Fish and Games, Part Three

I walked down the slope toward the cliff’s edge.  The grass was nearly fluorescent green due to recent rain and punctuated by small flowers.  Their business ends hung upside down like purple shooting stars I’d seen in the Sierras.  But the tulip-like petals of these flowers were deep maroon, almost funereal black.  I thought it would be nice pick to one of them on my way out, look it up in a flower book, or maybe take the root as well and grow it in my front yard.

A cold wind reached through my windbreaker, somehow telling me that neither plan was likely. 

The ravine leading to the tie off point was every bit as slick and treacherous as I expected after the rain.

I picked my way down carefully, remembering my wife’s last words:

“Don’t do anything stupid!”

I favored her with a boyish smile, “Not me.  I want to live to be a hundred and three!” and drove off wondering whether she caught my lame Jiminy Cricket allusion.

I tossed a duffle bag off the cliff and heard a satisfying crackle as the glass inside broke on the rocks below.  With rope attached, my backpack zipped, I eased myself down the final twelve feet.

The descent went smoothly, and I planted my feet on the beach without incident.  Still I felt uneasy and the same vague premonition told me I should accomplish my first objective.  I scanned the cliffs, detecting neither movement nor flash of lens.  I quickly “farmed” the contents of my duffle bag into recesses of a jagged reef.

If you've read parts one and two of my “Fish and Games” narrative, you already know exactly what I mean by the word “farmed”.  If you are an officer of the law and reading this, I must inform you that the contents of this blog are but fanciful fiction.  Why would I be so stupid as to incriminate myself on the World Wide Web?

The aforementioned business concluded, I headed south toward happy hunting grounds.  A local merchant with whom I have a working relationship in the matter of moonstones, made a request yesterday.  He wanted a massive chunk of this generally rare beach agate to enhance his in-store display.

So I embarked upon my second mission, soon finding myself in the target area.  I tried my best to ignore the sparkle of smaller stones.  Before long I managed to bag some big rocks, one and two pound beauties. 

Then I heard a drone, persistent, loud and probably a helicopter.  It came at me from the south, its blades beating a staccato base. 

Hugging the cliffs, the helicopter passed so closely that I could make out the pilot’s khaki uniform.  I gave him one of my “Happy, Howdy Waves”.  I mean, doesn’t everybody wave when you see some lucky guy zipping through the air?

I continued collecting.  A minute later, I heard the same drone.  The helicopter had circled around for another look.  It had one of those tear-drop designs, definitely too small for search and rescue.

I waited.  The helicopter circled around a third and yet a fourth time.  By then I had moved on down the beach and no longer felt like waving--except perhaps with my middle finger.  Where did this guy get off squandering hundreds of taxpayer dollars for multiple views of a deranged rock collector ambling along an isolated beach?  A friend of mine once told me that it takes $500 dollars just to get a twin seated chopper off the ground.

Finally, silence.  Had he landed somewhere on the cliff above me?  I was disturbed.   And when I get disturbed, I get hungry.  So I sat down on a rock and pulled out a sandwich.  I considered having a second beer but hesitated.  I wanted a clear head if I had to make conversation with some testosterone laden skyjock.  And somewhere buried under the rocks in my backpack was a caffeinated soda.

But if I was about to be treated to a helicopter ride (or forced to spend 45 minutes in the back of a Sheriff’s cruiser en route to the San Luis Obispo County jail) a mild buzz might soften the edges.  Guess my choice of beverage.

Before long, I managed to forget the whole incident.  I put my pack on and was reaching for the empty duffle bag when I heard another sound.   A high pitched throaty scream, again from the south.

A jet, low and close.  No idea what model, but I knew military when I saw it.

Slipping my pack off in an effort to cover the bright red duffle bag, I sat still on the rock.  In fact, I did my best to look like rock, be a rock--and some people would argue I’m dumb as one for going off alone and putting myself in these crazy situations.

But, my God, was I up to something so heinous that they had to scramble a jet from Vandenberg?  Did the helicopter pilot make me for a reputed drug smuggler or some notorious al-Qaeda sympathizer?

There was an explosion of sound as the jet went by and headed north.  And this time I felt no desire to wave—certainly not with fingers of some flyboy inches from a button that could launch a missile.

I listened to my breath for five minutes, hearing nothing else to suggest the jet was still in the area.

Then I got up and tried to collect a few more specimens, but my heart was no longer in it.  Yes, I was paranoid, maybe big time paranoid.  Still I wondered what might be waiting for me when I scaled the cliff on my way out.

I had nothing in the way of contraband, I reasoned, not even sure that I brought along my pocket knife.  But, damn, these big rocks were heavy, very possibly in excess of the 45 pound limit.  So I split them, half into the duffle bag.  If I saw a  warden/ranger/sheriff  before he saw me, I would simply drop the bag and walk on.  Lots of weird trash washes ashore down here.

And those babies really must have been over forty-five because I was scrambling, clawing, and huffing as I finally pulled myself over the ledge.

“Shit!” I said out loud.  

There was a Fish and Wildlife truck parked right in front of my Honda Element.

But where was the warden?

I looked left and then right. Two hundred yards across the ravine, two of them.

Well trained, too.  When they saw me, they immediately put ten yards between each other.  Much harder to take down two armed men when they're standing apart, no matter how fast you are or your level of marksmanship.

I gave them another big “Happy, Howdy Wave” and pointed to my car.  They followed cautiously as I staggered under the weight of my bags, cursing myself for not leaving one behind.  I should have peaked over the ledge before bringing both of them up.

Nothing to be done about that now.  “Might as well come clean,” I thought, carefully straddling the barbed wire fence that separated me from my car.  And then I was face to face with one of the wardens.  I dropped my bags at the rear of the car.  The other warden, who was lean and serious, remained on the other side of the fence with his hands near his hips.

“Good afternoon!” the closer warden said and I couldn’t help but notice how the flesh inside his uniform strained against the buttons near his mid section.

“Yes it is, officer, and I hope you have a scale.”

“A scale?”

“That’s right—because I just might be over 45 pounds here.”

Warden Pudgy looked confused.

“You mean rocks?”

“Right again, I’m talking about beach agates, the kind that locals call moonstones.  This section of beach is lousy with them and merchants will pay good money for what tourists can no longer find these days, even along Moonstone Beach.”

“So you’re just collecting rocks?”

“Yes, and if you don’t mind my asking, was it the helicopter guy that tipped you off?”

After a pause and shared look, one of them mumbled something about highway patrol and panga boats.  I must have asked the wrong question.

“Turn and face the fence—and don’t move.”  (Maybe my spiel was a little too slick?  Or was it the phrase “tipped you off”?)

I turned as instructed and faced the other warden across the fence.  He was lean, trim, tall with a calm demeanor that probably hid a dangerous tension.

“Of course, you’re welcome to search my gear, and as Fish and Wildlife officials, I understand you have every right to do so.”  
Hell, they said don’t move, not don’t talk.

I waited.  Warden Pudgy was going through my bags, and he was one of those thorough types.

“You know I’ve already been stopped by one of your fellow wardens, Officer Thayer.  You know him, right?”

I saw Warden Lean exchange another look with Warden Pudgy.

“No. We’ve never heard of him.”

“Thayer, T-H-A-Y-E-R.”

Nothing, just the sound of wind whistling around my hat.

“Well, I guess there’s lots of you guys patrolling this stretch.”

“No,” said Warden Lean, “there’s just a few of us.”  
The chilly afternoon just got cooler.

What the hey?  Were they reluctant to admit that I remembered a colleagues' name?  Were they--or was the previous Officer Thayer--working undercover for another agency, maybe Homeland Security?

Then I remembered.  Two days before, I was pulling out of the Bank of America parking lot in Cambria.  A blue Fish and Wildlife truck was to my left, and I nodded to give him the right away.  I thought it odd that there were two occupants in the vehicle since game wardens typically work alone, odder still that they were in Cambria and heading west.  But I supposed they could have been there for lunch after checking the steelhead areas along Santa Rosa Creek.

This off-the-wall memory made me nervous and when I get nervous, I start to ramble.  So I began to tell them about my favorite mystery writer, C.J. Box, whose  main character is always a game warden and how I always learn something new about nature every time I read one of his novels, and on and on until my wife's familiar words came to mind:

                                                    Stop talking now.

“Have either of you read his books?

“No.”  Sheesh!  What were these guys, Republicans?

Warden Lean scissored long legs over the fence.  Unlike me, he didn’t have to press down on the top wire to protect his man parts.  He stood about two yards from me now, looking grim.

I noticed he was holding a Redfield spotting scope, the favorite tool of game wardens according to C.J. Box:  Observe the subject at a distance, take your time and watch everything he does before making contact.  I saw, with some satisfaction, green skid marks between his badge and nameplate.   Grass is so smeary this time of year, especially when you’re lying on your belly.

The scuffling and zipping sounds finally subsided behind me, and I was tired of looking at the barbed wire fence. 

“Would it be okay if I turned around now?”

“Sure,” Warden Pudgy said and I turned to see him standing over my bags.

“And you probably want to search these bulging pockets--so would it also be okay if I slowly started to take stuff out?”  I thought of ending the last sentence with “Boss” but that would be too “Cool Hand Luke” and this strange law enforcement duo probably wouldn’t appreciate my smart-assed remarks.

                                                Don’t do anything stupid!

Anyway, “Boss Man” Lean nodded, and I started pulling out rocks, bottle caps, Kleenex and a nice piece of abalone shell.

“You collect abalone, too?”

“Yes, I mean, NO!  Only the shells. See the red backside there?”

Warden Lean leaned forward slightly.

“If I polish that to a mirror-like finish, someone like my wife can make some pretty cool jewelry out of it.  Of course, you’ve got to wear a surgical mask while sanding it or you’ll end up with a bad disease.  Uhmm, I forget, you know like coal miners get…”

“Black lung?” Warden Lean asked, finally showing some interest in my babbling.

“Well, yeah, right something like it, silicosis I think it’s called.

We all looked at each other for a moment.

“You know, I think there’s something else in my pocket.  I reached down, faking surprise at what came out.

“Oh, my keys!  Say officers, do you suppose we’re done here?”

“Yes, I suppose we are,” said Warden Pudgy, “But we had to make sure you weren’t poaching abalone or violating any fish and wildlife regulations.”

“Well, I appreciate that officers.  I’m a fisherman too, actually, and I hate it when I don’t catch anything because someone else has taken advantage.”

I started my car and drove off, astounded at the idiocy of my last words.  How could I possibly know that any lack of  fishing success was due to poachers?  And what’s with the weird 19^th century phrasing, “taking advantage,” which is way more suited to describe the seduction of an innocent?

But I soon got over any concerns about being socially inappropriate.  
I was happy, very happy--to be free, alive, and on my way.

I checked my rear view mirror repeatedly on the way home.
There was something creepy about those guys…

Night Encounter

10:00 pm, San Simeon

Raining for hours.

No time to walk the dog.

Until now.  Letting up, but just a little.

I opened an umbrella, coaxed the dog out the door.

Warm night and soft drainage.

We walked, the dog adjusting to light sprinkles, my knee hurting just a little.

And rounded the corner.

Face to face with another human being.  Plastic scarf and rain coat.

“Good evening,” I said hoping to relax the moment.

“Good evening,” in elderly gravel voice, “I just love walking in the rain.”

“So do I,” I said and after some distance, “and being able to do so.”

Fish and Games, Part Two

Sometimes you want to go
Where everybody knows your name

                                                  (TV series Cheers)

“Look Deb, it’s my friend!”

A south bound pickup passed us.

I looked in my rear view mirror and saw the vehicle make a u-turn onto the shoulder.  Eyes glued to the mirror, I waited for  him to turn on his bright reds.  He didn't  and what I saw instead gave me a warm and fuzzy feeling, and that will only make sense at the end of this blog entry.

First, let me explain why my wife and I were heading north on Highway One.  We had considered napping the afternoon away but opted instead for an “exercise” moment.  The plan was to walk a stretch of sand north of the San Simeon pier—the former Hearst Castle garbage dump.  Our secondary objective was to collect some sea glass in the process (hopefully derived from William Randolph Hearst’s expensive wine bottles) or gather the occasional piece of crockery discarded because some 1940’s kitchen worker got careless setting WRH’s massive table.

               Chip the glasses

               Break the plates

               That’s what William Randolph hates.

I kept thinking about the pickup, though.  How strange that almost exactly twenty-four hours ago, I had a deep and searching conversation with the person inside that truck.

I was alone at the time and approximately ten miles north, crossing the road on foot when I saw a green pickup bearing down on me.  After a shrieking turn, it pulled in front of my car, mouth to mouth so to speak, almost touching my front bumper.  This is a maneuver that makes forward escape impossible and rear retreat improbable.  Just try pulling off a u-turn when a person is standing outside his vehicle and pointing a gun at you.  Bad odds for staying alive, worse odds that you will make an escape.  So now you know why “Takedowns 101, Using Your Cruiser,” is a required and basic law enforcement class.

But I was hoping Mr. Law Enforcement hadn’t registered the heavy backpack I carried crossing the highway and saw me toss it quickly into the back of my Honda Element.

And I thought about that the gold emblem on the side panel of his truck. 

A blue uniform approached me on the street side of our vehicles.  This guy was the real deal, an Honest to God Game Warden, I told myself, nothing like the last guy who detained me on the beach, probably just a sheriff or CHP.  

Damn, I really needed to pay more attention to the patches on those sleeves!  Here was a man who walks up to groups of armed hunters and fisherman, writes tickets and makes arrests—and virtually without backup.  Sure he could use the inter-agency channel to contact a sheriff or the state police.  But there would be attitude and a long wait because these officers would resent been pulled from their usual beats to track you down in the middle of nowhere. 

It takes guts to be game warden, a man alone trying to control and regulate primal and deadly urges that exist within us all.  So I understood why he might be a little bit jumpy. 

I moved sideways, slowly, out from behind my car and faced him.

This was not my first rodeo and I knew what to do.  My arms were wide, hands hanging at least six inches from my thighs. But I had a terrifying thought.  This was the exact pose and posture I had seen over and over watching TV westerns as a kid, right before guns were drawn and people died.  I needed to relax, I told myself, just stay calm.

“So how are you doing?” he asked with a loud and chipper voice.

I responded, “Great!” trying to sound equally loud, chipper and Santa Claus jovial.

He walked around to the back of my car.  “I believe you were wearing a backpack when you crossed the highway a few minutes ago.”  Dark letters against blue background stood out from his neatly pressed shirt.  The last name was “Thayer.”

“Yes, Officer Thayer (or should I have said Warden Thayer?  Or does that only work with prison officials?).

“You’re welcome to search my backpack,” I said.

He saw it, I had it, and I knew the next step of the dance.

A thin smile from him.

“Of course, I know you don’t need my permission to do so because game wardens can search without warrant or cause.”  Why had I idiotically kept talking?  Was I hoping to impress him with knowledge that law abiding citizens usually lack?  “TMI!” the saner part of my brain screamed.

But I babbled on, managing to make matters worse, “Of course, only a poacher would know about that search and seizure stuff—or someone like myself who reads mystery stories with a game warden protagonist, like the C.J. Box novels for example.”  I looked at my hand, wanting to make a fist and smash it into my mouth. 

No response.  Clearly, I had just sunken deeper into a shit- pit of my own making.  Why couldn’t I just shut my damned pie hole?  

Still, maybe full disclosure would save me in the end.

“Well, officer, I’ve got to tell you upfront I've got a couple of abalone shells in my pack, but once you see them you’ll see that they’re old, nothing recently harvested.”

He stood there, perplexed by my motor-mouthing. 

I would have given all the cool rocks and all the fun I’ve ever had collecting them just to be back in San Simeon before my wife started to worry--or became 

angry--not sure which was worse.

“All right if I open the back window now and slowly remove my backpack?”  I tried not to add "Boss" at the end of this sentence, thinking of "Cool Hand Luke."

He nodded.

I did so but the pack slipped from my hand and landed on the grass behind my car with a whump.

“Hmmm, would you like me to unzip the big compartment?”

He nodded again.

“That coiled yellow thing there is the rope I use to rappel down the cliffs.  Underneath are the abalone shells I told you about.  Want me to pull out the rope so you can see them?”

“Yes.”

I did and he leaned over slightly.

"Uh, oh," I thought.  

And, I said, “You probably saw a knife down there.”

“Actually," he said, "there are two knives down there.”

Damn it!  I always lose knives and had somehow put both my coast and valley knife in the same backpack. Two long blades suitable for scooping meat from large shell fish--or hurting someone.

“So what are you actually doing out here?”  This guy was asking all the tough questions.  And because he used the word “actually,” I knew he wasn’t buying any of my blather.  

“Well, I collect rocks and polish them.  I also polish abalone shells, that is when I find them dead and abandoned along the shore (I cringed mentally at this weird utterance.  Shells don't die and shells of any kind are never exactly left behind--except when abandoned by hermit crabs searching for an abode with more square footage). 

“And the crowbar?” 

Now this was bad, really bad.  A crowbar is the tool of choice when removing abalone from their rock habitats.  You sneak up on them with a crowbar and apply quick leverage before they frighten up and suction down.  Mess up on the approach and you better visit a fish market on the way home if your wife is expecting sea food.  

Even if I had a license and stamp to take abalone (which I didn’t), and understood the butt-loads of rules which explain how you can legally take them (which I don’t), it’s all irrelevant when your car is parked adjacent to a marine sanctuary.

Oh, man.  My wife and our dinner guests were already expecting me in San Simeon (yes, social life actually does occur north of "Cahmbria").  But now there was a good chance I would be spending the night trying to prevent county inmates from putting their wangers into my uncomfortable places.

“Believe it or not, Officer, the crowbar is only along because I forgot my hammer.  I pound stakes into the ground and attach a rope to them. Then I climb down cliffs, doing my best not to fall and break a bunch of bones.”

He flipped through a notepad.  Hopefully, the last guy who detained me hadn’t initiated a BOL (Be On Lookout).

"What's your name?"

"John... John Risherson."

"What?"  

I tried my best to enunciate, "Richardson," I said, pissed off once again at having a surname so hard to pronounce, expecially with a dry mouth and scared out of my wits.

Another long pause.  This guy was good and waited for me to spill the rest of my guts.

Finally he asked, “How about the other zippered compartment?” 

“Uh…well, this is going to be a little embarrassing,” and I started to yank out a cardboard six-pack with four Buds. “You can see I drank two.  Hope that’s not a problem.”

He appraised me for a moment.  “No, I don’t see a problem there.  You’re a big guy.”

I knew what he was saying but wanted him to squirm.

“Are you saying I’m fat?"

“No, no, no… It’s just that… Well there’s a ratio of body weight to…”

I let him hang there for a moment.

“No problem," I said, "I've taught health science and know all about that ratio.”

More silence fostered a hope that we had reached a level of détente.

Still I thought it best continue with my policy of full disclosure.

“There’s one more compartment.”

He gave me a puzzled look.

“The small zipper further back. You’ll find my wallet, a cell phone, and maybe some other stuff.”  Just band aids, I knew, but I wanted him to work for it.

What happened next had horrifying implications.  It bothers me still because I wonder whether I had inadvertently--or intentionally--created the situation.

He squatted down, bent over my bag, and unzipped the last small compartment himself.  I had a  very disturbing thought: IF I had continued my Karate training, IF I was a complete psycho (like the guy in Los Angeles), and IF I didn’t admire and revere law enforcement officers, I could easily have delivered a kick to this man’s temple, rendering him unconscious or worse.  

Was it my openness that disarmed him, or did he just make a mistake?  Either way, I was ashamed to have created the situation and entertained the thought that followed.

And I do admire Officer Thayer—he’s friendly but thorough.  

Pain in the ass thorough.

“What about your pockets?”

This was actually a very good question since my cargo pants have enough space to harbor fifteen pounds of rock.  Sometimes full pocket loads cause everything to slip down, exposing my overly white ass.  I try to keep my belt tight, my junk hidden, but on occasion wardrobe failures have occurred.

Anyway, I produced a wallet and some keys.

“Anything else in your pockets?”

“There might be…”

I reached down into my left pocket and fumbled several times trying to grasp a small rock.  I finally got a tenuous grip on it, but must have pulled it out way too fast.  I saw his right hand tighten on the gun, actually pulling it loose from the holster.  

Pretty sure of two things at that point: first, he had a .40 caliber Glock, the same lethal canon my New Mexico daughter-in-law tries to hide in her purse and, second, I might need to change my pants when (and if) I ever got home.

But I stood there holding a fingernail sized “moonstone,” nothing I ever thought I might die for but happy because recent e events hadn’t gone western.

Officer/warden Thayer regarded the unimpressive pebble in my hand.

He said, “Is there anything you want to ask me?”

What a question?

Let’s see.  How close are you to arresting me?  How close were you to shooting me?  How come you never asked me what happened to the two missing beer bottles?

His question was so worrisome that it set off endgame alarms.  I figured we were on the verge of a “get in the truck” moment.  

But I was in for the penny AND the pound with this truth shit and decided to ramble on. 

“No, I don’t have any questions, Officer.  But I do want to thank you for doing your job, risking your life to stop poachers.  I’m also glad to have met you and hope to God you'll take care of yourself in the future, Officer Thayer.”

I stuck out my hand, half expecting a handcuff.

Instead there was a powerful and sincere grip. 

He pulled out onto Highway 1 and headed south.  I threw my pack into my Honda Element and got in.  A seatbelt clicked, and I was on my way to San Simeon.  Two miles down the road I saw Officer Thayer again, his truck pointed north, facing me.  I flashed my headlights twice--in both relief and appreciation.  I didn't expected him to understand, no doubt thinking I was just another smart-ass.

But here I was now in the same car, this time with my wife and about to turn into the San Simeon parking lot.  And was it that gave me a warm and fuzzy feeling after I looked in my rearview mirror?

His headlights flashed once, then twice.

He likes me.  He really likes me!

Nocturnal Rambles

Easy surf, wet sand
Mirror the moon gracefully,
Fades as east brings dawn.

Fish and Games (Rated "R" for bad language and deplorable attitude)

Clearly he was pissed.  His khaki shirt was untucked and the wool slacks, standard government issue, were slathered in mud.  I had worn those same slacks during my brief stint as a National Parks ranger.  Spring, summer or fall--that's what you wore, no matter how ridiculous you looked or how bad the heat rash.  Only Tony, the groundsman who mowed the grass and maintained bathrooms near Ash Mountain could get away with wearing shorts.  He was a Nam vet, probably special forces, and nobody fucked with him.

And I knew why my oncoming visitor's slacks were muddy.  The only access to this remote stretch of coast (somewhere between San Simeon, California and Ragged Point) was to climb down a rope.  Well, actually it was a woven canvas strap meant for towing cars.  Pounding an old tent stake with a sledge hammer an hour ago, I had attached this strap to the top of a cliff and used this half-assed rappelling gear to lower my ponderous butt the final twelve slimy feet to the rocky cove below.

I was looking for rocks, specifically the kind locals mistakenly call "moonstones" though anybody capable of pulling his geologically impaired ass from his ass might know they're just agates, freakin' beach agates. Not so clear pieces of silicon dioxide, oftentimes banded with impurities like quartz or flint. Those who hale from the Oregon or Washington coast know there are websites run by dweebs who actually get up early to look for this stuff.  Sad-assed losers, you betcha.

Anyway I was of a mind that day to make a buck or two selling this stuff to local merchants.  Raw (my term for just off the beach) a piece of "moonstone" fingernail width will go for six dollars, polished and shaped twice that.  But I wasn't eager to bust my balls finding this crap.  The trick is to find a fresh water source.  Shit rolls downhill (as anyone who's ever cashed a government paycheck will tell you), and agates flow downstream (from deposits in the hills and mountains).  Your best time to find them is late afternoon when the rocks are between you and the sun.  Then these translucent babies light up like 40 watt bulbs.  Even so, work your butt off along the beaches of San Simeon and Cambria, and you might count yourself lucky finding one or two pebbles a week.  

But on that day I had already collected so much moonstone booty that I worried about ripping the seams of my National Parks daypack.  And this was my second time down to this little armpit of a cove after stumbling upon it while looking for something else.  My original purpose for coming here was to find a section of coast not denuded of all fish by sea-going mammals.  To name these culprits specifically: sea lions, elephant seals and the most bad-assed fish marauders of all, those damned little otters!  Once upon a time, you see, humans like me gained enjoyment (and meat) from the now extinct art of surf fishing.

Rather than ranting further on this not so green subject, let me tell you about the excitement I felt when I first shimmied down a rope to what I expected was just a another backwater cove. I'll admit there was a last minute slip before falling onto a patch of sand with a hellacious thump.  Grace under pressure?  With me, it's more like clumsiness under all circumstances.  Fortunately, I held little hope for this scouting trip and hadn't bothered to bring my rod--so the impact damages were light, restricted to the area of my coccyx.  And if you think the "C" word in that last phrase was offensive, consult your Grey's Anatomy for Dumb-Asses.  Otherwise, read on, there's still a chance I'll offend the hell out of you.

Anyway on my first time down, I looked around and discovered I had practically landed on several rare items, a sea lion skull perched on a bolder and two fully intact abalone shells, one the common red and the other a rarer black which actually contained a small but intact piece of meat.  This made me nervous.  I had descended into an area termed "marine sanctuary" where just breathing is probably illegal.  So I pulled the meat off the shell and flung it into the surf.  I put both shells into my backpack (like certain rocks, they polish up nicely) and left the sea lion skull right where it was.  There's something like a five thousand dollar citation awaiting any bozo caught with a mammalian artifact, not a fine I was eager to pay.

The area felt strange and virgin.  A piece of coast pristine and free of human detritus, perhaps resembling beaches found by early explorers (macho guys with hard-ons for gold, not likely to waste time on some prissy-assed agates).  And isolated, a narrow enclosed reef that would keelhaul modern power boats and stymy all picnic-goers who neglected to bring repelling gear.

Needless to say, I saw greenbacks in my future.  Glowing orbs of beach agate (a.k.a. moonstones) were everywhere.  Now the true "moonstone" gem refers to a something obscure and usually found in obscure places places like Madagascar and Myanmar (Sri Lanka).  What I was looking at here, however, was a crazy abundance of beach agates, the type that make Cambria tourists go gaga.  Anyone visiting the motel infested byway known as Moonstone Drive wants a piece of this namesake rock for a souvenir, and they proceed to scour a stretch of adjacent sand that is the least likely place to find one.  Walk along that curvy little road any morning and you will see scads of codgers sifting sand and kelp just to find one sliver of this over-rated stone--and remember this kind of mindless activity has been going on for at least 20 or 30 years.  So how likely is it that you're going to find this weak excuse for a gemstone except in minute or mistaken quantities?  Well, whatever entertains the tourists... 

"This is a butt-ugly stretch of beach but it truly rocks," I thought and heard something strange, the sound of my own giggle.  Hemmingway once wrote about the drunkenness that sets in "when one finds game in sudden and idiotic abundance."  I took a piss and saw my water had illuminated stones that were much larger than the small pebbles touristas occasionally found to the south.  Then, in earnest (joke), I began to collect these huge wanna-be gems, piss and all, finding many more as I fanned out to the left and right of this tiny beach.  

Getting out my camera so I could mark the location for future reference, I climbed to the northern point of the cove.  I looked south through the camera viewfinder, surprised to see that this cove wasn't locked-in.  The tide was still low enough for me to scramble over a ledge, and very importantly, stay dry while I visited the next amphitheater indentation of coast.

So I did.  And right away there was a deep cave, and I staggered over loose rocks twenty feet into its dank and smelly interior.  No diamonds, no treasure and, damn it, nothing more in the way of moonstones.  The tides being favorable, I decided to continue south--still no moonstones. After another point, another amphitheater, more nothing.  I began to worry about overstaying the tide.  It would be a chilly, undertow sucking swim back to my rope if I farted around there much longer.

  

Then a broad beach, sand and rocks, high inaccessible cliffs, and suddenly there were moonstones everywhere.  Let me qualify that statement--not just moonstones but moon-BOULDERS.  I was in absolute despair.  How could I possibly bring all these incredible rocks back?   My backpack was already biting into my shoulders with all the pretty agates collected way back at my point of descent, and how was I going to carry these extra ten and twenty pound rocks?   I did my damndest, nevertheless, and returned quickly over  rough terrain leading to the area of my rope descent.  

But then I discovered could no longer climb the cliff wall, not even after taking off my backpack.  Probably this was due to the additional pounds of rocks stored in the many pockets of my cargo pants.  Fortunately, I found a way to throw the heavy pack up one or two feet at a time onto the next ledge.  Then I would pull my body up (after extending my arm and implanting a rock hammer into the cliff for traction).   I must have remembered this technique by watching people climb Everest on Netflix videos.

And like an out of control crack Ho, I went back for more rocks within a week but this time with a friend.  I told honestly told him that he was only along as a mule, useful only to carry more of this stuff up.  I also warned him, well, threatened actually while I sharpened the edge of my machete that should he reveal the location of my place, he might end up as bits of shark bait.  But for some reason he wanted to come anyway, having probably assumed I was making another of my weird jokes.  I wasn't.  

This second trip, however, was jinxed by unexpectedly high tides from an off-shore storm.  Yeah, we gathered a shit-load of "treasure" but my backpack was overburdened, flirting with a hernia to the tune of 50 or 60 pounds any reasonable limit.  Then with brilliant stupidity, I decided to jumped off a four foot ledge and leap over an incoming swell.  I hate getting my feet wet; slap me, punch me, tear off both my arms and stuff them down my throat--just don't leave me wet feet. 

I made another of my fuck-clumbsy landings, this time my boots squashing dozens of innocent sea anemones.  What the hey--just collateral damage, right?  Afterwards I sensed a strange development deep within my knee.  No problem, I said to myself as I followed my friend up the rope and limped back to the car…  I of a slogan I once had seen on a T-shirt: 
      I don't have a drinking problem.
      I drink, I fall down,
      No problem.
And there was no problem, that is, until several weeks later some jerk-wad radiologist told me that I had torn two ligaments, the anterior and interior meniscus, whatever the hell that means. 

So here I was, third trip down being approached by what I suspected was either a highly pissed-off warden, ranger or sheriff.  One hand held a ticket book, the other hovered close to his pistol.  I knew the drill.  Keep your own hands out to the sides where they can be seen.  Don't make any sudden moves.  And most of all, don't reach for anything--like the interior of my daypack which contained several beers that I was now very much in the mood for. 

Well shit happens and I waited, kept my mouth shut, and surrendered the initiative to my guest.  I figured he would feel more comfortable if I let him speak first.  And you always want a man with quick access to a gun to be comfortable.

"How are you doing today, sir?"

"Great," I said and grasping for some levity said, "and you know, I haven't seen a panga boat all afternoon!"  If you're not from this area you might not know that panga boats, 34 feet long and running through deep water up from Mexico, are now the go-to method for smuggling marijuana to the central coast.  Not that we don’t have a butt-load of better shit growing just fifteen miles up the road in the Big Sur area.  But go figure.

"I see you're a rock collector."  No shit Sherlock, I thought, realizing he had probably been watching me through a spotter scope for quite some time.  He might also have looked inside my pack (which I now noticed was fifty yards up the beach and much closer to him).  Game wardens don't need a warrant or probable cause to search your person or property.  I slowly walked toward my pack and saw that it was unzipped, my treasure trove of rocks fully exposed, either because of his intrusion--or my own sloppiness (my wife constantly nags me to pull up my zipper).  Either way, it was time to rule out brilliant deduction on the part of my law-enforcement friend. 

"That's right, just collecting rocks,” I said.  “Is there a problem here?"  I noticed his name plate started with the initials C.J. followed by some surname I still can’t remember.  And I tried to remember as much as I could in case things went south.

"No problem at all.  In fact, I'm a rock collector too," Mr. Ranger/Warden said and the phrase “bull shit” flashed like neon in the recesses of my mind. 

"Did you know that there's a fifty pound limit on rocks per day?"

"Really?  Well hot damn! I thought it was only 45!  Guess I can collect a few more."  I reached down for my pack with one arm, nonchalantly lifting it up and down to demonstrate how incredibly light I hoped it was.

“But ya’ know,” I said trying for the folksy approach, “I injured my knee last time I was down here trying to take out too many stones.  So I really do appreciate the reminder about the limit" (a suck-ass Eddie Haskle imitation nearly triggering my gag reflex).

"Okay, but now maybe you can tell me why you were stashing stuff behind that boulder over there.  Abalone poaching is a serious crime."

I hung my head and affected an "awe shucks" tone, "Well, you've caught me officer.  But if you will walk with me over there, you'll find that it's just a pile of big ol' rocks.  Fact is, I was squirreling them away for my next trip down here.  Hope that's not a crime.  Just stuff too heavy for me to legally carry out. And I sure didn't want to hurt myself again." 

I started to shuffle toward the boulder in question.

"Just a minute. Would you mind putting that rock down?"  During all of our chat, I hadn't noticed that there was a ten pound moonstone under my arm (yeah, they really do get that big down there).  And that’s when I kind of felt sorry for C.J.  Game wardens work alone, they often meet armed individuals, and seldom have backup.  So I laughed my best fake laugh while slowly putting down the offending rock and potential weapon (which was really a pisser because I had just resolved to walk out of there after adding this last big mother to my pile.  There's no need to be greedy after all).

So he inspected my stash of rocks, clearly disappointed by the absence of contraband (no abalone can be taken in this section of the coast, regardless of the size, unless you are one of those god-damned sea otters—in which case this aforesaid ocean-going rodent can take as many as he wants, anytime, regardless of size.  That's why I was so surprised on my first trip down to find two wholly intact abalone shells.  Usually there are only fragments.  The best you might hope for would be a whole shell with a little crack in the middle.  Otters are crafty tool users who put rocks on their chests, shatter abalones against them, and then feast on these huge (but increasingly rare) mollusks. Sometimes I think the 19th century Russians had the right idea—shoot the little bastards and turn them into warm coats.  Their fur has a marvelously dense follicle count that insulates them from cold water so that they don't have to carry around the heavy fat shielding of sea lions or elephant seals (whose pelts are basically worthless).

And these son of a bitchin' otters have recovered so well from a near extinction that there's little likelihood of finding a once common, now impossible whole abalone shell.   Don't even get me started again on how these voracious, prolific but, unfortunately cute, critters have all but ruined surf-fishing along the central coast.

Let us instead return to our little beachside drama where CJ, having failed in his quest to find an illicit pile of abalone, now seemed frustrated at finding no cause to write me a citation.  A long walk, muddy clothes, all for nothing.

He was quiet while we walked to my day pack, no doubt reaching for some last inspiration.

The metal encased citation book was still in his hand, so big and heavy that he could never just slip it back into his pocket.

"And you know, the way you parked your car up their on the road was kind of dangerous."

This was weak.  We both knew it.

"I'm very sorry about that officer," I assured him, "and I will certainly make every effort to park better in the future."

He looked down for a moment and mumbled, "Well, you have a nice day."

"You, too!"

I smiled idiotically as he turned and started back.  At least a mile to cover over loose, jagged rocks, then a climb, precarious because my stake and the rope attached to it were kind of "iffy".  This would be followed by a 300 yard trek across a tick-infested field. I almost felt bad. Those wool slacks would definitely have to be dry cleaned.  If he had a wife, there could be grief over that.

Still, I was a little angry.  After all, he had invaded my privacy.  What if he'd caught me in the middle of a nude-beach moment?  That would certainly have made our encounter a little awkward. 

I thought about this for a while.

Then I yelled out, "Wait!" and began to rummage furiously through my pack.  I continued to do so as he walked the full 100 yards over tricky rocks and stood above me. 

Then I grinned affectionately and looked up.

"Where do think I should park next time?  I don't want to do anything wrong."

(Crestfallen would not begin to describe his expression)

"On the other side," he said with a voice devoid of energy, "down where the road is wider, where I parked my own car"  (Not that I could know the location of his car having arrived earlier, I considered, and with his head start how likely would it be that I would arrive in time to see his car was before he drove off?  But I ignored this obvious lapse of logic.  He looked a little out of sorts).

"Thanks, C.J., I'll certainly remember that!'

Then more evil entered my brain.  I was expected at a birthday party in a couple of hours. I could run past CJ (saying in a panicky tone that I had forgotten an immediate social engagement), get to the cliff before him and pull up the rope--it was MY personal property after all.  He would make it out eventually, after scrambling up a slippery slope. But probably not without losing his grip once or twice--and maybe his temper as well.

Despite what many of my friends think, I am not a complete asshole.  And with my injured knee, it would be a  very painful sprint.  Even under the best of conditions, I doubt that I could overtake someone at least 30 years my junior.  So I waited until I was sure he was gone and pulled out several beer bottles, quickly emptying their contents into my stomach.  After several vigorous prolongued burps, I looked carefully around for lingering wardens--or for that matter--hovering drones.  Nope to both.  So I took the empty beer bottles down to some jagged rocks (where nobody in their right mind would ever swim or surf).  I picked up a stone and broke them into tiny little pieces. 

Sure I had raped this small section of coast by removing many of its fine moonstones.  But I had also "farmed" a little sea glass for future generations, including my grandkids who (after a little instruction) could climb down here and also experience the lucrative joy of collecting.

The next time C.J. sees my car on Highway 1, I bet he won't stop to pay me a visit.  And that's too bad.  I kind of liked that young man.