A Cruise to the Coast

Last Saturday was my first day off in ages, although in reality it was probably only a few weeks. My bones were weary, my brain broken and I looked forward to sleeping in on Saturday morning. Alright, these days 9 am sleeping in, but it sure beats smacking my alarm at 5:30 am and rolling over with hopes that I am still dreaming.

Ademas, my friend Cornbread had arrived in town on Friday night fresh off the dirty dog and I was determined to drag her off to the coast.

Actually, the Bread had designs of her own. "I'll pay you gas money to drive me out to the Pacific," she offered over the telephone. "Nonsense poopypants," I retorted, "it would be my pleasure." A foreboding and powerful beast, the ocean plies a hypnotic spell over beachcombers and commands universal respect of leathery faced fisherman. Coming from the frozen tundra of Chicago or the murky depths of Buffalo your appreciation of spending a day by the ocean is
unquantifiable. Where else can you suck in the pungent salt water air and poke at reproductive shaped algae?

Shipping off mid-afternoon from Santa Rosa we hopped on the 12 towards Sebastopol, but a rowdy float of Schreiners spoke of trouble abrew. In the breezy hippy commune of Sebastopol, where you can cross the street barefoot wherever you like and cars must come to a screeching halt, there was a parade in progress. Whether they were celebrating the asparagus harvest of the opening of a new independently owned hatha yoga studio we will have no clue. Our two person death-dealing gas guzzler followed the finger painted detour signs around the towns outer edges to Bohemian Highway.

"Bohemian highway, what?" CB asked aloud in a half rhetorical tone.

"Hippies dude," I responded disdainfully.

On our way to Bodega Bay we made another side trip to Occidental, a once Italian alcove enshrouded in phallic sequoias that flank both sides of the valley. According to local records, it was once common practice for beach going Italian families to stopover in Occidental on their way back down to the big city. What pairs better than a sandy crotch and eggplant parm anyway? Nowadays the old Italian joints still stand tall, but outside investors have forced them to become bedfellows with a French styled bistros(yuppies), antique shops and the colorful Bohemian Market(hippies). Only in Northern California can you find Synergy Kombucha in the smallest one horse town.

Turning back on to Bohemian Hwy. Cornbread informed me that Alfred Hitchcock's cult classic "The Birds" had been shot in and around Bodega Bay.

"The Burbs," I asked thinking of a paranoid Tom Hanks while trying to visualize cookie-cutter sub-divisions at the foot of the ocean.

"No. The Buurrddzz," she responding patiently, "1962. Hitchcock. A flock of deranged crows begin to violently assault villagers in a small seaside town."

Well, I have never seen the movie and I don't claim to be a Hitchcock fan either, the Potter School used in the film clearly stood out on our drive to the coast. The school, that now doubles as private residence, is a major tourist destination for number one psycho Hitchcock fans. Stepping inside the gift shop we were greatly warmly by the receptionist click-clacking away with a pricing gun and miniature crow magnets.

After perusing the tiny gift store I approached the counter, "Do you get lots of business here," I asked in a genuine tone.

"Oh, quite a bit, tourists come from all over the world to see the house. Of course some are more interesting than others. Often times they rent the birds," she signaled pointing to two stuffed interpretations of the crows in the movie. These, however, were no ordinary birds, they were rentals.

"You can rent the birds?" I asked almost incredulously.

"Yep. $1 for every three minutes. People chase each other up and down the street with them all the time. Like I said, this job is pretty entertaining," she gushed, the gun still working at its steady beat 'click-clack, click-clack, click-clack.'

I'm not sure I agree with her, but I would pay good money to see a German in socks and open toed sandals chase his middle-aged, screaming wife down the street with a taxidermied crow.

By the time we reached Bodega Bay, we were famished. We popped into a popular tourist haunt, the Spud Point Crab Co. for a bowl of chowder and a crab sammy. The food was delicious, the crab tender and fresh, and the chowder extra creamy. Not to say we didn't pay a premium price: $11 bucks for a meager pinch of crab meat on a sub roll.

Bodega Bay head made my day, maybe even my week. Strong gusts and blowing sand failed to keep families and picnickers away from marching along the bluffs. The windchill, which turned the tops of my ears numb, forced me to strip to my skibbies in the parking lot and put on a pair of jeans for more adequate skin protection.

In the forty-five minutes it took to get to the coast I had sadly gone from shorts and chacos to a zipped up winter parka. I was beginning to question whether I could ever live this close to the ocean.



In Jenner, population 110, we stopped to satisfy my latest vice, caffeine. At Aquatine I opted for an Americano en lieu of an espresso. Experience has taught me that when the freshness of drip coffee is a concern, always go with the espresso. Inside the small cafe, the locals sat in a circle sounding off about their latest eco-feats. A middle aged woman with sun bleached hair bristled in a low voice, "Today I did 75 miles on the bike in just under three hours. It's a personal best." The crowd murmured in applause.

I smirked, running out of the cafe with my black death. 'Dude, you like, totally owned mother nature on your machine!'

Hitting a historical fee site at Fort Ross we decided to hang a u-turn and head back through Russian River through the hills. Zigzagging down the winding switchbacks that did their best at shaving down my brake pads, we rounded out our tour in Cazadero, a small vacation spot for weekend nature lovers. Throughout the descent I squinted my eyes looking for Hirsch vineyard and Flowers, but all to no avail. In the quaint tourist gettaway with little more than a general store we stumbled upon an artisan bread shop. A perfect opportunity to idle down before heading back to the city.


Raymond greeted us offering a random assortment of baked goods and brick oven pizzas. "Say, where are you two from?" he asked as if it were his signature opening line. Apparently we were that easy to peg. Hell, I'm always that easy to peg. Sweaty palms and squeamish body language give me away every time.

One day, I will grow a big gnarly beard and join the ranks of the hill-folk. Oh how sweet it would be to trap, gather and grow your own necessities circled by the redwoods and overlooking the tempestuous sea to the West and cluttered sprawl to the East.