Lost Coast Strangers
Ginger Swasey
First, the Old College Chemistry Professor, with his two chocolate labs in tow, gave us calculated road advice, broke out his state atlases to help us find campsites and routes, and implored Lizzy to go to grad school. The drifter who looked like he had lived there for the last two years, the accumulation of 80 years’ worth of his things heaped onto his truckbed, haphazardly secured with a tarp, plus things spread all over his campsite by the coast, complete with a solar panel. His old ratty dog had a head too small for his round body. He was gone before we woke one morning. We had no idea how he got the rest of his things on the already filled-to-the-brim truck, but it looked like he was never there that morning. There was Jake. They were the epitome of opposites. He arrived in his quad and asked us to stand over his crossbow while he fetched his tree stand — the redneck hippy. The avid hunter taught Lizzy how to make grass lassos to catch lizards, debug them, and then let them go. The well-mannered, sarcastic, well-spoken guy with no filter made us breakfast and hippie tea and was concerned our plastic cups may have BPA, asking if we were sure we didn’t want to use his mason jar. He picked us flowers and showed us the view of the Lost Coast from the cliffs. Kite-man, a younger guy with two dogs who seemed perpetually drunk, smiled a smile that left us both uneasy and inspired us to sleep with the mallet we drove the tent stakes in with. He followed us when we watched the sunset. He spoke about how his dogs were his life and said he would do anything for them. Jake saw him hit that same dog earlier in the day. He asked Jake about us and wanted to come over with wine. Jake said we wanted to be left alone. When he approached him again, the professor came over with his atlases in what I think was a diversion. He went back to flying kites. There was the mom with her family, first-generation Americans who had been there for three weeks. She was perplexed by the fact that most Americans don’t travel and that seeing new things was instilled in her by her immigrant parents. Another pair of couples let their dogs wander and bark at campers sleeping in their tents, who were doing shots by 6 pm. We could hear every word of their conversations and the fact that they hate liberals and, from the sounds of it, hate most people. By the end of the night, this included each other. No one cared much about them either. They were lost and clearly at the wrong campsite. Then there was the couple next to us, celebrating their 40th wedding anniversary in their travel camper, having fallen in love with each other over 40 years ago on a backpacking adventure on the Lost Coast. They were both retired teachers and traveled frequently. It seems the Lost Coast brings adventurers and wanderers. Vagabonds. People who wish to be lost and those searching to find something. The Lost Coast is a place of vision quests. The dreadheaded hippies in the School Bus we so desperately wanted to meet and befriend, but they were gone before we could.
Susan, a 73-year-old artist from Berkley, was convinced she had seen a UFO one night over the hills. She asked other campers for food and then left that food for us since she didn’t eat bagged salad because food needs to feel air. Susan gave us sausages, only to take them back before giving them to us again. She painted us watercolors and then told us in great detail how we would need to go to a framer to get them framed and exactly how it needed to be done, despite these paintings being made on notebook and typing paper. She made Lizzy bookmarks and a painted bird from driftwood. She was there grieving the loss of a son. With her ripped dresses and pleather-worn jacket, Susan yelled at some campers and loved others. I think she loved us best. If she didn’t love us best, then it was Neva. This reserved, quiet, badass lesbian vegan with the cool Westfall VW camper with the #resist bumper sticker. The woman who had an order to her day and would set up meticulously every day, sweep off her oriental rug, sit on the sand, and lean the hoola hoop against the table that I never saw her pick up except to put it away at night and back out in the morning. She wanted to be someone who hoola hoops. I barely know her and can tell you, “Neva isn’t a hoola hooper.“ Vincent, the hippy who listens to pop music and adds “Right on” to the end of most sentences, had recently quit his job in San Francisco and was living out of his truck, leaving his girlfriend behind, who is from Shanghai and whose work visa expires next year. I asked if he might move back with her. The hippy responded simply, “No,” since you can’t smoke weed there. He was the last person we saw on our way out. He gave us the peace sign. We left him with our leftover tequila.
