Notes From My Journal: Chapter Forty-Two

Notes From My Journal Chapter: Forty-Two

I am dreading the thought of our day at Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk for at least two weeks. It’s a day for my youngest granddaughter, Natsie, and her twelve and nine year old girl friends. Not only is it going to be costly, but they want to stay until the rides close at eleven P.M. It ends up that my daughter, her son Jake, and his girl friend are going also. I picture myself sitting in the hot sun and handing out money all day.

For seventy bucks, we get a year- long pass for Natsie, and a free all day-pass for Daffy. It only cost thirty some dollars for Fannie’s all day pass. I get the passes yesterday on the net. Now, all we have to do is pick them up at the will call window. I’m happy to hear that Vickie is paying for Jake’s yearlong ride ticket. We’re to meet them at the parking lot so Vickie can pay for his parking ticket. When we get to the Second Street traffic is bumper to bumper. There’s more cars in the lot than I have ever seen at 11:00 A.M. They’ve uped the parking fee to twelve dollars. I have to drive way to the right of the cross walk to park. I’m thinking about all the stuff that we’ll have to carry to the beach as we decide to get the tickets first, and then come back for the beach stuff.

As we wait our turn at the will call windows, I eye up crowd. It’s the usually board walk people mostly white middle class, but there is a mix with a few Mexican Americans, some African Americans, and a few Asian Americans. Mostly it is working class people, a lot of grandparents buying tickets for their grandkids. The line moves fast and the girls have their wristbands on and are ready to take off. Anne tells them that we’ll be at our usual place on the beach. They are to check in every hour our so or call on their cell phones. She starts to give them ten dollars each so they can buy lunch. I’m thinking five dollars each is more than enough. The girls ask grandma to hold their money until later and take off.

After we get set up on the beach, Jake and Shelly make plans to meet Vickie for lunch and take off for the rides also. Vickie, Anne, and I settle back and enjoy the view. As I get a ham sandwich out of the ice chest, I’m thinking at least I won’t have to buy lunch for Vickie, Jake, and Shelly. More and more beach goers are arriving, lots of girls in bikinis, some with really nice figures. Quite a few families too loaded down with beach stuff. One girl wearing a dark bikini shows off a perfect figure as she kicks a soccer ball to a friend. When the girl kicks it back she makes fun of her for kicking the ball with her toes. “This is the way you’re suppose to kick,” she tells her friend meeting the ball with the side of her foot.

The sun rises higher and the day warms up a little. I decide to take my hike up the hill. As always, getting away from the boardwalk is like leaving a loony bin. It’s near two o’clock as I start up the hill. There is a volleyball tournament right up the street. I eye up the bikini dressed players at a near court. The benches that the street people usually take are filled with volleyball enthusiasts.

I cross the street that leads to the wharf and the crowd thins out. I’m thinking that it was near fifty years ago that I split from the East Coast that I had never been to California, or even heard of Santa Cruz back then.

I come up on one of the cut offs that lead to the cliff’s edge. There are a couple of beach bums sitting on one of the benches. “Hey, your hair is the same color as mine,” a guy in a black T-shirt tells me.

“Yea, sun bleached blonde,” I answer noticing that he is about to light a pipe. “Say, you couldn’t spare a hit on that could you?”

“Why not?” he asks.

I sit down next to him and he passes me the pipe and a lighter. “Naw, I better not… Thanks anyhow,” I say and take my leave to avoid temptation. I can’t believe that the guy was so generous, and think that I ought to thank him again when I return to the boardwalk. I can’t believe that I turned him down either, but figure I have the grandkids, and I don’t really need a hit anyway.

The area near the lighthouse is almost empty. I lean against the steel rail fence and look down at the water. The sound of the waves drowns out the noise of the traffic. A ring of clouds circles the horizon. Almost exactly across from me a mountain ridge rises to meet the edge of the clouds. I realize again that the water I look across is not the ocean, but a large bay. As I try to get the lay of the land beyond the water it seems to curve back on itself going almost north of where I stand. I try to picture driving from here to Monterey or Big Sur and it appears that I would actually be heading north for some distance.

I continue to walk up hill with my eyes on the crashing waves below. A flight of pelicans wings their way toward the southwest. The waves wash over an outcropping of rocks. The wind blows through a mighty cypress tree. I feel more and more free as I continue to walk above the mighty Pacific and shut off all thought and worry. Sun light splashes off the water. The sound of the beating surf lightens up my footsteps. I feel a oneness with the sandy path beneath my feet. As I look out across the bay waters I sense the vastness of the water’s edge. My materiality seems to melt away and flow into the engulfing surf and ocean air. The ‘I’s that people my ego are all gone. My Essence enjoys the magic and mystery of this Santa Cruz moment.

As I start back down the hill, I’m thinking that I’ll have to pass the street people that I saw earlier. I figure that I should stop and have a word with them. Let them know that you almost made it. That you split from the East Coast some fifty years ago next week. That you broke with the past and almost broke from the establishment. That you are still searching for a meaning to life, for a meaning to death, still wondering what it’s all about.

When I pass the lighthouse, I try to remember which alcove the street people were in. I figure it must have been one of the very first ones at the top of the first hill. Tell them that there are years of wisdom on the bench they sit on, two of them over sixty years old and living a life of relative freedom, I tell myself.

When I reach the alcove I see that there is an outer bench and a second bench closer to the cliff’s edge. There are two men on each bench. I’m not sure which was the bench that I stopped at. I see that the large Congo drum that belongs to one of the men is still there. I stop at the outer bench. “You know, there is a vast amount of wisdom on this bench,” I tell the men.

“How so?” asks the younger of the two who is wearing a black T-shirt that says, “Smoke Weed!”

“You guys are both over sixty, still on the street, free of the establishment. I split from the East Coast fifty years ago next week… Almost made it too…”

“Oh, where abouts on the East Coast?” asked the guy in the black T-Shirt.

“Philadelphia, I lived in North Philly my first eleven years…”

“That’s where I’m from. Camden, New Jersey.”

“Yea, right across the river.”

“I moved out to Marin my last year of high school. I did my last year of high school in Marin.”

“Yea, well, I almost made it. I figured when I split from the East, I’d never have to work again. I mean, not work for the establishment. Not become a part of it again…”

“I never worked a day in my life…”

“You mean to say you’ve been bumming all you life?”

“No, I’m a millionaire, I never had to work. I’m not homeless. I dress like this just because I like to. I’m here on vacation.”

“A millionaire?”

“Yea, I own several thousand acres of prime Marin property…”

“Wow, one year of high school in Marin and you’re a millionaire. It’s cool that you dress like that. Thanks,” I say and take my leave. It strikes me that I stopped at the wrong bench. “It must have been the alcove closer to the water… I tell myself.