Incipient Vagabond--Verily

Walking forever on the beach... I only had two conversations today, and one of those was with myself. Fortunately, there was some diversion.



The Miser and the River Crossing

I passed a group of kids and was walking along, ever toward the smokestacks looming in the indeterminable distance. There was an old man ahead, and as I played my bongos intermittently, he glanced back toward me. I didn't know if I was close enough for him to fully hear my music, but I knew I was getting lazy in my drumming for lack of pressure to perform, so it wasn't always great noise. Soon I stopped playing, but kept approaching. As I got to him, he bent over. I saw he was picking up a sand dollar that was clean and mostly perfect.
"Ahh, nice find," I said.
"Not a good one," he replied, and tossed it back down with the jerkiness of age.
I didn't say anything back, but kept walking along. Suddenly I was looking down, and considered that since we were so far away from most of the public access, there was probably a lot to find. I began scouring the shoreline with my eyes, and sure enough, I began to see sand dollars. I picked one up; his miserliness and materialism had infected me. Now I was slowed down, gathering and looking. I decided to leave him some good ones as well, since my youth allowed me some more swiftness in my searching; surely I would go farther than he and there would be plenty of good ones beyond. Then I realized he probably did this on a regular basis; one of his hobbies. I imagined he had a room full of coastal memorabilia; cluttered with shells and coins and natural trinkets. How sad, I thought, to be so attached to things.
As I kept walking, I realized that my desire to collect what was suddenly valuable had allowed the old man to catch up with me. I saw ahead that the waves met the river; I wondered about how deep it was. It struck me that I would have to cross it, or go several miles around. I paused, scanning the area. When the man got close enough, I asked him where I could go to cross it.
"I'll tell you if you give me some of those sand dollars that you took." I couldn't believe he was saying that!
"You mean the ones that I didn't leave for you?"
"Hardly a favor. I'm sure you've got all the best for yourself."
Naturally. Still, I left some great ones for you, or so I'd think" I gave him a couple anyway. I knew it wasn't what I wanted, to be greedy, but it was hard to fight it. I gave them to him for the principle of it, anyway, to prove that I could transcend the issue.
He took them, saying, "You've come too far. You'll have to walk on back a mile and take the road at the top of the stairs, and walk up another 2 miles."
I considered his words, working them bitterly in my head. I wasn't about to walk 5 extra miles just to get past 20 feet of water. I told him as much. He said I could try wading it. So I did. I rolled up my pantlegs to my knees, and tentatively stepped in. I got a couple of feet, but it looked dark and therefore deep ahead. My spirits sank. Still, I went back and set my stuff down, deciding to test it first without endangering my things--specifically, my laptop.
The old man walked away. I decided I didn't mind the water, I just didn't wanna get my clothes wet. So I stripped. Full buff. The man had gotten some distance back, and I knew he wasn't gonna loop back around; he could just cross the dunes back where he was. I saw some people in the distance ahead across the river, but it didn't matter. I got out in the water, and crossed au naturel. The first crossing I hit some deeper pockets; it got up to my thigh. So I decided to try closer to the lip of the delta. I stepped tentatively as I went, feeling for shallower ridges. I made it with nothing higher than half a foot. I tried a few more places, and finally felt secure enough to do it. I went back and grabbed my bag, but made sure to stay on the side of caution. My nerves were up, because I could not stand the risk of dropping my computer in the water. I walked slowly, feeling every step gently. It went according to plan. When I was almost to the other side, I was about to jump through, but I caught myself and kept walking slowly and certainly. I did not shout with joy until both feet were on flat, dry sand.

Now on the other side, it was absolutely worth it. The beach was littered with gems, both of rocks and shells; I gave up all resistance for about half a mile and collected the best ones, walking at a slower pace. I justified it to myself that I was going to craft something with them and sell what I could, so I didn't have to beg. I thought about how funny it would be to try to sit in town and sell to the folks in the street my wares, which they could simply go collect themselves. But I'm glad of it! Now that I'm in Monterey, I'm gluing together rocks and seaweed and carving into shell and I plan on selling it all down at Fisherman's Wharf on a blanket; I reckon I can translate 30-40 bucks.


In La Selva Beach, I returned to a struggle that has been pervading my self for years. I must fight against myself to stop from going back to my old ways. Darkness is dangerous, not for me, but for the world around me. I begin to think of ways to take what I want when nobody is around; I masturbate, and check security and make up excuses as to why I should and can take from other people. But I shouldn't. I need to respect that others own things, and I have no ability to judge how much somebody cherishes something; I may be taking a surfboard from one who has three, or this could be his primary passion, and he only just now got it as a gift from his family. Even whether or not the person deserves the item, I shouldn't do it simply because it plunges me over into illicit territory: anarchy, where anybody can do anything anywhere, and there are no common values and we do not work together, but instead are only returned to primitive, base, cruel and painful competition with the rest of nature.

In the few months past, I have been primed and eager to leave American soil. But as I encounter others, and consider what it will really be like in other countries, I start to realize how much this place offers. It is as exotic and dreamy to others as Colombia or Africa are to me; I still want to leave this land because other countries have histories of culture that are nothing like ours, but

I am putting faces to the words; learning the reality of culture, and difference of culture, and learning to cope with people of different backgrounds. I am seeing and feeling fear, and reaction.

My struggle between the laws of society and the laws of nature. I am at that highly unfortunate boundary between the two where I can be animal or I can be man. Having no money, I must sleep where there is spare ground, and cannot rent space on somebody else's land. It is a problem vagrants deal with daily in cities and towns across the planet, where all land is either private or government-owned; nothing is simply "public." Rules abound as to where you can lie down. What is one to do, simply not sleep until they can afford to? Of course, the answer lies in the gray spaces. We can sleep where officials have turned a blind eye, or have neglected to search. Test the limits, until someone pushes back. The other thing is food, which I can collect wild, or take from dumpsters. Many before me have thought of this, and some places put "no scavenging" signs on dumpsters, and lock their dumpsters. What gives? "I don't want it, but you can't have it?" That seems just spiteful. Yes, it is discipline, to force our hand into finding jobs to plug into society. It is to prevent "pests" from latching on and growing. Anyway, those are my thoughts. I'm not trying to come up with a social conclusion, just coloring in a bit of the picture.

There is nothing new about escapism. That I know; plenty of folks before me have sought ways to get away from the system, society and all its seemingly silly and useless rules, to live life one's own way. A part of me is an escapist. But that isn't most of me. I think of myself as looking forward, and trying to manifest our collectiveness, not my disdain toward what exists. I am all about the connection of the people, beyond the commercial and superfluous connections made by media and business and the internet; real people interacting and sharing in real ways. Now that just sounds like a whole bunch of horseshit rhetoric, but we'll see if I can't live it.

I'm on the lookout for a travel buddy. I want somebody to share part of my trip with me. But the route I'm going, I haven't encountered but one other traveler. In the days to come, I'm sure I'll meet plenty of vagrants; while I skipped through Santa Cruz, Monterey oughta have a few. The problem is most of them are dirty, dumb, or old; I want somebody who's competent and wants more than just to drink themselves to shit. So we'll see; maybe I can find another couchsurfer or somebody on the road who's free. I just need to get some real time online in a warm room so I can get some shit done. See, there are consequences for my actions--this is what I get for leaving before I was really ready.


I snacked on dandelions and pickleweed, though I didn't eat very many of those for they need some cooking to get rid of the bitterness. I need a pot so I can cook or boil water whenever I'm somewhere I can make a fire. I hadn't thought about making fires when I left, for I left my stove and figured I'd just live on raw food or share cooking with CS hosts or something. But I've been spending a lot of time in the natural world, and whereas in the US we expect to be told when and where to do everything including shit, in a lot of the rest of the world things aren't quite so clean and sanctioned.

But then just after writing that last passage, I got a smooooth lucky break in Moss Landing! A man who showed up and was setting up what looked like a book club picnic, allowed me to talk to him for a few minutes. When I was about to leave debating about whether or not to ask him for some food, he asks: when was the last time you had a real meal?
I replied that I've had pickleweed and dandelions and a tortilla with instant coffee and honey today, but if you count the donuts and coffee yesterday morning, that was then.
"Here," he hands me a twenty, "There's a restaurant over there, and Casters' is over that way. When I was young I spent some time on the road too."

Woohoo! This is amazing! He has no idea how far this can go. Yes, I could hop on over to the restaurant and order myself a fifteen dollar meal, and have a fantastic experience, but then be back right where I was before an hour later. No, instead I will honor his charity by being uber-efficient. First, I'll get something small, like a 6 dollar burger or a snack bar, and then I will catch that bus I saw back a ways to Monterey. Hell ya! Monterey tonight! Then, as I was about to enter "Haute Enchilada," I keep walking back behind it, being curious. I see a small store beside it, and judging by the font of the signage, probably owned by the same folks. But then back farther I see a market with produce. Perfect! Nine ears of corn for a dollar! Tomatoes 79 cents a pound! I pick out a full basket of food, and it rings up to less than 6 dollars. Damn, I am in heaven. I rush back to snack a bit and thank the guy again, and then get to the bus stop and hope like hell that last bus hasn't gone. It hasn't.

So on the bus, I realize how badass I am. I get on and go to the back, and wrangle my back resecuring the wires holding it together. Then I pull out a full ear of corn, husk it, and chomp away. This girl ahead of me glances back once, and then doesn't do so again except through the vanity plate on her make-up thing. I laugh to myself about how long she's doing her thing; about as cliche as you can get. The rest of the bus is poor, dirty, blue-collar (and worse) fellas, and later, families of ethnic background. Very few white folks. I'm not judging, just observing. Long story short, I end up chatting with the girl because we're both trying to make a connection to Monterey in Salinas, I give her the shirt off my back, she gives me a cigarette, we chat, she tells me she was homeless in Monterey for a little while and knows some good places but won't tell me because last time she did that for a cute boy she found out he was a slob and he fucked up the beautiful, natural space. I told her I could understand that, and I told her about my Leave No Trace philosophy subscription, my goal in life to leave the world more beautiful than I found it, and an anecdote about cleaning up a ravine up north a bit and the Japanese rock tower I built there. I realize this is stupid, because I'm obviously trying to convince her that I'm worthy of her knowledge, and could just be a slick sleazy bastard, but oh fucking well. It's honest. She at least points me in the direction of some park space near the bus stop, and the library for the morning, and then throws her number down on a piece of paper. "Call me tomorrow and let me know what you're up to." she says. I don't tell her that my phone's dead and I can't.

I get down to the park and start lookin' around. Plenty of brambles, too few trees, and thick with litter and foliage. I know there's gotta be something better farther down; so i keep walking. I hear a fella singing. I leave my stuff on a tree and walk down barebacked on the path to search out a better space, and maybe some nice fellow vagrant. I find a nice one, but I didn't ask for one with brains; this guy is a damn fool, and a drunk, and probably a bit schizo. Oh well, I can handle it. I'm a bit sad I can't play some tunes on my computer, cuz I sure as hell don't wanna fight somebody for my laptop in the middle of the night, but it's alright still. So I crashed with this nutso hobo who kept repeating himself and telling me about all the famous people he's met and kept calling me an angel and a devil and a police informant and said I should go to school and become a cop if I'm gonna go that way anyway, cuz we need more good cops, but I better stay good. I just kept playing along, giving him shit and fucking with his logic and mocking him, most of it went over his head, and then I busted out the bongos and he sang some old rock hippy music like Johnny Cash and the Doors. Then he drank all my alcohol after I went to sleep. He'll probably tell everybody I was Jim Morrison come back from the grave to sing with him and share secrets of the afterlife. Oh well. I saw him this morning with a styrofoam cup walking downtown. I'm a damn hypocrite because it pisses me off to see more than a couple travelers who are obviously leeches, bums who don't work and are dirty and steal public services. On that note, I'm gonna go wash my laundry in the river now that my computer's done charging here at the library. It ain't easy livin' free.


Half my life's in books written on pages (Aerosmith)

And a joke:
What did the elephant say to the naked guy?
"Fine, but can it pick up peanuts?"