Gualala

  Once I am driving along the Russian River near Guerneville the bustle of California changes perceptively.  The road winds through the coastal Redwoods and traffic slows to a more relaxed pace. Cabins dot the riverside and can be seen semi-hidden through the trees. Korbel Vineyards almost lures me in for a glass of champagne but I'm anxious to get to Sea Ranch.
  It's mid afternoon as I turn toward the coast. The marine layer is burning off and patches of blue are interspersed with the clumps of fog.
  At Jenner I take a right on Route One and the vistas open up as the road climbs the hills above the ocean. The water is dark blue with blinding bright whitecaps. The surf explodes against giant black rocks. Gulls and vultures and a single alert osprey patrol the shoreline. Seals bob their heads out of the water in the protected coves that I figure to be teaming with abalone, cabezon and urchins. It is a much more wild and majestic world than the peaceful protected harbor of Santa Barbara.
  California is so large, both physically and mentally. I've already been in the jeep for seven hours and have only seen a tiny portion of this grand and diverse state. My range over the years has been broad. From my base in Santa Barbara I often drift south to San Diego but mostly when my wanderlust becomes unbearable I aim the jeep north. When the winter snow piles up in the Sierras I take 395 along its eastern edge to Mammoth Lakes for what I consider the best snowboarding in the state. A side trip to Death Valley is a lesson in extremes. Death Valley is the lowest point in the United States at just over two hundred and eighty feet below sea level. Less than eighty miles away is the highest point in the lower forty-eight states, Mount Whitney, at 14,787 feet above sea level.
   On the western slopes of the Sierras are Kings Canyon and Sequoia National Parks and, of course, the jewel Yosemite. I feel as much at home around Wawona and Yosemite as I do anywhere else except maybe the Berkshire Hills of Western Massachusetts, my first home and the place where I will always be from.
  So from Ojai to El Sobrante, Big Sur to Napa, Oakhurst to Long Beach, Sacramento to Carmel, Cambria to Lee Vining, California is not only a vast state but with its mountains and beaches and long central valley, its big cities and tiny towns, super highways and lonely back roads, islands and deserts, it is also a state of mind. Saying, "I'm from California." Is a statement full of possibilities and a myriad of ideas. I can tell you how to get to California but once you are here it's up to you to try to grasp its many moods and nuances of personality.
  And today I am at the northern edge of what I consider my home territory, Gualala, the rustic and charming town near where we are staying in Sea Ranch.

   I pull into the driveway of the house we are renting and no one is there. Pak, Joanna, Ellie, Juliette and Johnny must have gone for a stroll to the beach. The door is unlocked and I make myself at home and open a beer. Delicious and well earned after eight hours on the road.
  I go and sit on the back deck with its hot tub and views of other houses and beyond the neighborhood the fog is clinging to the tips of the redwoods. It is a peaceful scene and I begin to relax immediately.
  The moment I turned onto Highway One perched between the cliffs and meadows strewn with orange poppies and lavender irises alternating with groves of tall pines memories of past trips fill my mind.
  The memory that looms largest is that of Mike Carpenter, now dead almost a year. Mike was the one who first invited me up here to this place that was so special to him and his beautiful wife, and one of my oldest friends, Pam. I was lucky to become a fixture at the annual abalone dive that Mike and Kevin Kechley put together when the season opened in the Spring. These were week long events full of laughs and mischief, good conversation and fine wines and epic meals. Mike was without a doubt the best chef I've ever known. And that is a long list. Everything he did in the kitchen, whether it was in one of the many remarkable restaurants he ran or here at a vacation house in Sea Ranch or at my bachelor beach apartment in Santa Barbara, was a flawless work of edible art that he seemed to create effortlessly. I know he worked ridiculously hard to be as talented as he was but he made it look so easy. It was always a joy and a learning experience to be in the kitchen with him helping prep or just watching him put together a meal. When he got ready to cook and would start mulling around the pantry and refrigerator, a bottle of red wine would be opened and the party would move into the kitchen where the dialogue would range wide once the dinner plan was solidified. The group that met yearly not only had an appetite for exceptional food and drink but also had deep interests in music and literature, movies and politics, travel and history. There was also a mutual love of outdoor sports; skiing, biking, climbing, kayaking, snowboarding, fishing and the main reason for the gathering, abalone diving.
  I did not dive. I am not experienced enough to brave the heavy surf and rocky ocean floor where the abalone hide stuck in tricky crevasses. You have to free dive when abalone hunting. No tanks, just deep breaths until you find one and then while holding your breath and staying steady in the cold swells you must pry the giant snails off the rock with a thick iron bar. My old friend Tom Wojtkowski, who has dived around the world and is a great lobster diver as well as an underwater search and rescue diver said that trying to find an abalone and then dislodging it from its perch is harder than recovering a dead body at twenty-five feet. I don't think he was kidding as Tom is not prone to hyperbole.
  I find all the hard work (theirs) well worth it. Fresh abalone is one of the delicacies I rank right up there with a 61 Chateau Lafite or a few ounces of Jade PF 1901 Absinthe.
  Mike and Kevin would get out of the water with their two or three, three being the limit, abalone and we would walk back to the house and clean them and pound the thick hard flesh until it was thin and tender. Pak would do the cleaning, also insisting we eat a few slices raw. The taste is richer than cold Maine lobster with a subtle hint of the briny world of the ocean depths. Johnny and I did the pounding while Kevin and Mike hosed off their wetsuits and enjoyed a much deserved drink. Mike would then flash fry the slices in truffle oil. It only took seconds in the hot iron pan and our lunch was ready. We would sit around the picnic table in the fresh sea air and with tiny forks fill our plates from the heaping platter of the delicious and rare snails. A bottle of champagne that had been buried in ice all morning, Schramsberg, was the only other accompaniment needed. A simple and elegant lunch that would have pleased Epicurus.
  One morning after they limited out on abalone Kevin gathered a few urchins from the tide pools and back at the house Pak cracked them open, rinsed them in ice water and splashed a little soy sauce on them. It was by far the best uni I've ever tasted. Mike made a round of Tanqueray and tonics with limes from his garden. It was a simple snack that demanded attention from our taste buds. The richness of the uni and the sharp effervesce of the drink with the tart fresh lime juice was such a rare combination of flavors that complimented each other perfectly. I've told several sushi chefs that uni should be served with a tiny side of gin and lime but so far I've never seen it in a restaurant. Perhaps I am, or as usual Mike was, ahead of the curve and someday it will be a trendy pre dinner appetite enhancer at the world's finest sushi bars.

   My reverie is interrupted by Ellie who runs across the yard and up on to the deck, hugs me tight and excitedly starts telling me about all the wild stuff that goes on down at the tide pools. She found shells and rocks and saw crabs, starfish and seals and snails and little black fish. Her enthusiasm is infectious fierce. The rest of the gang shows up and Juliette and Ellie make us promise to take them back to the beach after a hot tub soak and a snack. Pak whips up some curry shrimp and shucks some local oysters and Joanna pops a bottle of white. Johnny puts on some music. We laugh and talk as the afternoon glides gently along. Marcy, James and little Abby show up and we marvel that somehow we are all together again for the second time this year. In January we were in Yosemite and now Sea Ranch. We toast our great luck.
  We walk down to the cove at the end of our street and the tide is at its lowest of the day. The pools, some a few inches deep and some several feet deep, are cold and full of wonders. They are full of crabs that range in size from so tiny that they look like pebbles with claws to fist size rock crabs that we've been known to collect and eat. But today we leave them to scurry from crevasse to crevasse on their mission to stay hidden.
  Bright orange and dull purple sea stars are scattered everywhere. Ellie tries to dislodge a few but they are stuck hard to the rocks. Their hundreds of powerful suction cups easily secure them from the prying hands of one curious little girl. But Ellie soon finds a loose one and it pops off into her hands with relative ease. We inspect this strange animal and notice it has captured a few hermit crabs and they, shells and all, are slowly disappearing into its center where its mouth and stomach are. Ellie gently places the star back in a pool a few inches deep and almost instantly it begins to cling and stick itself tightly to the rock.
  An osprey circles over us and we hope to see it dive for a fish. It's one of the wilder sights of the coast when with a grace that takes your breath away this powerful hawk swoops to the ocean's surface and grabs a fish that seems impossibly large and hard to carry. Today, however, the osprey continues up the shoreline in search of better hunting grounds.
  The further out onto the rocks we walk the deeper the pools get. Mussels cover most of them and in the water sea anemones are as large as softballs and seem to give off their own green-blue iridescent light. They look like they are glowing.
  A pair of oystercatchers hop from rock to rock. I'm fascinated by these black birds with their long bright orange beaks as they stare at me with equally bright and piercing orange eyes. They look cartoonish, a creation out of a child's imagination. Something Ellie or Juliette would draw. As I get closer they screech and fly off to another ledge where they pick at the mussels.

  Back at the house, the table full of food and champagne, we toast to the excuses for our celebration. Pak and Joanna's ninth wedding anniversary and Joanna's birthday. This is the place where they got married nine years ago. Looking out the kitchen window across the field we can see the big house where the reception was held. Mike prepared the food on that wild and rainy day and it was another one of his epic culinary performances.
  We open a bottle of Cakebread and share our memories of that party that lasted five days. James, Johnny and I were all in the wedding. We remember all the people who came from so far away to celebrate, all the laughing we did, all the beach walks and late nights sitting up because we were too excited and having so much fun that it would have been a sin to go to bed and call a halt to such a treasured time. And now sitting here again with the fog enveloping the house we can't believe nine years have passed. We are forever trying to figure out time and Pak says we must be doing something right because good times go by so fast and everything goes by fast for us. Our good luck is massive.
  The kids go to bed and we sit around the blazing wood stove sipping a rare bottle of Bushmills 1608 continuing our stories and creating new ones. It has been a long day and I feel the fatigue overwhelming me. My room is at the far end of the house and I say goodnight and go off to bed. I'm too tired to read and as often happens once I get in bed I'm a little wound up so I get back up and open the large French doors and step out onto the deck and look out at the foggy night. A light mist drifts into the room. My thoughts wander and I find myself thinking of Mike again. He loved this majestic coastline with its deep pools for diving and its cliffside trails where we spent afternoons sauntering and keeping an eye out for deer or coyotes. We often hiked up through the tall redwoods that blocked the sun. Even on the brightest days the trails were dark and cool. Once he and Kevin showed me some poisonous mushrooms that were growing in a damp patch of earth near a trickle of a spring fed stream.
   He would have ruled the kitchen in this house. It's a big room with lots of working counter space and an industrial stove that Pak is very pleased with. Is it possible to get sick of eating abalone? Probably. We tried hard but never did because Mike and Pak kept it interesting. During one Spring week we ate it raw, stir fried a few different ways, sautéed, grilled, in gumbo, and Mike even made a chowder that was beyond delicious. I remember Pak and I having a bowl at breakfast one morning, which meant we had abalone for five meals in a row.  Lunch dinner breakfast lunch dinner.
  That was the same trip that I picked Mike up at the San Francisco airport and he got off the plane with an unusually large carry on bag. He passed it to me and it weighed a ton seeing it held eight bottles of wine. Those were the days when airlines were more accommodating to the special needs of their frequent fliers and precious cargo like old magnums of Bordeaux were treated with respect. This is not the case anymore. I will forever remember the relaxed drive up the coast that day. We made a few stops, at Jenner and Thunder Cove, to keep our thirst at bay and enjoyed our usual far ranging conversation as we caught up on each other's lives. We got to the house where we met up with Tom W, Pak and Johnny. The girls and the Kechleys wouldn't get there until the next day. Somehow, barely, we managed to behave ourselves until proper supervision arrived.

  The dogs wake me up. Tilly & Arlo come into my room shortly after seven. They put their heads on the mattress and breathe in my face. I can tell they want to jump up with me, especially Tilly, but they are too well trained. I'm am a lenient uncle and before Tilly grew too old to make the leap I always let her up. This morning she is happy to sit bedside while I read for a bit and rub her head. She still thinks she's a puppy and is full of joy and enthusiasm. But her grey whiskers and lively intelligent eyes give her away. Her tail thumps the floor with pleasure.
  Pak has a big breakfast ready as we start what turns out to be a relaxing day filled more with the leisure pursuits of walking, beach combing, cooking and soaking in the hot tub than to the adherence of the flimsily plans we made the night before. We take a couple trips to the cove and again rummage around the tide pools. We clamber over the rocks and ledges sticking our noses into the clear depths.  Ellie finds a sea slug about ten inches long. I wish I had my copy of Between Pacific Tides with me so I could properly identify this beast.
  Tilly joins us out near the surf. She hobbles over the stones sniffing at kelp, mussels and anemones. Joanna says she will be sore and achy later but her curiosity is uncontrollable. In her beautiful dog mind she is young and strong. I try to warn her to take it easy but she looks at me like the silly human I am and continues her inspections of the shoreline.
   And sure enough, as evening comes on and I'm reading to Ellie by the fire Tilly gently eases herself down on her blanket in front of the warming flames. She quickly dozes off into her dog dreams. It is a scene Norman Rockwell would have loved.

   Then next morning I'm up early and take a walk north on the trail that runs along the cliff. The tide is at its highest and the many coves I inspect are unreachable. Seals float in the kelp and eye me with curiosity and a bit of wariness. Oystercatchers balance on the tips of the rocks that just barely stick out of the water. There is a fine foggy mist in the air and soon I'm wet but my pace keeps me from getting chilled. I pass only one other person in the hour and a half I'm out. If it wasn't for the occasional chimney with grey smoke rising straight up in to the windless sky you would think Sea Ranch was deserted. The peace of this place is pervasive. I daydream about spending a year here just reading and walking and writing. I imagine I could coax the occasional visitor for those rare occasions when I fear I may overdose on tranquility.
  Back at the house Ellie has a fire blazing and smells from the kitchen stir my appetite. We enjoy a relaxed breakfast, a bottle of champagne adds to the overall luxury of the morning. We all agree we are spoiling ourselves and may possibly have reentry problems in a few days when we have to be back at our jobs. But Pak assures us, in what is a reoccurring discussion, that these are the most important of times because of the memories they create. We can hardly argue with his wisdom as he tops off our flutes.  I can't help but grin at my dearest of friends.
  Slowly, a plan for the afternoon takes form. We pile into the truck and drive down to the Sea Ranch Lodge to have a celebratory bottle (or two) of Korbel, the local favorite, in the room where Pak and Joanna were married and James, Johnny and I sported sharp tuxedos. When we walk in it seems like only a few days ago we were just here helping Pak stay calm in the moments before Joanna, stunningly radiant, stepped into the room lighting it up with her beautiful smile. I will never forget that moment.
  We get a big table in the bar and pop the corks.
  The staff at the Lodge is wonderful and they enjoy our stories of that incredible day nine years ago when the sky opened up and poured down rain on us. The wind blew hard off the ocean turning the surf white and frothy. After the ceremony we crammed into the atrium as the rain pounded on the huge glass windows loud enough to drown out our voices. And then the day started to slowly clear. Occasional patches of blue sky appeared out over the sea. The sun poked out every now and then. Pak and Joanna took a walk while the party moved to the Norman House for the reception. I waited at the bar and then chauffeured the happy newlyweds to a party that went on until almost sunrise. When we pulled into the driveway a roar from the house greeted Mr. and Mrs. Wu. The cheering lasted several minutes and then the night spiraled away. We ate Mike's lovingly prepared food, laughed and danced and smiled until our faces hurt. It was a party so unique with such a diverse group of fun and interesting people that it will forever stand out as a day that will never be equalled. Those us us who shared that day are bonded together by a thread of happiness.
  We tell our stories and have our flashbacks as we finish the Korbel. Then we walk the path from the Lodge that juts out to a sharp point with a cove on each side. Seals glide though the water and we scan the horizon for whales. The day has taken on a lovely warm quality with our happy reminiscing. We feel lucky beyond words. And we truly are.
  We cruise up to the market and buy a gorgeous piece of local wild salmon. It's late in the day and the oysters are sold out. We replenish out beer and pie stash. Back at the house Joanna loads up the table with snacks and Pak fills plates with appetizers. A fog wall hangs over the water and the sun sets bright orange into the mist. Our celebratory mood lasts all night.

   Later in my room with the doors open to the cool night air I jot a few notes and try to read. I have the letters of Seneca with me. Also Peter Matthiessen's new novel. I preordered it weeks ago and then was saddened to see he passed away a few days before the book arrived in the mail. I met him at a reading at the Santa Barbara Museum of Natural History. He read beautifully that night from his book about cranes. He was elegant and witty and his books have meant a great deal to me. So I'm anxious to read his final written words.
   I wake up in the middle of the night shivering, the doors are still open to the fog. I close up and go back to sleep until Tilly sticks her nose in my face. The house is warm. Ellie has a fire going and James has started coffee. This morning I walk south. I find that short trail that is like a tunnel through the trees that opens to a field full of poppies and a cove where mother harbor seals are nursing their babies. The little ones are only a few feet long and whiter in color than the adults. Dozens of others bask on the rocks or feed in the deeper water.
  On a grassy outcropping I come across a group of vultures. I startle them and they slowly, one by one, flap off to a point further out on the rocks. I look down at the beach and notice the object of their interest. A dead baby seal has washed up on shore. Soon the carcass is surrounded by the giant black birds with their featherless orange heads which are "designed" for sticking into rotting flesh and not collecting bacteria like the feathered heads of other birds would. A near perfectly evolved feature for the gruesome task of picking apart a corpse.
  The vultures hop and dance around the tiny seal jostling for position all trying to skewer the choicest and tenderest pieces of baby fat. The other seals lying nearby seem not to notice the feast that will soon reduce the pup to a pile of bones that the high tide will wash away. In fact, when we come back later in the afternoon there is no sign of the ominous birds or the remains of the seal. The cove is peaceful and even more seals are napping in the sand. Other little babies are snuggled close to their mothers. Signs on the path tell us to be respectful and silent so as not to disturb the fragile newborns.  We quietly watch the scene from the top of the stairs that are closed off until the seals move on later in the summer.

  We make a earlier trip to the store today in order to make sure we get some oysters before they run out like they did the last few days. We buy three dozen and the minute we get back Pak starts opening them. They are fresh and crisp and taste like the clear clean waters of the north coast. After a while Johnny takes over and Joanna opens a bottle of Korbel. Champagne and oysters again, imagine that.
  The kids, Pak and James and Joanna ride their skateboards down the hill in font of the house, Marcy plays with Abby, Johnny naps on the couch and I sit in the back yard brooding about my options for the summer. What's next?  I wonder.
  The afternoon cools and I put on a fleece. Pak starts the coals and before we know it it's dinner time. Pak grilled the salmon perfectly with lemon and just a hint of oyster sauce. It is delicious. We linger over our empty plates savoring our last dinner of the week. The time, as always when we are together, flies by.
   Tonight is a lunar eclipse. It's called The Blood Moon and I'm eager to see it. It starts before midnight and lasts over an hour. The kids go to bed and everyone else sits in the raised living room. I pace myself and take a walk around the neighborhood.
  Again my thoughts turn to Mike. We shared many a walk together. Not only here in Sea Ranch, but in Yosemite and Napa, Santa Barbara and Palm Springs, Arizona and Lenox, Massachusetts.  I miss our talks that we had on our rambles. Mike's mind was always in high gear. He always had a book he wanted to tell me about and then give me when he finished. We regularly passed books back and forth. His reading tended to lean towards subjects that fueled his healthy skepticism of politics and our shared disdain of organized religion. He could also talk at length and with a superior knowledge of his passion for food and wine. We often planed meals as we walked.
  Mike was in his way our ringleader. It seemed it was usually his idea for a hike or a last minute ski trip.  He was the one who usually chose the restaurant where we would go to dinner. We just naturally followed his lead. He had a grand appetite for so many of life's interesting pursuits and he had the energy to match his curiosity. I miss his wit and sharp ironic sense of humor and his grasp of and his ability to explain the absurdities that life deals us with mind numbing regularity.
  I have in my desk a pile of postcards from him and Pam. They are from Paris, New York, Arizona, Rome, Hawaii, England. There is always a sweet note from Pam on the back and one word from Mike, "Viola!"
  Last time we talked we made plans to meet up. We had both recently lost our fathers, his just weeks before. We agreed we needed a break someplace relaxing. We said we'd talk again soon. We never did. I still haven't completely digested the enormity of our loss and trying to come to grips with it has been particularly confusing and painful. His last email to me was a short note thanking me for my friendship.

 I finish my walk with an eye on the moon. Earth's shadow is slowly passing over the lunar surface. I read a few weeks ago that the scientist Bill Nye was ridiculed in Texas for teaching that the moon is dark and doesn't give off its own light. It is reflected sunlight that we see. But, the bible says otherwise so people stormed out of his lecture. However, here before me tonight is the evidence. I watch the moon go from a bright white light to a dark red-orange orb that seems to hang lower in the sky than normal.  It looks more three dimensional now that it's in the shadow. The stars look as if they are burning brighter now that the moon glows darkly in the sky. I've been joined in the yard by everybody.  We see several meteorites in the blackness of our thin protective atmosphere. Before the earth stops blocking the sunlight and the moon begins to brighten again the fog blows in and our view is interrupted. An hour later I look outside but now the fog is even thicker obscuring the sky completely.
   I remind myself that the universe goes about its workings with absolute indifference to our meager plight on this one tiny blue planet.  Our wars and prejudices, our loves, hopes and petty concerns are met with a cosmic silence that is profound.
   I read for an hour and I find an appropriate Peter Matthiessen quote from an interview he gave a few years ago;

 "It is its very evanescence that makes life beautiful, isn't that true? If we were doomed to live forever, we would scarcely be aware of the beauty around us. Beauty always has that element of transience that is spoiled when we draw clumsy attention to it."

   It's our last morning and we can't seem to shake the sadness that another trip is over and we won't be together again for, at the soonest, a few months.  We clean up the house and pack our stuff. We take one more walk to the cove, it's a windy cool morning yet we linger anyway. The ocean is choppy and white capped.
  On the way back to the house Ellie says, "You know you can come live with us." And Juliette yells, "Yea! And uncle Johnny too!"
  I tell them that I'll have to ask their parents if it's ok and they are encouraged that there is a possibility that I may move to Sacramento. They tell me that I could be their babysitter. That it would be fun and we could practice card tricks. I promise them that I will think about it and no doubt I will on the long drive back to Santa Barbara.
   We sit a while on the back deck, putting off our departure for another half hour. The hot tub is covered and the BBQ grill is put away. The house has an empty and deserted feel. We wish we had another day or two and it seems that just as we finally became truly relaxed it is time to go back to work. But we are thankful for the time we did have, fleeting as it was. Johnny takes one last group photo and then we are off. The other part of our lives await. I plug in the iPod and hit shuffle, Black Throated Wind blasts from the speakers. As good of a road song as there is. I give Sea Ranch one last look. Bobby sings, "Throw me to chance, and oh watch me dance!" And down the highway I go.