and sit in the car. At long last, the car was packed and they backed out of the campsite. Suddenly, the car braked and the guy yelled to the woman something about forgetting an important item. She opened, exited, then slammed the car door and fetched what looked like a bottle of bourbon from under a bush. Mission accomplished.

Relationships And Kid Speak

As I drive the electric cart around the campground and park, while trash shopping on the beach, sitting in my chair at the campsite, I hear people talking. Mostly, they are publically talking about relationships with spouses, friends, significant others, their kids, neighbors, god, their devices, doctors, you get the picture. Usually, a woman is talking to another woman, or a man to a man. Rarely, do I hear a woman talking to a man about relationships. Maybe, such conversations between man and woman are private, at least here in the campground.

The snippets of public conversations I overhear usually do not interest me, unless crying, shouting or laughing is involved.  Since the ear cannot trespass, I have no guilt about listening. I especially would like to know why so and so drained the crying woman's bank account. What was the embarrassing situation about which the women were so loudly laughing. What did the woman do to be called a back stabbing bitch. Guess I will never know.

What really gets my interest is the stream-of-consciousness utterings of the kids racing around the campground road. Why is the kid on a Razor scooter repeating,  "Batman, Batman, Batman, da da da da da da da da." What song is in the little girl's head as she rythmically rings the bell on her pink, streamered bike saying, "Do ya, do ya, do ya." Or, the skateboard racing boys shouting, "Faster than
blaster. Faster than blaster." More questions with no answers.

At least, I know that Barry Mann put the bop in the bop shoo bop shoo bop.

Midnight Mystery

A blue Hurley ball cap, a short leather dog leash, a nearly full pack of Marlboros, a USB cord, a blue fleece jacket were the items found in and around the broken, collapsed Ozark tent. It was a nice tent, easily assembled and spacious. But it was torn and toppled as though by a strong wind.

I don't remember any winds last night. I do recall that it was a cold night and that at 12:47 a.m. a dog barked. How did I know the time? Well, I got up to investigate and looked out the rear trailer window. The flickering light of the adjacent campsite fireplace revealed a tent and movement. The dog stopped barking and I decided that it was just a late arrival setting up camp. So, I returned to bed.

This morning, I inspected the unpopulated campsite and the overturned tent. The tent was torn. The dog leash was wrapped around a tree. I called the kiosk and learned that the site had not been rented. A nearby camper told me she had seen people at the site about midnight with a big German Shepherd dog. Eventually, a ranger arrived and decided maintenance staff should remove everything.

What had happened here, I wondered. Why would anyone abandon their property. Was it their property? These and other questions will remain unanswered. Just another campground mystery.

Hair Brained Adventures

The other camp host asked for help today in unloading the firewood delivery truck. He said the wood would arrive at 11:30 a.m. or thereabouts. So, I decided to forgo surfing the lowering tide to help. I thought I'd hit the rising tide in the afternoon.

The firewood guy arrive circa noon-30. He was not the 6'9" charmer with the vicious Chihuahua dog from last year. Instead, it was a bald, portly man driving a rental truck. We unloaded the 200 bundles of avocado sticks and packed them in the shed. All of use were sweating and covered in wood dust. I thought to myself that the bundles must have gone to Weight Watchers because they were much slimmer than last year. I also realized that pervasive drought would cause more avocado trees to be felled for firewood. So, I resolved to hit Costco for a supply of the most delicious green fruit known to man.

Upon returning to my campsite, I saw my bedraggled image in the truck window and decided to clean up my act. I have the duty this Easter weekend and didn't want to repulse campers. So, I headed out to Costco with a list and a Yelp recommendation for a barbershop, specifically The Senors Barbers in San Juan Capistrano.

Walking into the five chair barber shop I couldn't help but notice the abundance of black hair on the floor. The head barber saiid, "Welcome amigo. Have a seat." The seven other guys stared at the gray haired gringo, probably thinking who is this dude. Anyway, I bided my time watching a series of the most interesting, intricate and bizarre haircuts I have seen since walking into a David, Panama, barbershop for the best $5.00 razor cut I have ever had.

My turn came and I was directed to the chair of a young guy who demonstrated speed barbering techniques the likes of which I had never seen nor experienced. I described what I wanted and the guy spun around my head like an angry red-wing blackbird. The electric shears buzzed and hummed and he manipulated my head like a chiropractor. I closed my eyes and hoped for the best. Eventually, the ordeal was over. My haircut was much better than my expectations.

The Second Time Around

I arrived yesterday at noon. The host site was vacant. I backed in and hooked up the sewer and water. As I walked to the front door of the trailer, a camper said, "You are leaking water." Sure enough, water was pouring out the front door. Evidently, a surfboard I had been carrying inside the trailer hit and opened the faucet. I spent the next few hours mopping up and drying out in the abundant California sun.

While mopping up, a camper directly across the road from me yelled, "Hey how ya doin? Remember me?" I replied that I did remember him, a baseball coach at a Nevada school who likes to spend spring break with his family at the campground. Nice people. Last year, he gave me a music CD which I enjoyed.

I am here by my lonesome. She-who-must-be-obeyed will join me in a couple of weeks. Meanwhile, I will live feral, eating odd food, thinking strange thoughts and hoping my croquet game will become as good as my surfing.