"Apparently Keith Moon was so wasted at one concert that they had to haul him off, and the band conjured someone from the audience to play a couple of sets."
He is telling me a story I don't know, which both pisses me off and intrigues me at the same time.
A classic Who tune is on the station. "So who is this random drummer dude from the audience, and where is he now? I would love to meet him and write about him. Talk about a story for the rest of your days," I say as I drift off to sleep after what seems like the umpteenth hour and thousands of miles of distance and reflection.
"Petaluma... I know that town..." (really having trouble with the snooze... mind won't stop, but my body is in the half-way zone asleep)
"WINONA RYDER. Amber's Law. They're both from here. Used her star power to get that bill passed. Child abduction, shoplifting... Oh - AMERICAN GRAFFITI was filmed here. Steven Spielberg's second movie, great soundtrack..." within minutes I am snoring again.
"You are so making this shite up," he whispers with a beautiful grin.
Day 21 - We are Halfway Home
Traveling up the Pacific Coast Highway is an amazing experience: steep mountains reaching towards blue skies and falling into jagged cliffs. I turn my head to one side, and it is straight up; I turn my head again and the other is straight down into an ocean with a color I have never seen.
Later that afternoon, we meet with a relative of His close friend from the other side of the country, who greets us like family and welcomes us into their home. He is a renowned chef and local vegetable grower (and goats for milk and meat - yo!) He and his lover are lovely folks, who offered their home for the evening even though we were onwards towards Oregon.
OCEAN COVE CAMPGROUND, CA
The campground we finally find at the end of the day was eerily still and we have little time to set up camp (attached photo was taken upon arrival). I don't mean to burst my buttons, but I have become pretty good at the set-up camp thing, although the trusty lamp refuses to cooperate.
"Sprinkle spooky dust on it." I inform him. "That's what my brother always resorted to in Boy Scouts when all else failed."
"What are you blathering about now?"
"Waggle your fingers and say 'Spooky Dust.' It's like St. Anthony helping you find missing items, except this fixes things when you don't have any duct tape or WD-40."
Another incredibly cold evening. We usually wake around the same time and always chuckle at the adventure we are on, struggling in our sleeping bags to find one another's "spot" at the top of our mummification so we can kiss each other "Good Day Sunshine."
"Great birth control: sleeping bags and close proximity of complete strangers!" Steam rises as we both quietly hoot and holler, if that is possible: we love each other's company so much, some times it is hard to contain ourselves in a tent, even in the middle of Oregon.
He goes on a bike ride and I explore our new digs. There is a low hanging mist all around and within a short walk past the privvies and garbage/recyclables, I find myself on the edge of the cliffs. There are huge campers and small pop-ups that seem to be suspended with only ghosts that drift about when no one is there. That is when I hear children's laughter. Campsites with tree cover obscure all activity, and with the fog as thick as pea soup through the morning light, I am unable to watch the people who belong to this place and time... it is all very dreamy.
As I reach the precipice, there is a break in the clouds and I can see the sea. Huge boulders with trees growing out of them jut out of the breakers and hang on for dear life as rollocking saltwater waves incessantly pound them day after day, year after year. Somewhere, I hear Tom Petty wailing, "I Won't Back Down."
It's not 'clean' like the Atlantic. There are no white beaches to walk on, and the water is littered with lots of fungus. "That's a sign of a healthy biosphere," he informs me. "I don't care - it looks like crap. I mean - you make out on that beach - if you can find a beach - it's gonna be more AIRPLANE that FROM HERE TO ETERNITY. And forget swimming... you'd emerge looking like something out of a creature feature as opposed to a Bond flick."
In addition to their lovely sense of humor and zest for life, there is a mystical mist that hangs over the British Isles: now I know why Scotch-Irish age so gracefully.
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