BUZZ KILL, Number Five in the Fish and Games Series

North coast bound and Van Morrison coming at me from all four speakers:

I can hear her heart beat for a thousand miles
And the heavens open every time she smiles
And when I come to her that's where I belong
Yes, I'm running to her like a river's song

She give me love, love, love, love, crazy love
She give me love, love, love, love, crazy love

Temperatures were over 70 with an afternoon devoid of wind and plenty of time before the low tide and maximum collecting conditions.  I was "feeling good" like James Brown said I should, anticipating a great afternoon of sun, rock gathering, and maybe some downtime with the novel in my backpack.  

Gear had been unloaded, and I was already across the barbed wire when I realized a music induced endorphin rush must have caused me to pull over at the wrong arroyo.  I was in the process of putting everything back into the car when a kelly green pickup pulled up behind me. 
What, my game warden friends wanted another chat?

There was the usual friendly but well practiced greeting.
"How you doing today, sir?"
"Great, except I pulled over at the wrong place.  I'm going to have to move about a hundred yards down the road."
"What's in those bags?"
"Nothing much, just my collecting gear.  And I haven't even been down to the beach yet."
"Is it okay if I take look in those bags?"

My fine day was taking on an ugly and unexpected turn. Besides a lost afternoon, this might be the time I finally end up in jail.  But Van was still a presence:

Shes got a fine sense of humor when I'm feeling low down
And when I come to her when the sun goes down
Take away my trouble, take away my grief
Take away my heartache, in the night like a thief

"Absolutely, let's take a look," I said, responding to his not-really-an-option request since game wardens do not need cause or a court order to perform a search.  I waited while he approached the back of my vehicle. My choice of the word "absolutely," it seemed to me, was so very close to the dyslectic syntax of Yoda: "Asshole-you-be".
Yet I obediently begin another tour of my personal belongings.
"In this bag I have my windbreaker, the tow rope to get down the cliffs around here, sun tan lotion, a couple beers and a rock hammer."
"The other pouches?"  
"This one has my wallet, a camera, a can of sardines and a small pocket knife."
"Anything else?"
"Well, there's this plastic container filled with band aids.  I bleed easily. Long story there."
"What about the other bag, the orange one?"

Ah, take a breath now, I thought.  Think before you answer.
"Well, it's just glass... a bunch of empty bottles."
"And why do you have them?"
"Whenever I go to a beach, I like clean up some."
He proceeds to undo my bow tie knot and paw through my booze bottles: large wine, small wine, big gin, little gin, lots and lots of beer bottles, some blue, brown and green. A merry lot.
"Where'd you get all this?"

My buzz and the hope for this fine afternoon began to fade. But Van's words still echoed in my head, and I  thought of my wife:

She's got a fine sense of humor when I'm feeling low down
And when I come to her when the sun goes down
Take away my trouble, take away my grief
Take away my heartache, in the night like a thief

Show time.
"Where did I get all these glass bottles? Uh, let's see... two turnstiles down.  It must have been a big party."  
"Oh you mean the (something or other) creek access?  
I nod hesitantly, trying for all I'm worth to look casual.
He digs deeper into my farming supplies.
"Seriously, all this from just down the road?  No kidding it must have one heck of a party.  I'm having a little problem with this."
"Well, actually it was collected it over the course of several days."  (You idiot--never change your story midstream!  But I pushed on, appealing, I hoped, to his ecological mindset).
"I like to leave places cleaner than I left them, you know?"

"Do you recycle?"
"Of course.  Money for doing the right thing... Those are all deposit bottles, I believe." 
And I thought to myself that I actually do recycle (in ways I hope to God you, Mr. Warden, have not yet figured out).
"I do the same thing, actually," he revealed with some pride. "but why the rock hammer?"
I pause a moment and think how to put this, not wanting to sound smart assed...
        Question: So why do you have a tooth brush? 
        Answer: Obviously, to brush toilets, dumb ass!
Instead I say, "Because I collect rocks" hearing an odd sense of shame in my voice.
"What kind of rocks?"  
Hmm...is he a geologist?  Metamorphic.   A gemologist? Chalcedony.
"Moonstone, I say, just agate, as you know, and an occasional piece of jade--though local experts lsay it can't be found this far south, pretty sure they're wrong."  The "shut-up" sensors are now flashing red in some part of my mind. 
"It's illegal to collect jade anywhere along this coast except for Jade Cove."
Oops! Another of my TMI moments

"Really?  I hadn't heard that but good to know."   I decided not to complicate matters by explaining the difference between true jade and jadeite, a more accurate explanation of what I had actually found.

"In fact, it is also illegal," he continued, "to collect anything at all along this part of the coast, including rocks, all the way to a point north of San Francisco."
"Really?  I hadn't heard that, either." (and now I know why my wife says I tend to repeat myself)
"But I don't understand why," I continue with wide eyed innocence.
"Because this is a protected marine sanctuary, PMS."
"Oh yes, I've heard of that zone.  It starts at the cypress tree two miles south of here, right?"  (Shut up, shut up about PMS jokes, don't go there!).

"No, it starts at a point south of Cambria."
I was about to answer with another "Really?" but instead asked, "Are you sure about that?
"Yes."  
Hard to argue against stone-faced certainty, especially when coming from a young, grim, and holstered ex-military type.

Still, I was pretty sure he was wrong about jade collecting, having read many texts recommending beaches north south of jade cove.

"I always thought the purpose of marine sanctuary was to, you know, protect marine life.  You know, living stuff in the water and not on the land," (hence, the designation"marine" but I withheld this last part).
"No.  This area is controlled both on land and sea by two jurisdictions, one state one federal."
I couldn't help myself this time, "Really?"
"Yes, and if one of the federal guys catches you with rocks, he will assign you a fine right there on the spot."
What federal guys?  What kind of vehicles do they drive?  I had been through this drill two times before with Fish and Game officials and made a point of mentioning the name of the previous warden.  The response from each person "interviewing" me was always a blank stare: "Never heard of him/them."

Stay focused.
"Hmm... And the fine you mentioned will probably have to go straight to Fresno, right?  I was having doubts about the depth of his local knowledge and wanted to see if he knew where the nearest federal court was.  A facial tic suggesting I was right--but no real acknowledgement of his ignorance.

"But you know, that's strange," I slid lightly along a knife edge separating challenge sincere curiosity, "because I've been detained and searched by two other law enforcement agencies besides your own, and they had no problem with my rock collecting" (maybe because they weren't just bored like this guy and more focused on their jobs: catching poachers and marijuana smugglers).  I decided not to pursue this point and risk any perception of being "uncooperative".

"So how do I know which of the two sanctuaries I'm in and which rules apply?"
He explained at length, evoking boundaries named after other obscure creeks and arroyos not even delineated on Google Earth,  I know, having tried at length to get this kind of information for another blog entry.
"Out of curiosity," I asked,c "how much would the fine be... something steep, maybe around $300?
"Well beyond that, I'm sure."

"Ouch! I sure appreciate you telling me all this.  I don't have the money to pay that kind of fine.  And to think here all along I've been operating on the fifty plus one per day rule."
No response.  A blank stare.  
"You've never heard the phrase before, have you... fifty plus one per day?"
I waited the teacher obligatory four seconds.
One, two, three...
"No."
That's when I decided that Officer/Warden Meyer was FOS (the first letter stands for "full," followed by "of" and you know where I'm going with the next word.

I covered my astonishment by rambling on, as if nothing significant had transpired.
"I mean it makes sense, right?  You wouldn't want some guy taking tons of rock from the beach to decorate his front lawn.  Not sure why they phrase it like that, though.  Fifty pounds of rock, give or take one, per day."

And this revelation was a puppy I decided to let be, further proving  that I must be dealing either with an idiot or someone very new to the area.

"You know officer... was it Nilmeir?" (I once had a student so named).
"No, Meyer."
"Oh, right.  Well this is all very new and confusing to me, and I'm not sure I've got it all straight in my Alzheimered brain. Could you suggest someone I could contact that might be able to explain all of this to me again so I don't accidentally violate some very expensive laws?"
"Yes.  Go south to the pier across from Hearst's Castle.  There's a trailer," he started to say then corrected himself, "actually a building called "The Discovery Center."
I waited a beat. Trailer bigot! 
"Oh, yes, I think I know where that is." (Duh)
"They should be able to explain it all to you."
"Great!"

"Well, thanks again, officer Meyer and would it be okay if I went on down to that cove I mentioned... just to clean up any trash?"
"Of course."

"Thanks, officer." (I should probably have addressed him simply as Warden God but decided his actual title was more likeky to be special agent--and why aren't there any "not so special" agents?).  But then maybe this guy was just new to his job, ignorant, and arrogant.

In either case, I wanted to assure good-will in case we met again, and deflect any interest in my quasi-legal hobbies.
"Oh, by the way, good work on that bank robber arrest.  We're you the one who took him down?"
"Yes.  Well no, not me, but one of the members of my unit."

Wrong on several accounts but not worth explaining if you haven't been following local news.  Also a fibp if I've ever heard one.  His choice of words: "my unit"?  Obvious military phrasing, not what would one would expect from an employee who draws a check from a department in our state.

"And out in the boonies," I continued with my ass-kissing, "it's always the warden that gets the call, isn't it?
"Yes."
Then in the interest of further good will, "And most of the time you guys patrol alone, totally without back up, don't you?"
He nodded.  And I hoped this last part would not be prrceiced as a threat.  Safety under the radar.

Yet here I was, picnic supplies, libations and a good book. No way I was going to let this unanticipated interrogation ruin my mood and thought again of Van Morrison lyrics and my wife.

Yes I need her in the daytime
Yes I need her in the night
Yes I want to throw my arms around her
Kiss her, hug her, kiss her, hug her tight

"FTS," I said to myself (the middle part of the acronym being "this".  Again, you can figure out the rest).
So I moved my car south and parked at the correct ravine this time, watching the green pickup head north toward Ragged Point. Before long I was throwing out my rope and sliding down a muddy cliff. Though I had just been there just a day before it now seemed different, like I had planted my feet on a new beach: sand and kelp, all piled in new locations.

Everywhere I looked there were agates, jadeite, and other interesting jasper/flint conglomerates.  The earth replenishes and abides, I thought.  I hesitated to pick anything up.  Then I remembered the warden driving off.  It would take him at least five minutes to circle back and pull over.  Then he had to cross a field and set up his scope (possibly a Redfield with Zeis optics unless his agency, whatever it was, lacked the funds to spring for the best).

So I picked up some moonstone/agates with exceptional clarity and slipped them into my pockets--not my backpack, oh no.  "Go ahead and search my bag," I imagined saying to anyone I met on my way out. Of my four previous encounters, only one had resulted in something so invasive as a weak pat down.  I left my other bag, filled with farming supplies, back in the car.  Too hard to explain why all those bottles had disappeared, nearly five pounds of glass, no longer to be found edcept by future collectors of beach glass.

Before long I knew enough time had lapsed for my law-enforcement friend to be ready and watching, maybe even taking photos through his scope.  And wouldn't you know it? Forbidden fruit and all, I kept finding some real beauties.

I picked up some of the more promising rocks and made an exaggerated display of tossing them aside.  Other times I would palm them--not even a Redfield scope, I reasoned, could detect a stone thrown from my hand.  Then I started to pick up two rocks at a time, actually letting go of one while keeping the other until I could casually pocket it.

Some of the rocks were a bit large... yet interesting enough that I decided to cram them into a back pocket.   This kind of hurt my butt, but my eventual plan was to put everything in my pockets into a baggie before I climbed the cliff and be ready to jettison it all.

Everything was ruined, however, especially my mood.  No peace. No reveling in the sun.  No sense of being master of all that I surveyed. Certainly not when suspecting I was being observed.  I ate some crackers and drank a soda. Seriously, just a soda.  Federal custody is serious shi--stuff.

The climb to the highway was tense.
To what length would this guy go to apprehend a heinous collector of rocks?  Each wavering shrub and cascading rock unnerved me. Eventually, I poked my head up over the brown grasslands, ready to duck down and throw out the illicit contents of my pockets.

My car was to the left.  Check.  I ducked back down, counted to five, then popped my head up and looked right.  No green pickups, no sign of rangers/wardens/or whatever waiting to intercept me. Check again.

And along the way home, I did stop at the Discovery Center and talked to an elderly gent (meaning my age, I guess) and was handed a list of government phone numbers, bureaucratic agencies that on a Friday afternoon were about as likely to respond as dialing 1-800-Hey-God and expecting The Man Himself to pick up.

Strange how I kept running into wardens with names that were unknown to my local contacts.  And what gave them the right, whether DEA, Homeland Security, or FBI, to misrepresent themselves and drive around in those nice Fish and Game pickups?

"Keep things in perspective," someone I love often reminds me.
I tried to do just that.  And after a few quick miles, I was home.

When I'm returning from so far away
She gives me some sweet lovin' brighten up my day
Yes, it makes me righteous, yes it makes me feel whole
Yes, it makes me mellow down into my soul.


12/16/13

A Very Dry Year

FInally unpacked
seated on my front porch
I see zebras grazing in
the gap between two
neigborly houses

I am wondering why
I ever left this place
but also perplexed at deliberate
zebra movements staying
an unusually long time
cropping one area for all its worth

Then I remember something
about gramnivores
how they have to eat twice as much
work twice as hard for nourishment
when the grasses are so brown
this desicated

But they could have it worse
and smile at the fresh breeze
and record temps over 108
predicted tomorrow in the valley
I left behind

So whether the grass
Is brown or green
there is that which sustains us
though there may be years
when we work harder
to find it

Enswensy Spider

I grabbed the rope and scrambled up the cliff.
Yeah, knee meniscus problems and all that crap,
but I had been working out.
All that upper body strength was still there,
and I climbed this particular cliff faster
than ever before.

I willed it be, wanted it to be, and would not let
my last visit to this beach be compromised
by a weak effort.

I clamored fast and wicked like a black widow
closing on a fly.

And there I was... almost to the
last ledge, pulling myself up hand over hand. Until
I encountered the deep amber eyes.

No, I did not take this photo.  My GoCam was off.  I was using both hands just to struggle up the cliff.  But this is what I saw.  Beautiful contemplative eyes, taking in my preoccupied hands as I clung to some weak coastal shrubs.  A predator who recognized an edge.  Minutes, or what seemed like them, came and went.

We ended the stand-off by doing what all males do under such circumstances.  We bluffed.  I pulled my lips back and attempted a growl.  His growl was better, his teeth more impressive.

Then he dusted me with dirt and ran up the last few yards to the top of the cliff.

But he turned for a final look: "What the hell was that all about?" we both thought.  

He was Canis Fimilarius, genetically identical to my dog Stewie at home but a 

sub-branch of canines that had long ago rejected human companionship. 

Nothing personal.  And we both went our own way.

As I write this tonight and swear this to be true, his kin are howling crazily not far outside my window. 

It's time to take Stewie for his final walk--and I need to keep him on a tight leash.

Wild ones have a different attitude.

Post Script:

Three days after writing this brief piece of nothing, I was in the desert riding a quad motorcycle.  I was afraid that the night would be long and I would have little to read, so I downloaded a recent Dean Koontz novel titled "The Taking".

Soon after dark I read the first few chapters to my friend Bob.  Who knows why I was prompted to do this and thank God I have friends that will tolerate the weirdness of one adult reading to another.

Anyway, the story begins with a woman afflicted with insomnia who wakes up to powerful and supernaturally strange rain pouring down on her mountain cabin above San Bernardino.  She decides to use her insomnia to work on a novel but hears noises on the front porch.  At first she thinks she sees wolves but they are in fact coyotes, coyotes with such an imploring look in their eyes that she goes out and joins them.  They rub against her legs having momentarily abondoned their fear of humans, because they know that something way more scary is on its way...

So I read for twenty minutes and afterwards slept straight through the night.  I wanted to watch the stars but was just too tired.

The next morning we headed into town for breakfast, having planed to eat at the cafe where we ate the night before.  It was closed.  We drove on saw The Coyote cafe.  An excellent place for breakfast, and I'd recommend it to anyone stuck in California City.

Pictures of coytes, cute little cartoons, and a full plaster mask of a coyote head right above our table.  My appetite was off and I was having trouble finishing my breakfast.

"Did you hear the ruckus last night?"

"No," I said.

"Something big, probably a coyote," Bob said. "I think he was trying to get some liquid out of your 7-up can."

"Really?  Sorry, I missed that.  I should've done a better job of cleaning up before bed."

But I was more sorry I hadn't left out a bowl of water for our thirsty visitor.  We had plenty of it.

"Well who knows what that was all about, Bob?  The Navahos call Mr. Coyote "The Trickster" because he's always up to something."

And I wondered what kind of mischief Mr. Coyote was working to make himself such a frequent visitor in my mind.

And worried that I might find out.

How Dodger Shirts Can Save Your Live

I was on the final leg of my four mile Saturday walk.  Made it down to the Grab and Rob but got sucked in for breakfast at the nearby Los Barrachos, a wonderful Mexican joint along the way home on this hot Visalia Morning.

The proprietor convinced me that a Cerveza Roja would be the perfect companion for my Torta Asada.  Whatever, I still wasn't fully awake.

I pulled out the newspaper I'd purchased from the the G and R and chuckled out loud about the Sacramento woman who had slugged a deputy just so she could have her ass hauled back to jail and dry up from her addiction. Whatever works.  Other patrons politely ignored my inappropriate laughter...

But now I was almost home, the Cerveza Roja just about burned off, and I saw a byclicist roaring toward me and screaming at the top of his lungs.  Couldn't make out his words yet but I took inventory and tried to assume the "Horse" stance, facing  your opponent laterally, front foot forward, back boot perpendicular as an anchor, hands half way uncommitted until you see the source of the threat.

At seventy five yards out I could hear the word "Dodgers", and realized that I was walking through a predominantly "Red" neighborhood still wearing the Bluish T-shirt from last night's surprise birthday party:  "Los Angeles" near the neckline, "LA" underneath, with bats crisscrossing like a skull and cross bones.  The guy coming at me looked young, crazed a little like that weird relief pitcher for the Giants, Sergio Romo.  I sensed this could end badly.

Especially since my right knee, the one I had used preemptively in the past to bust other peoples' knees and walk away unscathed, had recently suffered two torn ligaments which still hadn't been adjusted by surgery.

My left leg had little comparative kicking power and my left fist was going to be busy just trying to protect my recently broken rib.  All anyone would have to do is brush me in either of those areas, and I would be a screaming crying mess.

And then he was on me, still yelling at the top of his lungs: "Dodgers are just getting ready...they're going to take the pennant and you, my man, have made a great fashion choice!"

And he swished by me.  He must have been 50 yards away before I pointed toward him and yelled back,  "Yeah, you got that right.!"

I was barely 11:00 am.  I decided to go home, wash off my sweat, and watch a Dodger game if for no other reasons than loyalty--and gratitude.

How to be Run over by Your Own Motorcycle

Your blood pressure is a little high...

"Maybe because I'm embarrassed about what happened to me."

And so I told my story...

And I told it over and over at the emergency ward while waiting for my x-ray results--until I suspected staff members were bringing people off the street, possibly charging admission...

  

"Okay, like I told the P.A. (Physician's Assistant)

I was riding a quad, you know an ATV, kind of like a motorcycle but with four wheels."

My latest listener nodded encouragingly.

"At the time, I was going down a steep hill, so steep most sane people wouldn't consider walking it.

My friend was behind me on his own ATV and we were taking it slowly, under 10 mph certainly."

Another nod from my latest visitor.

"Anyway, my right front wheel slid against a road channel and locked in sideways, stopping all forward motion.

The vehicle stopped abruptly and my body continued forward at the previous velocity."

And what happened?

"What happened?  Obviously, I sailed over the handle bars and landed 7 or 8 feet down the trail. 

Now usually, that's no problem.  Happens all the time, you know?"

A raised eyebrow.

"You know, like the saying I once saw on a t-shirt: I don't have a drinking problem. I drink. I fall down. No problem

Which is to say, I've fallen off  motorcycles many times-no big deal."

Then why are your here?

"Well obviously--because two wheeled idiot motorcyclists rutted this trail out over the years shaping it into an absolute "W".  I landed on the middle ridge of that sharp letter.

In seconds, it seemed to me, my friend was kneeling over me.  My first words were:

"It threw me." 

"Are you all right, John?"

"I'm not sure, Bob, , I remember a cracking sound when I hit the ground.  I didn't just feel it,  but heard it--with my ears.

Then I saw something big and green coming in from my right.  My quad.

My latest listener leaned forward in anticipation.

"Apparently the ATV I had just been ejected from had been idling, still in gear and at that point decided to move in for the kill. 

Kind of like--the bad man was down, time to finish him off but maybe it was just what they call post injury shock, I don't know."

My listener leaned back and went silent. I figured she was trying to distance herself from my Stephen King-like interpretation of events.  But I continued...

"Bob and I watched as the front wheels of my ATV rolled over both of my legs.  Didn't hurt much at the time, no snapping sounds, possibly because a quad is lighter when no one was actually riding it.

At this point my listener covered her mouth.

"And then the rear wheels--with all the weight of the 500 cc engine and tranny were about to roll over my legs a second time while I waited numbly for twin snapping sounds,

But Bob stood up and wrestled with the handle bars, managing to turn the killer machine away, and eventually jumped on top of it and parked it down the trail."

And all this happened how long ago?

"A little over 24 hours, I guess."

And it took you this long to seek medical attention for a fractured rib?"  (First I'd heard of it, thank you very much!)

"Well, you see, at the time we were less than half way to our destination."

Which was?

"Not sure. Just a couple of places way out on our map."

Then you started back to Visalia?

"Actually, no, because we found some huge logs along the way and we're planning on an enormous campfire that evening."

My listener shook her had back and forth and eventually stood up.

As she opened the door, 

I saw her motion to someone, a "next"  kind of gesture, hopefully for the PA, maybe even a real doctor.

But she turned to me before she left the room.

Have you considered having someone say a prayer over your motorcycle?

"Yeah, hah, that's good.  Like the Christine car in that old movie, bad mojo, bad metal, an exorcism kind of thing?"

She nodded and closed the door.

Honest to God, some people are so weird.  Why can't everyone be normal like Bob and me?

No Fish, No Games

The itch under my shirt sleeve threatened to distract me in my favorite San Simeon chair, pillows and blankets arranged to optimal comfort.  I ignored the crawling sensation, deep into a Janet Evanovich novel checked out from the Cambria library. 

The sensation returned, just a muscle twitch.  

The book was light fiction, but I was hard pressed to suppress the kind of raucous laughter that would shatter my wife’s concentration as she pounded down cards on her Smart Phone Solitaire Game.

How does this Evanovich lady, do it?

If only I could write something so funny and exciting!

The sensation relocated, higher on my shoulder.  I reached under my shirt and pinched a small lump.

Reluctantly, I got out of the chair and went out to the front porch, and opened my fingers.  A brown spec with a familiar cream pattern landed the white railing and started to creep away.  I flicked it hard with my fingernail, hoping to send it to oblivion never to be seen again.

The walk in Cambria that morning had been wonderful, with old growth forests that provoked fantasies of a Hobbit movie.  The hill top ocean vistas made me with a wish for the steel nerves takes to climb into a hang glider.  We had taken Ardath to the Trenton road trailhead-- maybe you’ve been there?

A couple of our dear friends were visiting us in San Simeon and I wanted to impress them with my choice of  hiking route.  After dropping down into the Fiscalini ranch area, I pretended to be momentarily lost (only half untrue).  Then we climbed a steep grassy hill.  Between rapid inhalation and exhalations, I told one of the friends, Andrei, about how some wrong decisions on an ATV nearly resulted in disaster.  I asked if anything like that had happened to him.

Several weeks ago he was driving with his brother on a rain soaked section of Highway 99 at 75 mph and his vehicle began to hydroplane.  He felt the car slide from his control and immediately braked to disengage the cruise control (good decision).  Then as the car continued to glide toward the shoulder he turned the wheel left, against the direction of  of the slide (bad decision).  The car spun around  two and half times, crossed the median, and cars were approaching head on as they sat in their stalled vehicle.   Fortunately, the suprised drivers coming at them were able to break in time.  Andre started his car, nobody hurt, nothing hit or damaged and made a U-turn.  He took the next offramp and returned to the highway resuming his previous direction.  
"Sort of makes you appreciate little things after something like that, doesn't it?"
"Yep, it sure does," I said,. and about that time we crested the ridge.

Before long, we all piled into the car, still a little out of breath.  I hoped our friends had enjoyed a memorable hour and a half of light exercise and worthwhile conversation.  

Food was next on the itinerary.  I felt the lump in my right pant leg, horrified at the realization that is was not a wallet but my camera.  The trip back to San Simeon to get my wallet was an embarrassing 25 minutes of apology, accompanied by various suggestions about how we could pool our resources and have enough money for the cash only restaurant.

Eventually, we enjoyed an excellent lunch at our favorite al fresco Mexican eatery.  Our dessert cravings led us to the den of the Red Moose, a fabulous cookie shop in the quasi-industrial collection of aluminum buildings known to Cambrians as “Tin City”.

Our friends, tired and full, were homeward bound somewhere between San Simeon and Fresno when I catapulted my tick friend into the middle of Avonne Avenue.  Going back inside, I was met by my wife's expectant stare.

“Yes,” I admitted, "it was a tick.”

We knew what had to be done and had done it before.  Time for “tick lockown”.

The front door was locked and bedroom door closed.  One of us began to disrobe and having reached a state of complete nudity, a full body scan was intiated, all cracks and crevices carefully examined.

Nothing, so far.

Then the other person disrobed, the routine repeated itself.

If no insects are found, this ritual often leads to playful groping, typically initiated by a partner I refuse to identify.

Negative, no ticks, nothing undesirable.

“Still we really should notify our friends, let them know.”

“Absolutely.  How can we pass up an opportunity like this?”  

“Text?”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

“Just removed a vicious tick,” the message began, “Suggest you remove all clothing immediately and inspect each  thoroughly before they burrow in.”

We laughed ourselves silly thinking about their reactions.

But, alas, no text response.  People really need to learn how to take a joke, I thought.

We sat in our chairs and read a while until a low tide that afternoon.  Time to head north, another collecting (and farming) expedition for me.

I gathered the necessary materials, rock hammer, rope, two beers, and a can of sardines.
I kissed my wife goodbye.  She warned me again not to do “anything stupid.” 

There was a gradual up tick in my pulse.

If you’ve read “Fish and Games” parts 1 through 3, you know why.

But all went well.   That is, until I saw the CHP unit on the side of the road.  Panic mode nearly took over before I realized that the black and white was nowhere near my special beach and wasn't lying in wait for me.  Still the rear view mirror commanded my attention.

After another ten minutes, I parked where recommended (as suggested in Fish and Games, Part 1), and  dawdled a while getting my gear together.  Then I rechecked everything, half expecting a law enforcement car to pull up behind me.  Didn’t happen.

I was still nervous as I stepped over the barbed wire fence and caught by the inner part of my pant legs, nearly destorying my man parts.  Probably quite a scene viewed from cars that zoomed north and south while I untangled myself.

Familiar and upside down black funeral flowers surrounded me as I walked the sloping field that ended with a cliff.

I went down the guide rope without incident and began a forced marched to the far beach where I immediately made a contribution to future generations—again, a task best understood in the context of previous “Fish and Games” articles, all absolute fiction in case someone wearing a badge might be reading this.

On the way to my destination, I stumbled over slippery seaweed but managed to avoid another knee injury. Right away, I found a rock with obvious flecks of jade.  Who says you have to go all the way to Jade Cove to find this stuff?

Tired as I was from walking with friends that morning, I slogged on and tried to enjoy the moment.  

Today was abalone day, I realized, finding a whole shells and many nice pieces everywhere, some ocean- polished to perfection.

Along with the shells, I collected some decent rocks and popped open my first beer.

So after an hour of collecting I made my way back to the rope, my spirits greatly improved.  Giddy with last minute success, I decided some sort of ritual was in order like Native Americans who offer a pinch of tobacco to spirits of the wind. 

So before climbing up the rope, I ate a tin of sardines, thankful for the bounty of  the sea, and drank the second beer, grateful for fruit of the land, hops.

I even documented the happy moment with a photo.  Afterwards, I looked around, found a for a few more  worthies, and climbed up the rope.

I peeked in the direction of my car and ducked back down.  Nothing.  I raised my head again, quickly looking left and right.  No rangers on the cliff, no distant observers with scopes and, amazingly, no cruisers parked behind my car.

I stood up in plain sight, hearing neither helicopter nor jet, no holstered folk telling me to "face the fence" while they searched my bags.  What the Hell was this?   Where was the welcoming committee?  Had word gotten around that I was not worth hassling?  I felt ignored and unimportant.

I opened the back hatch of my car and sorted my gear in record time still expecting a cruiser to roar up, red and blues blazing. 

Deprived of such stimulation, I drove back to San Simeon waiting for something that never happened.

Crossing the Pico Bridge I turned left into peaceful San Simeon,surprised to find myself "home free".

Nothing wrong with a day without drama, I told myself.  Place more value on simple moments, that's what Andrei said.

The next day, I opened the Tribune: six cars involved in a chain reaction accident eastbound on Highway 46, 2:15 pm.  Right after we said goodbye to our friends.

A quick text confirmed they were unharmed, but close enough to experience a two hour delay as mangled steel and broken parts were removed from the roadway.

I paused to thank the One True God for everyday events and everyday mercies, like the delay of a forgotten wallet.

Male Communication 101b

“Two burritos, three tacos?”

"Sorry, no.  One large burrito, four tacos with everything.

"Okay, one burrito, no cilantro, and three tacos.

I hung my head and sighed.

"Speak up, your voice is too low,” my wife would say if she were

present at the moment.  I looked over my shoulder.  Nope.  

Just a Cambria friend who was buying my lunch because I tried

to help him install some new windows.   Not that I was good at

that kind of thing.  Maybe it was just my loquacious personality?

But he was useless as an interpreter.  I did my best to convince

 him that we were about to eat the best Mexican food in the

 universe.  Now, it seemed, I couldn't even communicate our

order.  If the male owner of this restaurant was on the other side

of that window, I told myself, there would be no failure to

communicate.  His English isn't any better than my Spanish,

but we've always reached a satisfactory level of understanding

without a struggle.

Eventually my friend Bob and I enjoyed a great lunch, very close to what we originally ordered.  We expressed our enthusiasm for Buenocaro's fine cuisine through a careful progression of incomprehensible grunts, resounding burps and, in time, deadly farts.

A week later I sat on an ATV flying down a dirt road with the same friend.  Bob and I were exploring a huge recreational area known as Hungry Valley OHV (Off Highway Vehicle).  Perhaps it was just the name but I was feeling kind of hungry.  Availability of food was not an issue (we'd brought an obscene amount) but expressing my need for it to someone wearing a helmet in a howling wind with the roar of ATV engines was proving to be a challenge.  So I pointed to my stomach.  Bob immediately understood.  Not for a second did he think appendicitis or I was having a baby.  He turned immediately toward camp and before long we were chowing down on chicharones and guacamole.

The monumental significance of this narrative so far has but one purpose: to explain how a chance pointing gesture inadvertently gave birth to a brilliantly nonverbal and endlessly flexible method of communication.  Bob and I nourished a newly discovered language as we rodeo ATVs over the next few days, and it grew like a precocious child.

It's time to share what we have so far.  The world (at least the male half of it) needs to be briefed on the rudimentary but highly effective components of this ever evolving (but not so talky) language.  First entry in our male quad rider lexicon is...

Hold your hand up, use an index finger to mimic a rolling wheel. This means,

           All right, you take the lead.  It's my turn to eat dust.  Fair enough.

Or raise an arm above your head and make circling motions as if holding a lariat.  Simultaneously, use the thumb of your other hand to make jerky movements toward an open mouth.  Meaning, of course, let's wind things up here and head back to camp for a cold one.

Then there's holding all fingers together but extending your palm like a traffic cop.  Several possibilities here,

1. Call of nature

2. I have no idea where the hell we are, did you happen to  

     bring a map?

 3. Or, and this is my favorite, let's sit here a while and talk 

     (with real words) about how much fun we're having.

Extending Mr. Tallman while holding back all other fingers is a well known gesture, but the language of John and Bob (Qaudish) allows the little birdie to fly under only specific nuances of context and mood:

1. I told you this was the wrong way to get back to camp!

2. I know you told me this was the wrong way and you were  

     right, but I'm going to flip you off before you flip

     me off (so there!)
Is this not a healthy way for males to convey disappointment and safe amounts of emotion?  Right?  Seriously, am I right???!!!

I'll admit that things can get a little graphic in our new language.  Consider two tired riders pulling into camp.  One of them immediately walks over to his friend’s ATV and begins to urinate on a tire.  Which means,

          I'm still pissed-off by your dumb-assed choice of turns, 
          causing us to be an hour late for the first beer of the day.

Not surprisingly similar methods of communication have been adopted by other male riders.  There must be some kind of universal understanding among men.  It's comparable, I think to the Indians (oops, I meant Native American) whose braves shared a common hand language with other tribes, enabling them to trade beads, hides and I suppose, women. 

Anyway, let me provide a concrete example: 

Screaming down a narrow slot canyon on a big-assed quad

(48" wide is not unusual), you come upon a two wheeled motorcycle twerp.

Let's also say that this dirt bag (I meant dirtbike!) rider has heard the roar

of mighty engines and wisely decides to shield himself behind a rock.  

He might in this case, throw up two fingers.  At first you think it's a "V"

for victory.  Damn right, my machine is bigger than his!  But then when you encounter another rider fifty yards down the trail holding up a single index finger, you force your vibration addled brain to think (for the first time that day).

And then there's a moment of male-to-male insight: the last guy was 
telling you to please be careful because there's another member of
my party ahead.  So when you see the third rider cowering behind
some bushes, another cerebral moment manifests itself and you
show him a single index finger.  

Which means, 

          Another big-assed quad is barreling down on you so watch
          out motorcycle boy!

After similar but less pleasant encounters of this type, you might also 
adopt this gesture: thrusting a finger into your open mouth, the old
"gag me" pantomime.
In the Quadish language, this can only mean one thing:
                 I'm still about to throw up thinking about how messy 
                 things might have gotten when we rounded the blind turn
                 nearly colliding with dick-headed dirt bikers who
                 mistakenly thought they, not we, owned the road.

Now let's move on to more important aspects of this new language, 
the drawing of a finger horizontally across your throat.  
A definite red flag.  Meanings are as follows:

          1. State park ranger right behind you.  Better ease down to 
              the 15 mph campground limit.
          2.  Worse yet, continue in that particular direction and
               there's a strong possibility flying off  a cliff, being airborne
               only a few seconds before certain death.
          3. In the same vein, this hand across the throat gesture could
              warn about other conditions, like when the rider ahead of
              you barely negotiated a sharp turn on a high pass and wants
              you to know that taking that hairpin any faster than he did
              will only end happily if there's a parachute involved .    

But in the Quadish language, the critical (and most dangerous) gesture
has important stages.  To describe it in Cold War lingo, we're talking 
"defcon," levels one and two: 
           1. Hold one hand like a pistol and place it against your head 
               while your other hand extends one finger.  That's pretty
               bad right there.
           2. Next level and worse: hold against head like a pistol 
               (as before) but extend two fingers on the other hand.

Number two is way more dire and scary, meaning: 

              It's so late that unless we pack our shit up and 

              head for home right now, both of our wives will kill us.

And the last aspect of this new language is not a hand signal and derives meaning only by the mere absence of gesture.

Having made it safely back home you silently unload camping gear, observed by a wife who thinks you must be mad at each other.  She doesn't understand that shaking hands is an unlikely conclusion to male recreational events and hugging is so obviously out of the question.  There might be an indirect goodbye at some point (minus the giddy emotional overtones of women who part after a successful shopping expedition).  And I suppose someone might mutter "good trip" under his breath before driving off.  But that's it.  In the quiet jargon of guy talk, 'nuff said.