To the Dunes!
An autobiographical travelogue
It was October, 2014. I was a fresh film-school graduate with a graduation certificate to my name and an uncertain future ahead of me. My father retired from the fire department after twenty-five years, and our family had traded our house in small-town suburbia for the comfort of a 40-foot home on wheels. There was only one place we really wanted to go. We were gonna do what Horace Greeley told us all to do.
“Well, I’m goin’ out west where I belong
Where the days are short and the nights are long”
It’s quite the change, going from living in a house with a yard to living in a house with wheels. But that’s the kind of change to be expected when your father retires, your family sells the house, and they put a down payment on a forty-foot motor home you have to hurriedly pack before you vacate the house you spent a formative decade living in.
But it was a welcome change. While I’m a Michigander through and through, the truth was that it was time to move on to bigger horizons. The bitter Midwestern winters were too cold and too long, and the parents didn’t want to keep spending their new twilight years shoveling snow and keeping their toes warm by the heater at night. Besides, there was really nothing left for me here in terms of prospects.
We decided to go full West, towards the most golden of all horizons. While I was in the last months of school cobbling together my thesis film, we were staying out of the motor home in campgrounds. Two days after we premiered our finished films at the film festival, the family and I packed up our new mobile home and left on our trek to the Promised Land called California.
As a kid, I always dreamed of one day living large in sunny Southern California. Sired on the sounds of the Beach Boys, the image of surfing, hot rods and lovely beach ladies seemed the perfect haven, as opposed to lake-locked Michigan. That was also where all the best work in the movie business was, and if I was going to have a career, I needed to be at, or however close I could be, towards the entertainment epicenter. During his time serving in the Air Force, my older brother was stationed at Edwards Air Force Base up in Rosamond, and flying to visit him in Christmas of 2012 was the first time I had ever been to California. One of the days spent visiting him was when we all went to Universal Studios Hollywood, where the studio tram tour was quite the big life changer. Even though I had, for the most part, pulled back the curtain on “movie magic,” and knew the ins and outs, being up close and personal from where people made that magic happen was a whole different animal. It’s like photographing the sunset: pretty pictures don’t do seeing the real thing in person justice. Ever since that trip, and for the longest time, I wondered how I could possibly make it out there.
Now, the timing and circumstances couldn’t have been any more impeccable.
There was a chilly late-October wind in the air the day we left. That was something I’d surely never miss again. It was the beginning of an exciting new chapter in our lives; in hindsight, it was a bit bittersweet. While I had zero qualms about ditching cold and gray Michigan for the mythical beaches of Orange County, the fact that I might never see this place — or my friends — ever again brought a little pain to my heart.
When we pulled out of the gates of the campground we had been staying at for the past few weeks and hit I-75 south, there was for sure no going back. But no matter; the positives of looking forward to the future outweighed the cons of wanting to stay behind. I had long dreamed of living near the beach in SoCal, going in the ocean, working in the movies, all that good stuff. Here was a chance that that reality might come true. For my state of mind at that time, that was the shot of hope I still needed.
Non-stop driving, it would’ve taken us a few days to get to the coast. But we decided to break our trip up into two weeks. Why not? What hurry were we in?
The route was a bit nondescript until we hit Old Route 66. This took us through Missouri across the mighty Mississippi, where the St. Louis Arch welcomed us modern pilgrims to the West with open arms. It was nothing but plains until we finally hit the tip of Texas. Our lone night in the Lone Star State was spent filling our bellies in the world-famous Big Texan Steak Ranch, a Route 66 staple in Amarillo that catered to every Southern stereotype and archetype imaginable. Best thing about that place was their infamous 72 ounce steak challenge: if any hearty challenger out there could put down a 72 ounce steak along with a bread roll, baked potato, shrimp cocktail and salad under one hour, the entire thing’s free. If not, they fork over $72.
Hey, I like to eat, but that’s a little out of my league; I was more than satisfied with munching on a bacon burger.
Early the next day, we made our way back on Route 66 until we found ourselves in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
Here it was, the Southwest. I’d heard a lot about the place. I’d seen the pictures of the deserts. I’ve watched the Westerns that portrayed its sunbaked, gritty red-dirt glory. Hell, we were on the very same historic route that took cross-country tourists out to this rugged beauty only half a century earlier. I couldn’t believe I was actually here; this was like walking through a dream.
And waiting for us were cacti and palm trees. It was like getting a sampling of the cake: is this what California is going to be like? In my mind, palm trees were as synonymous with California as surfing and oranges were. I was more excited than ever before.
Downtown Albuquerque was the encapsulation of every cultural aspect south of the border: architecturally, aesthetically — but especially culinary. If you want authentic tacos, don’t settle for Taco Bell; head to a cantina and expand your palette, compadre.
Once we moved on through a brief stay in Santa Fe, we visited the place where any sensible American tourist would see before they kicked the bucket: the Grand Canyon. We ended up staying there for three days, admiring that great and cavernous natural wonder. To try and explain it here would be moot; if you want the full picture, buy a tank of gas, putz out there for yourself and take a gander. You’ll see what I mean.
Due to our chilly elevation, an old familiar friend came to visit us on our last day. It was sleeting pretty heavily as we were making our way down into Arizona. Watching firsthand the weather practically shift in such a short time was incredible. But it was good to be back amongst the cacti, the palms and the agaves.
An old buddy of Dad’s from the firehouse days and his wife had a vacation home in a mobile park east of Phoenix; he and my Dad had been talking about parking it there for a couple weeks to spend time with each other. There was an open spot close to them, so we took it. Despite the popular belief about “mobile home parks,” this felt more like a retirement resort than the former. At least, from what I saw, the denizens of the long term section were the Sunnyside 65-and-older crowd. But as long as us young’uns didn’t cause any ruckus, they couldn’t have cared less. Many nights were spent around the other couple’s fire pit, Dad and his pal swapping firehouse tall tales.
But this was it: the last stop. The California border was a couple hours’ drive away. I was pretty much on the edge of my seat as we made our way through the last stretch of the Arizona desert.
The first Californian city we stayed in was Palm Springs, another city where the famous came to play. It was unbelievably hot; like, sweltering. We didn’t stay there too long because of that, but one thing we did manage to carve out time for while we were there was taking the tram ride up into the mountains just outside Palm Springs. There was a definite temperature change in this instance as well. We also drove around random neighborhoods, trying to find Frank Sinatra’s swanky vacay stay. After a couple days here, it was time to pack up and move on.
I can still remember what it was like seeing Newport Beach for the first time. It was the most beautiful coastal town I’d ever seen, and then some: a bright sun, a cloudless, gradient-blue sky, and palm trees meshed excellently with the city’s upper-class vibe. Back home, the wealthy were situated in old-money enclaves like Grosse Pointe, Troy and West Bloomfield; very traditional places for families like the Fords and the Firestones. Out here, it was noveau riche revamped; these West Coast types were swimming in all their gold coins à la Scrooge McDuck while still getting a nice sunset view from their beach balcony. I had never seen anything quite like it, it was the ultimate example of feeling rich by association: sleek mansions, luxury cars, expensively niche dining consisting of all cultures and cuisines, and glorious views of the rolling blue Pacific. Even if you were a middle-class family living in a 40-foot rectangular itinerant living unit, you still felt like blue blood just by being next to it all.
I was on the surface of the Moon, and I friggin’ loved it.
Despite the moneyed atmosphere of our new home, where we were actually going to stay couldn’t have been any starker of a class contrast: we were to check in to a humble little trailer park called Newport Dunes, only a couple of right turns away from the Pacific Coast Highway. The Dunes was settled on a piece of land called the Back Bay, an outlet that flowed out from and into Newport Harbor, where all the yachts were docked. While we may have looked like trailer trash compared to our trust fund neighbors, it didn’t matter. The rows of spots near the end of the park was the unofficial gathering place of the Dunes’ long-term residents. While normal campers only set up for temporary stays, these campers were in for the long haul, and we were soon to join their ranks.
Camping wasn’t a foreign concept to me; I was raised on roughing it, after all!
Well, as much as a family in a trailer with running water and cable could rough it in God’s country.
All those years we spent doing that up in Northern Michigan in a pop-up before the cabin and cottage came along definitely counted for something. I was well aware of the comforts — and sacrifices — that came with staying within the confines of a trailer, so I was prepared for this downsizing.
Even though the motor home was a significant step up from the pop-up, there were still similarities: one central space, one cramped bathroom and shower, and one bedroom. The bedroom went to my folks, because the ones who own the title get first dibs. The dining room, living room, and the driver’s seat were all in the same central space. My bed was an inflatable pull-out mattress that had to be put together every night and taken down every morning. Personal space no longer existed, and for a time, it was hard to adjust to not having my own area. That, and air mattresses were not meant to be used with such frequency — we had to use two repair kits to patch up the holes that would keep ripping open and leave me sleeping on deflated plastic and couch springs.
But I could live with the new arrangement, no doubt about it, and we put a lot into making our dusty lot feel like a dusty home: we fashioned a makeshift canopy out of the motor home’s awning and a square-shaped patio umbrella: it was perfect for enjoying the California sunshine without withering into a California raisin. Some green Astroturf and a couple of Bass Pro Shop rocking chairs made for a great outdoor area to relax, or, in my Dad’s place, nurture his growing hobby of playing guitar. We rolled out some fake bamboo covering along the knotted green fence and snarling vine roots, and strung twinkle lights through the shoots that helped illuminate the place when the sun went down and the night came alive. This brought an extra-special touch to our little excursion, and made it feel less like a camp and more like a little resort.
There were other families like us living out of their campers and motor homes as well, like some sort of little tribe. Here we were, living like latter-day Joads in our own Grapes of Wrath; ditching the dreariness of the east and the plains for California beauty.
I might be romanticizing, but gimme a break. I get paid to tell stories, after all.
The Dunes had a lot of great amenities, but the one that beat them all out had to be the pool area. They left the place open until eleven at night, which was pretty unusual compared to the parks I’d stayed at before. Whenever the Weekend Warriors weren’t invading every square inch of the park, the place was a ghost town; there was barely anyone there after seven or eight on the weekdays. The empty pool area ended up being the perfect getaway for me. After a long day of dealing with other people’s crap, I needed a good place to unwind and relax until the next day.
The nightly routine was the same: I’d borrow the folks’ car and find a close enough parking spot. The nights were cooler, so I would shiver a bit as I lugged my towel over my shoulder and did my best to keep my over-sized sandals from flying off my feet with every step. One I crossed through the gate, I peeked around the corner: there it was, the water churning and bubbling, wispy strands of steam twisting and turning as it rose high into the chilly night. The fluorescent lights at the bottom cast a spotlight gleam up through the roiling water. Palm trees and other beach-grown fauna made this little concrete corner even more like an oasis.
The best part?
No one else here.
Not another soul around.
Off came the sandals, then the shirt. First feet, then legs, then torso, then the shoulders slipped beneath the water.
I can’t tell you how they did it, but the water was heated to a flawless temperature: not scalding and not lukewarm. It was the perfect balance. The water enveloped you like a kind of warm blanket, and it brought a feeling of comfort; almost lulling you to sleep. I could feel the drudgeries of the day — and of life, really — bubble away, turn into steam and drift off into the starry expanse above me. The rumble of the Jacuzzi jets, the chirp of crickets, and the echoing purr of nighttime traffic on the PCH above laid a satisfying ambience to the soothing scene.
Even though it was built for the public, this place felt more like mine than any place I had been to before, since it felt so underused by any of the long-term occupants of the Dunes. It was my getaway, my escape, my time. It allowed me a respite away from people, from my family, from a cramped space, and from any of the problems and disappointments I had faced that day or that week. This square-shaped cut in the ground truly felt like a second home, and every time I went I felt like I never wanted to leave when the park hands came at eleven o’clock to drape the blue tarp over the tub and close it down until tomorrow.
We lived this nomadic existence until the summer of 2016, when we found a more permanent lot space for sale. Ironically, the home was still “mobile,” but it had all the space I needed, not to mention a bed that didn’t rely on air to stay aloft. We also got a yard again; luckily for me, a small, L-shaped yard that didn’t need so much TLC, outside of frequent watering. The motor home went into storage, and we had the belongings from our old home in Michigan that we weren’t able to take with us shipped across the state in a large container.
I was happy to be in a home with my own space again, but even now, I think back to those early years at Newport Dunes to be some of the fondest memories of my life. It was great to be living in a way that wasn’t considered “normal,” and we adapted to this downsized life pretty quickly and pretty comfortably. Imagine any family from middle-class suburbia thinking they would be economizing this way; it wouldn’t even register on their radar.
The appeal of the Dunes was mostly tied into the magical image I held of Southern California; I still hold onto it to this day. Being close to the beach as we were helped fuel the images of paradise I had long held since being a kid. It also signified a new chapter in my life, full of new beginnings.
I would meet new friends and new people while I lived in the park; I even showed my friends who visited from home the space where we were living.
I held down my first few jobs and bought a car from a fellow resident that, unfortunately, turned out to be a money pit.
I discovered one of the best bike trails I ever had the opportunity to ride, all up and down the beach between the two piers.
I got to see sea lions swimming at night, while fishermen, armed with coolers and tackle boxes, cast their hooks and lines into the schools of silver fish, eager for a late-night catch.
I’m sure if I had the chance to go back and revisit, I don’t think I’d hesitate one bit.
To the Dunes, again I’d go.
“Well they’re out there a-havin’ fun
In that warm California sun.”The Rivieras, “California Sun” (1964)
