Divested

When the other camp host asked whether I would like to return home one week earlier than planned, I consulted SWMBO and said hell yes. Leaving warm water, good surf and weather was not easy. Leaving whiny campers, a dusty and dirty campground, hellacious traffic, perpetual smoke from smoldering campfires, a constant infusion of transients and homeless, many of whom were mentally damaged, was not hard.

When one's self-talk turns negative and every duty becomes a burden, change is necessary. With that in mind, I surrendered our keys, firewood sale money and extra shower tokens to the other camp host. We also left our official camp host vests for others to use. Once divested, knowing I would never again be a camp host, all the negative thoughts and feelings vanished.

With the campground and park in the side view mirror, we eased into the high speed traffic on the northbound freeway. Sipping my coffee, listening to satellite radio, I thought of our home and our friends. Just over one thousand more miles to go.

Not All Washed Up

Still salty from surfing, with body wash, shampoo, tokens and towel in hand, I made the short walk to the token operated showers. The shower stall I selected was clean and smelled of disinfectant: good news.

Per my thoughtfully designed system, I applied shampoo to my head and body wash to, as my former platoon drill instructor ordered, all hidden, hairy areas (too much information eh). Anyway, I located a token which would give me two minutes of water. I set the dial to warmer than warm but cooler than hot, or about 3:20 p.m. on dial face.

With all cleansing fluids applied, I selected a token and prepared to duck my head into the shower head flow. Dropping the token into the slot, no water. I gathered my things, wrapped a towel around my waist and entered the adjacent shower. Since the floor was wet, I suspected water was available. Into the slot went the token, out of the shower head came zilch, nada, doodly squat.

Returning to the campsite, I blotted the body wash. My fellow camp host let me rinse my head from the fresh water tank in his van. Evidently, the water main to the camp ground broke and wouldn't be fixed until evening.

Campers with dirty, sunburned children were not pleased by the sudden lack of water. They continued to use the toilets until noxious fumes forced them to walk to the port-a-potties in the day use areas. Near 7:00 p.m., water was restored. Amen.

Urinal Mystery

As I approached the urinal, which by the way should NEVER be done barefoot or in sandals with cuts on one's feet, I could not help but notice the presence of a Modelo beer can on top of it. The can got me thinking.

What kind of guy drinks beer on the way to piss in a urinal? Or, why couldn't the guy leave the empty can at the campsite or deposit it in a trash can en route? Does drinking Modelo prompt an urgent need to drain one's radiator. Was the can empty? If it was not empty, why leave it? Was the guy so drunk he forgot his beer?

With these important questions rattling around in my pee, er pea brain, I zipped up and withdrew from the restroom. Arriving at my campsite, I took an ice cold can of Stone IPA, inserted it in my Cool Dude stainless can holder, sat on my tripod chair and began sipping while listening to the Cubs vs Dodgers game on radio.

When the game ended, I walked to the men's room to surrender my rented beer, depositing the can in a trash bin frequently searched by a returnable collector. Arriving at the urinal, I noticed that the Modelo can was gone. In its place was a can of Corona Extra. What happened to the Modelo can? Why was the Corona can where the Modelo can had been? Why is Mexican beer being orphaned at the urinal? Has the urinal become an altar for Mexican beer can offerings?

When answers are forthcoming, this Post will be updated. Until then, remember to go with the flow and let the flow go.

Dark Thoughts

I despise tweakers, those methamphetamine infused night crawlers, fidgeting, lurking exuding anticharm. Why are they here? Why must they have friends who visit late at night parking their Mad Max vans on walkways, in service lanes?

One group rents a campsite which is transformed by night into a hellish compound of castoffs. Yes they are quiet, not wanting to bring attention to their apparent illegal bike chop shop. A large nearly all white pit bull is their mascot, menacing in the moonlight.

I could be wrong in my assessment of their activities. Maybe I have become the Clint Eastwood character in Grand Torino who yells,  " Get off my lawn." Still, I cannot deny the visceral feeling of foreboding engendered by their presence.

While taking the dog for his early morning droppings deposit, I noticed that a trash can adjacent to the tweaker campsite was filled with bike rims and tires and tubes. Maybe the tweakers are entrepreneurs by night fixing bikes for the poor and needy. Maybe they are flawed altruists. Maybe maybe maybe.........

Get off of my lawn.

How Sweet It Is.

While we were luxuriating in the sunshine and balmy breezes this morning, a host from the other end of the campground interrupted his bike ride to say hello. During our conversation, I mentioned that doughnuts would have improved his visit. He remembered that day-old doughnuts were available at a local market. SWMBO gave him permission to remove the state seal patch from a hat she had given him and sew it onto his favored sun hat.

A few hours later, both hosts visited us. The man was wearing his brimmed sun hat with the state seal patch thereon. His spouse was holding a plate containing slices of a Gala apple pie she had just baked. We gratefully accepted the pie.

After they left our campsite, we divided the slices into thirds and devoured them. It seems that living outside for sixteen hours daily makes for a robust appetite.

Beach Time

Toddlers in Pampers driving electric carts supervised by adult parents walking 200 yards behind are potential tragedies. Entitled suburbanites frazzled by traffic and backing trailers into too small campsites ruin the campground ambiance. Giant fat men trying to control pit bulls when drunk and sunburned menace everyone.

Tyler the lifeguard made two rescues today. He said the big south swell caused many rips. At high tide a tree was undermined and now leans into the water. The outer reefs were breaking at low tide. Some surfers towed into the reef break. No ray stings were reported today. The swell is still pumping.

Traffic into the park and on adjacent streets was heavy all day. Surfers streamed into the day use area to take advantage of the south swell. A volleyball tournament competed with the south swell with many attendees. Beachgoers carpeted the sand and burned wet smoky fires in the pits provided. The park was well and harshly used today. An endless summer continues with a full moon again tonight.

Hello Again

Me and SWMBO (She Who Must Be Obeyed) arrived October 3 for another stint as camp hosts. We argued the trailer into place, screwed down the new stabilizer jacks, pooped the dog and prepared for the ant invasion. I unloaded Sticky Wicky's longboard from the truck racks and placed it on top of an anthill.

Our cohost, Mr. O'Shay helped us drain what red wine was handy. He introduced us to the hosts from the opposite side of the campground. We were surprised by the lack of surf and quietness of the campground. Since we are here to surf, we agreed to be on duty during the weekend when the local surf breaks will be inundated by hordes of surfers.

I texted the guy who is buying a longboard from me. We agreed to complete the transaction on October 6. I relished the idea of visiting the many surf shops to find a replacement.

Soon we will set up the cornhole game in anticipation of the arrival of the members of the Cowabunga Croquet Club. Mr. Wicket, Leftie and Sticky Wicky will join Surferino and Wick O'Shay for fun and games and surf. We will commemorate Mr. Wicket's milestone birthday this month.