Although our experience bar may have been set at all time low coming out of Campland, Coronado tends to even exceed the loftiest of expectations. And we were not disappointed this go around. Hang on, let me back up…

First, let me describe our departure from “Paradise” (simulated) and the rigmarole associated with packing out Davista and transitioning to a non-mobile residence while she had a roof lift. Most fortuitously, Flight had foreseen our Carpenteria Crunch before we even got on the road and booked a few days’ stay at the Coronado Beach Cottages at Naval Air Station North Island. Okay, maybe he’s not as fey as all that, but he had correctly reasoned we could use some time under a sticks-and-bricks roof a few months into our travels and miraculously there was room at the inn over my birthday. Good man

We rented a minivan to facilitate the transfer of our necessities (an impossible enterprise in only a bike-laden Subaru) from Davista to our Beach Cottage. Our transfer happened at the shop out in Poway, only a 20-minute drive from Paradise, if you’re from LA. If you’re not from LA, it took a brutal 45-minutes of winding through residential areas and over innumerable “speed humps.” I was happy to be driving our rental and observing the satisfactory (?) performance of Davista’s shock absorbers from a healthy distance. A far cry from the back roads of Montana, still likely less comfortable than my sweet minivan’s ride.

After transferring all we might need, along with all of the food (temperatures were going to be in triple digits for the next few days), to the Subaru and minivan, we caravanned to Coronado to check in. As it was nearly 2 p.m. by this time (and our kids informed us they were STARVING), we thought we’d stop and grab some eats on the way. We pulled into a strip mall and headed for In-N-Out. This was as close as we got:

Our kids REFUSED to get out of the car. Apparently we have raised our children to abhor the notion of fast food. Keeper even said, “I can’t believe you want us to eat fast food. I’ll wait until we get to the cottage.” Of all the fast food establishments out there, fresh ingredients and a cook-to-order practice means In-N-Out floats at the top of all the greasy spoons. Ever since Flight and I have known each other, a trip to California has not been complete without a stop at In-N-Out. Although, truth be told, as the years pass Flight and I have both realized we feel not unlike garbage after consuming even their fresh creations. We looked at each other and chuckled. Okay then, everybody get back in the cars.

We checked in at the nicest Navy Lodge I have ever seen and were given keys to the most expansive 1000 ft² I have ever enjoyed. As Flight mentioned, we have become accustomed to considerably less space and living without many luxuries afforded most Americans. Although liberating in many ways, we were all very eager to take advantage of long hot showers that required no quarters.

Our first night in Coronado, we went out to eat at Stone Brewery. I may have mentioned that Flight is a Beer Geek and, as a result, we tend to steer towards such local establishments. Although the food and drink were certainly tasty, the setting was surprisingly gezellig. The Dutch use gezellig to describe anything that, for lack of a better turn of phrase, feeds the soul. It can be applied to gatherings, places, food, drink, clothing, experiences, etc. as a means to identify the intangible feel associated with sharing in all of those with good company and yet not solely linked to any single aspect. As my inability to succinctly capture it demonstrates, gezellig has no direct translation to English, but you’ll know it when you feel it.

I say Stone Brewery was surprisingly gezellig in that its walls, along with those of the surrounding establishments, had served for decades to contain the painstakingly arduous and necessarily transformative training of new Marine Corps Recruits. Try as I might, I was having a very difficult time envisioning the grinder that was buried beneath the patio tables covered with craft beers and enjoyable eats.

While I knew it was seasoned with the blood, sweat, and tears (literally) of our nation’s warfighters, the joyful gatherings presently underway belied its angry history and I marveled at how the energy of a space can be transformed…

Although one day premature and despite all the befuddlement and fodder for future ruminations that our Stone experience provided, I opted to call our dinner at Stone my birthday celebration. In truth, Flight and I had already decided to call our excursion to Single Thread our collective birthday presents. Despite record breaking late October temperatures (104^o in San Diego – seriously?!), I enjoyed my birthday immensely. I started my day watching the sunrise over the Coronado Beach while happily blogging away.

Once I was satisfied with my early morning’s work, I tucked my computer away and enjoyed a delightful brunch with the family that Flight had prepared. I say again, good man.

To celebrate gaining another year of seasoning, I continued to pepper my day with activities to feed my soul. Eager to make use of our en suite laundry facilities, I took the enormous Dumb Donald-worthy hat of Fat Albert fame I had knit and thrice ran it through the wash with boiling hot water to shrink it to a more appropriate size.

After seeing these beautiful felted creations by Carrie Cahill Mulligan the previous fall in New England, I knew I wanted one for myself:

Flight easily picked up on my coveting and, knowing I’d rather create my own, ordered the pattern from Carrie and gave it to me, along with some appropriate yarn, the previous Christmas. Although I have knit and felted several projects, there is always a leap of faith when throwing a labor of love in the washer to be distorted, albeit intentionally so. Initially apprehensive, especially using an unfamiliar machine, I set the washer to work and went outside to do yoga.

Bikram’s got nothing on beach yoga in a San Diego heat wave. Aside from the slow slide in the sand to find my footing for each pose, my body easily elongated, welcoming the dry, furnace-like calefaction and soaking in the oddly unrelenting October sun. It was glorious, and made only better still by dipping in the ocean at its conclusion. The remainder of the day was filled with a run to the Navy Exchange to replace my Oakley’s, boiling more water for hat felting operations, luxuriating for hours on the beach and savoring an easy dinner of grilled burgers and zucchini, providing the perfect opportunity to take stock of my blessings (including my new felted hat!), say my gratitudes, and get excited for Grammy and Papa’s arrival the next day.

I have been very fortunate to have travelled for much of my life and, ever the armchair sociologist, I have always delighted in noting how people choose to live in various locations as well as how they observe and perceive their local lifestyle compared to those enjoyed elsewhere. No matter where I am, I find people interesting. Seriously, they are downright fascinating, especially when observing them in their natural habitat.

Early in our relationship, a very telling conversation with Flight delved into our respective motivation to attend global airshows. When I admitted my interest was much more focused on the opportunity to interact with those who fly their respective nations’ defensive gear than on seeing the actual hardware itself, Flight then incredulously asked, “You mean you have no desire to crawl all over other countries’ aircraft to learn more about them?!” Before I could check my reaction, I blurted out, “Oh, dear God, no!” And with as much disdain as I have ever heard expressed by Flight, he pronounced, “Shame on you. You need to turn in your wings.”

When I was a junior officer based at NAS Whidbey Island, I was designated the Squadron Mining Officer, which meant I had to leave the pristine beauty of the Pacific NW to go to Ingleside, Texas, for a week of mine warfare training. Truth be told, the week-long escape to warmer climes away from the semi-oppressive relentless January rain sounded not unlike an all-expense paid vacation courtesy of Uncle Sam. A fellow in one of our sister squadrons was similarly tagged for the same boondoggle, so we traveled to Ingleside together and shared the cost of a rental car, to learn the best strategies to employ the U.S. Navy’s proven air delivery mining strategies.

Have you ever been to Ingleside, Texas?

It’s a different kind of place, as are most places I suppose, but Ingleside was unique compared to anywhere I had ventured to that point. Our daily training evolutions were held at the Mine Warfare Command, housed at Naval Station Ingleside, while our lodging accommodations were in Corpus Christi, where a large percentage of Navy pilots receive flight training. Although I could wax poetic on the distinctions between the various warfare communities in the Navy, I’ll just say there were many reasons we gladly stayed among the aviators in Corpus and drove daily to school in Ingleside.

Making the first of our morning transits to attend our course, we drove through a landscape in stark contrast with Whidbey Island (see stock photo of Whidbey below).

Where Whidbey topography is defined by at least as many striking shades of green as the Irish countryside (likely owed to similar precipitation patterns), Aransas Pass (the major water thoroughfare to cross between Corpus and Ingleside) was dully monochromatic in a pale burnt sienna crayon kind of way. The closest I had previously been to this part Texas was in my own advanced flight training in San Antonio. I had once traveled down to Corpus to visit some friends and, as transit took place at night, I had no idea what I had missed. Recently spoiled by the omnipresent beauty of the Pacific NW, I cynically thought to myself, “Not much, apparently…”

Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of the sign heralding our crossing of the waterway before it zoomed by entirely. It took me a moment to sort out what I thought I had read and, laughing at myself, I shared with my fellow traveler, “I thought that sign said, ‘Rancid Ass.’” He whooped, “HA! Rancid Ass, Texas. That’s about right…”

Imagine my surprise when, hours later, we made a stop at Commissary to grab a few goodies for lunch. When I presented my check for payment, the kind woman at the register inspected my check and drawled, “Is this yer courrent ah-dress?”

“Yes, Ma’am, it is.”

She further commented, “Well, I gyess not everyone’s luckeeenough to live in TEXes…” Like I said, people are interesting.

Flash forward a couple of decades to our next stop on the Davista adventure: Mission Bay’s Campland on the Bay, where, upon our arrival, the spunky reservation agent piped, “Welcome to Paradise!” Paradise, huh? Hmmmm…

Although Flight captured the dismal surroundings quite accurately here, there are a few aspects of our stay at Mission Bay that I would like to highlight. While Flight was away, there seemed a dearth of immediately local activities for our Flight-less gaggle to explore. Having reinjured my neck, my range of motion was limited, as was my patience.

After spending the day squirreled away in Davista, following a 30 minute reprieve at the Park’s arcade (see below), and having heard enough of the dueling alternating bouts of “offensive” (Keeper’s word, not mine, although I certainly agree) rap and equally unpalatable country music, I pronounced, “Okay, pack up. We need to leave. Now.” And we trundled into the Subaru to explore the local National Park Service Memorial out at Point Loma.

“But, Mom, why do we have to leave?” I was asked as we were driving away from paradise. “Well, my friend, you know how Mom loves bagpipes? I know that not everybody does.  In fact, believe it or not, some people find them downright annoying. Because I understand that, I would never play my music so loud as to bother others. It’s just basic courtesy, which our neighbors are not demonstrating, and I can’t be around that any more right now. Let’s go check out Point Loma.” Which we did, sadly only 30 minutes before the Ranger Station closed and we had to vacate sans Junior Ranger Badges. We were there for so short a time, I didn’t even take any pictures.  Bummer. And somehow on par for the Mission Bay experience.

However, there was one shining experience I have to note. Before commuting out for his trip, Flight had shown the kids the RV Park’s expansive arcade, which was on the scale of a Chuck E Cheese pizza joint (another of my least favorite establishments), and promised they would have some time to spend their money playing games. After many requests to go, I finally acquiesced and we wandered over to the arcade.

This particular arcade has advanced far beyond quarters or tokens and instead uses a card system to keep track of both your funds and your winnings so you can spend and “cash out” your prizes on your own timeline. The catch is that each card costs $1. However, if you put at least $5 on the card, you get your money back. Ever since learning the system with Flight, the kids had been scheming and came up with the following plan. They decided they would get only one card to share in order to minimize the cost. Furthermore, they would each put different amounts of money on the card based on what they had and wanted to spend, and then keep track of who spent what as they went. I’m pretty sure they hadn’t even considered how they’d divvy up their winnings at the end of their arcade time.

Imaging all the ways this could go horribly wrong, I thought, “Hoo boy, how’s THIS going to go down…”

Getting the card was pretty straightforward and they easily loaded it with their money, but what happened next was the first of my surprises. The older two walked WoodSprite around the arcade to help her identify all the games she might be interested in playing and, based on her fund contribution, which ones she would want to play and in what order.

Had I been more cynical, I might have thought this was a ploy to get her to waste her money and/or time to allow the other two more of either, however it was actually the demonstration of two older siblings truly wanting to help their little sister get the most enjoyment from her share in the entertainment. Surprising me further, they then graciously took turns and played only the games whose fees exactly totaled what they each respectively put into the pot, cheering each other on and offering consolation after any less than satisfactory performances.

And then they were out of funds.

Knowing I would not serve as an ATM and happy to call the experience complete, they joyfully took their collective, albeit meager, winnings to the prize-dispensing machine. Armchair sociologist hat on and observing the unfolding events as a non-participant, I thought, “And here’s where it breaks down…” Before they inserted their card to cash out, I witnessed the three of them peruse all the options and then engage in a well though out discussion of the pros and cons of each potential prize before coming to a decision.

Sound bites of what I heard follow.

“Well, if we get the candy, we couldn’t get something else and I don’t think we need the sugar.”

“I think we should get something so we can remember our time in the arcade.”

“Well, we could get one finger puppet, but that means only one. Is everyone okay with that?”

“WoodSprite, would you take care of the finger puppet?”

“Sure!”

“I think that seems like the best idea.”

And to my delightful surprise, their follow through was perfect. I’m sorry, what just happened?!

When Flight returned from his trip, I couldn’t wait to share what I had witnessed. It was very encouraging to observe how close our kids are becoming through our travels and how they truly and mindfully look out for each other. Losing a wallet, dueling music at obscene decibels, tweaking my neck, one fewer Junior Ranger badge, Spring Break in PB in October, and planning to pack out of Davista for several days while her roof is repaired, all fade to a far less egregious hue when basking in this shining moment. And, we are the proud owners of a new finger puppet to remind us of the best of our time in paradise.

In previous posts, I think I have mentioned one of our family’s traditions. Every year Flight and I take turns planning an anniversary trip and it’s a total surprise to the other person. The planner gets to tell the person what to pack and reveal the year’s destination in whatever manner serves best. It’s been a really cool tradition, one I can take no credit for as we stole the idea from my cousins. I got to plan our first anniversary trip, which was really only fair since Flight pretty much planned our wedding because he was far closer to the Matterhorn than I…

For our first anniversary, I booked us a place in a lodge on the Utah-Idaho border that was well known for its backcountry snowmobiling, which neither of us had ever done. Cool, right? My preconceived notions didn’t get much further than imagining crisp wind whistling by as we carved out fresh tracks in the wilderness, you know, kinda like skiing but bigger and faster, and maybe a little louder.

Have you ever been snowmobiling?

Two observations that remain firmly entrenched in my memory bank from the one and only time I have ever driven a snowmobile. First, they are neither as steady, nor as sturdy as they look. I, ahem, do not have the best history driving things that are unwieldy, especially those that have a tendency to flip. When snowmobiles do flip, and make no mistake that will happen if I am at the helm, and tumble down a hill executing roughly 13.5 rotations before coming to rest perfectly turtled, more so resembling a dead insect with feet in the air than any cryptodira I’ve ever seen. Another point of information, such inverted snowmobiles are rather difficult to return to rights and require a surprisingly long period of time properly on their treads to de-flood the engine before they will again start. During this pause in activity you may lose any remaining feeling in your fingers. I am not making this up.

A little aside…  I am lamenting not having taken a picture of the incident as I just tried to google “upside down snowmobile wreck” and found no images anywhere close to what I managed.

The second thing I remember is that I had never been so physically exhausted following any activity. To put things in perspective, at this point in my life I had: been through the Navy’s Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape (SERE) School; run the Marine Corps Marathon; graduated from the Naval Academy; and slept 18 hours a day as I recovered from a near-fatal car crash. I knew what it was to be tapped out and snowmobiling put all of those experiences to shame. Every single muscle in my body hurt, my intercostals (the muscles spanning the ribs) complained with every breath and parts of my legs to which I had yet to be introduced steadily keened with my every lurching step back to the lodge after turning in our keys. Fancying ourselves in reasonable shape then, Flight and I marveled at how unexpectedly wiped we were after our day backcountry snowmobiling.

Our two-hour surfing lesson left me similarly baffled at being equally depleted, with the added bonus of sporting bruised ribs. Granted my level of fitness is certainly not where it was 15 years ago, but I can certainly see why surfers must be in great shape. Two hours of paddling through non-standard wave sets, pushing into a perfectly balanced surfer crouch to ride the waves in, and hauling myself back on the surfboard to start all over again was utterly draining. Push-ups and burpees have nothing on so performing these repetitive motions.

Having never really gotten the hang of skateboarding in my middle school years and, acutely aware that I need no further traumatic brain injury, I haven’t tried snowboarding, so I had no idea I was goofy. I’m sure many of you would be happy to point out that my goofiness is quite obvious (you’re welcome for the soft pitch), but in such boarding circles the term refers to which of your feet rides forward on the board. Apparently I stand much more naturally on a surfboard with my right foot forward and most people have their left leading the way. Who knew?!

I had attributed my initial awkwardness in getting up to a crouch to, well, it being my first go at this whole surfing business. That and I don’t exactly have perfect balance. However, after I performed several Nestea plunges as the safest bail-out maneuver somewhere almost mid-crouch, I swapped my surfboard leash to my other ankle thinking I should give it a shot goofy-footed. While I’d love to say I then proved to be a natural and skillfully rode every subsequent wave, that would be a far cry from the truth (see the pictures on Flight’s post here…)

Changing to goofy-footed certainly made it less awkward for me to get up, and I did so on my next try, but it was still incredibly hard work. So much so that it got to the point that while I was so stoked to have gotten up on any given wave, I was rather hesitant to ride it all the way into the beach for fear of having to paddle all the way back out through the surf to try to catch the next one. Exhaustion notwithstanding, the experience lived up to its righteous hype and I hope we have the opportunity to catch a few more waves while exploring Southern California.  In the meantime, I’ll vividly remember all I associate with this view of San Elijo and pray my ribs heal before then…

On our first morning at Crystal Cove, unable to find the elusive pressure valve, I declared to Flight I needed some alone time and meandered down the hill to carve out some solitude along the Moro (and sometimes Morro) Canyon trails.

It was a brisk start to the day, meaning my breath was swirling about me in the valley the sun had yet to broach. I hoped I would be warm enough as I stretched my legs and mind. Before I even got to the trail head I saw these sweet creatures making their breakfast of what looked like the remnants of an airport Starbucks fruit cup offering.  Without the cup.

Pausing momentarily to take a few “aw, fer cute…” pictures of the bunnies, I picked up my pace again as I entertained a series of Madagascar-worthy circle-of-life images pop into my head and wondered whose dinner they might soon become.

I find that hiking tends to give my thoughts the freedom and space to move about until they can settle into more orderly groupings so I might make sense of them. I once saw a card that said, “As she washed the dishes, she watched her thoughts dash out into the yard and up the tree.  From there they almost made sense.” That’s about right.

 

As I lengthened my stride and noted there was no cell coverage in this particular valley, I heard the stirrings of the valley floor entirely unfazed by the echoes of my invasion. More circle-of-life images dashed through my transom and I briefly wondered which cousin of Shere Kahn (or maybe a wayward garden gnome) might be stealthily stalking me through the underbrush and would be responsible for my  demise.  Moments later my brooding returned to unpacking Keeper’s attitude towards roadschooling.

“I just can’t take it seriously,” he maintains.

Well, that’s not going to work for anybody involved, so how can we shift his paradigm?  Now that we’ve been at it for a couple of months, we are likely due for a review of his experience to date and further discussion of roadschooling’s context, both of which would be very beneficial.  Ever since I have known Keeper, he has been unwilling to apply himself to any task he sees as without purpose or value.  Context is critical for him. Unfortunately (?), Keeper comes by that trait honestly, as I, too, have little patience for performing checks in seemingly unnecessary boxes to turn spreadsheet values from red to green. But I digress…

The scaffold of our next discussion with Keeper on roadschooling was taking better shape with each step, and I was eager to bounce my thoughts off of Flight so we could then further streamline the concepts and strategize on our briefing techniques. I finally captured our collective thoughts in a later roadschooling update here, which Keeper and I discussed later that afternoon.

Satisfied I had harvested all I might from my mental gymnastics, I turned around to retrace my path and caught sight of these:

Clearly squash of some variety…  Zucchinielons? Pumpkini? No idea what they are exactly, but I wondered if these, along side any upended fruit cups, were what sustained the valley’s robust rabbit (and possibly garden gnome) population.

I returned to camp to find Flight and the kids tidying up from brekkie. We then fleshed out our plans for the rest of the day. Beach, beach, and more beach.  Hopefully, I was praying, that did not include a repeat performance of yesterday’s swimming with sharks. Actually, Flight was keen to recreate some childhood memories, so we piled into the car to head to the beach just north of where we’d been yesterday.

Our late morning evolved into a Marine Biology lab as the kids explored the exposed tide pools, this time very mindful of expected behavior:

And when I say kids, I mean Flight was the Head Boy in charge of the exploration.

Very much a tactile learner (unless it includes holding anything that crawls, slithers, walks sideways, or resides in the ocean), my inner 5-year old was thrilled to find copious bunches of what Firebolt aptly named, “Nature’s Bubble Wrap.”

These little kelp pods erupt violently under the weight of a human, producing the most delightfully satisfying pops.  Ever mindful of the posted good tidepooler’s guidance, I followed at the rear, snapping pictures as they presented themselves, and enthusiastically jumped on any haphazard collections of “bubble wrap” in our path.  In my defense, I figured these collections were adrift and far away from their roots, thus they were no longer living and certainly not the plants the rules had referenced.  And, I did leave them in situ once they’d been ruptured…

The waves steadily picked up throughout our morning’s science lessons and, while the topography of this particular beach made for great tide pooling, it was considerably less inviting for frolicking in the waves, so we opted to return to the beach of yesterday’s USO sighting.

We turned to sandcastle operations since the waves were too high to safely enjoy. As WoodSprite and Firebolt became too engrossed in their construction efforts, they turned their backs on the ocean. Bad idea jeans. Actually, they became bad idea shorts and underwear, as our girls were surprised to find themselves soaked to the skin from the waist down in the wake of a retreating wave. However, a testament to their positive attitudes, they took the ocean’s, ahem, bum-rush all in stride.

We returned to Davista to wash sand and salt water from places most uncomfortable before feasting on more InstantPot goodness.  The sunset was a lovely treat as we thought about our upcoming surfing adventures in San Elijo…

More Pacific Ocean beaching, this time in Crystal Cove. Two things stand out from our time on this specific beach: the Unidentified Swimming Object (USO) and another come-to-Jesus meeting with Keeper about homeschooling, which will be a separate post.

Before I delve into what our beach day looked like from my perspective, I should share a little about my relationship with the ocean. Like many, I am in awe of the ocean. The life she sustains, the treachery she can unleash, the beauty she can exhibit, the mystery she hides, all of it is awesome in the truest sense of the word. My undergraduate work in ocean engineering focused on evaluating how the ocean moves, the forces she wields, and how to build structures to withstand her fury. While I have developed a healthy (wary?) respect for her and her inhabitants, I really do love to be on the water be it sailing, kayaking, stand-up paddle boarding, or cruising (on our former Sea Ray, not haze grey and underway) – and I always prefer to celebrate these water sports where there is great visibility. I’d like to say it’s because I really enjoy seeing all the various forms of sea life and delight in their observation while I explore their home environment, but that would be an outright lie. In truth, sea life creeps me out, especially when I can’t see who might be circling me and sizing me up for lunch.

Taking a moment to reflect I can probably identify several key instances that have directly contributed to this mild (healthy, I maintain) phobia that does not appear to be improving with age. Permit me a sea story or three…

While on my first deployment to the Western Pacific, my P-3C aircrew was tasked with flying our boss’s boss (the Commodore) from Japan, to Diego Garcia, BIOT. We were to remain there for five days while a crew from our sister squadron flew the Commodore on to tour operations in the desert, after which we flew him back to Japan. Our transit required a couple stops along the way in Bangkok and Singapore (one does what one must for Uncle Sam) before we got to the tropical paradise of Diego Garcia, which is a 17 mi² coral atoll in the middle of the Indian Ocean housing a military base. This southernmost island of the Chagos Archipelago, is sometimes only a reef, sometimes actual land that separates the center lagoon from the ocean.

Upon landing in Diego Garcia our crew was required to sit through an hour-long in-chop brief mandatory for all arriving personnel. While overviews of the base and locations of amenities were identified, critical safety rules were also covered, the most notable of which was “Don’t wade in past your knees ocean-side because of the sharks. Swimming in the lagoon is fine, but, seriously, you need to stay out of the ocean.” I’m a reasonably decent swimmer and thought skeptically, “Um, okay.”

During one of our days off the flight schedule, my crew wanted to go deep-sea fishing. We all meandered over to the sign-up shack and there I perused the pictures of some of the recent trophy catches proudly on display while the others engaged in an information-gathering mission. Nearly twenty years later I still remember the grisly details of these images.

What caught my attention first was a picture of a marlin head suspended between confounded fishermen, no marlin body, just the carcass head. As our squadron was known as the Fighting Marlins, I didn’t think that was especially kind (or impressive) until I read the caption listed below. The marlin head alone had weighed in around 150 lbs and that was all that was left of the mighty fish by the time the crew had hauled it in. Apparently sharks, lots of them, made quick work of the majestic creature as it was fighting to evade capture.

As I digested this information, I immediately recognized two certainties: 1) I had no future as a deep-sea fisherwoman and begged out of the trip and 2) as briefed, the lagoon was a much better swimming hole.

That is until I got to the next photo of interest where, between two fishermen sporting self-congratulatory grins, hung an intact 55 lb barracuda. I had no idea that deadly cousin to the piranha (in my head) grew to that proportion. My eyes widened further when I read the location of its capture – this underwater beast of prey made its home in the lagoon. Lovely. I’m sorry, where again is the pool?

Having logged many hours in and out of chlorinated water as a competitive diver, I have always appreciated being able to see directly to the bottom of the pool, meaning you can always see what might be keeping you company as you swim about minding your own business. Perhaps my phobia has effloresced over the years because my imagination is so vibrant that, especially when I can’t see what’s swimming around me, I can visualize the most spectacularly deadly creatures, none of which have yet been scientifically identified and all of whom are very, very hungry. Frankly, I still have some aquatic animal-trust issues even when I can see who’s who in the marine zoo.

When we were newly married and well before we were blessed with kids, Flight and I took a Windjammer cruise among the Tahitian Islands. It was glorious. One of the activities we opted for was to go scuba diving with sharks. Sounds cool, right? It was, initially, especially for my first scuba experience.

As soon as we got to the dive-site, with as much bravado as I could muster, I dropped into the water and descended to the ocean floor some thirty-odd feet below the surface. As I was looking around, taking in all the sea creatures and being very conscious of where I might find our dive master in the event something unexpected happened, I belatedly wondered why exactly we were not in cages to view these savage creatures.

A short while later, our dive master got our attention and pointed up to the surface where one of the deck hands started throwing chum into the water. We then watched as dozens of lemon (or maybe they were of the tiger variety – I don’t remember) sharks homed in on the floating buffet, circling the boat and thrashing against each other as they jockeyed for bloody morsels. I sat mesmerized, trying to remember to breathe normally (underwater, really?) as I witnessed this churning deadly mass above me, idly wondering if I had the wherewithal to punch a shark in the nose to stop its attack. I thought I’d read that recommendation in some survival manual, or maybe it was suggested during Shark Week. Regardless of the information source, I didn’t even want to contemplate what might happen if said sucker-punched shark hollered for backup.

I have no clue as to how long into our dive the dive master indicated we should make for the surface, and do so with haste. Okay, I guess we’re coming to the end of our bottom time. I don’t recall exactly what they did so we could climb aboard again without surfacing amidst this writhing mass of shark bodies, but it was not until all hands were back on deck and accounted for did the tour guides say they’d never seen these typically docile (HA!) sharks act so aggressively.

 

As if to prove their point, they dumped the remainder of the chum bucket amidst their churning bodies, whose turmoil immediately ramped up to feeding frenzy. My comfortable-separation-from-sea-creature-distance grew by a factor of ten, which was tested years later with yet another seemingly mellow species.

Every year, Flight and I take turns planning an anniversary trip that is a complete surprise to the other.   We have ventured to many places and for one of our recent trips I took Flight to Grand Cayman where we swam with stingrays. Yep, my call too – I refuse try not to cower before my apprehension. While we sailed out to the reef where generations of fishermen used to clean their daily catch (meaning the rays associate boat engine noise with food and expectantly congregate to meet any vessels), I wondered how I would enjoy the experience.

As we approached the few other tour boats already anchored, I could see these beautiful creatures gracefully circling our catamaran as the brilliant blue water was no more than three feet deep. I remember taking a deep breath before climbing down the swim ladder to put my feet on the ocean floor, praying I wouldn’t be the one to step on any of them. I had to work very hard to overcome my rising panic when the first of the rays swam by me, gently caressing my leg as it passed.  Although I managed to woman-up and solidly held a stingray passed over to me after she was caught by our tour guide (that’s an art, by the way, one that Flight managed with only once accidentally sticking his finger in a ray’s nose – impressive!), I came away from the experience appreciating the beauty of these ocean dwellers yet keen to maintain our separation at a healthy distance.

Fast-forward a few years to our beautiful day at Crystal Cove. Savvy enough now to know I shouldn’t wear my backup Oakley shades while playing in the surf, I left them to keep my phone (and Firebolt) company on our towels before I approached the water’s edge. Clearly still a newbie when it comes to interacting with the actual ocean, I was closer to shore than Flight and WoodSprite and went through the briny rinse cycle once or twice before I made my way out to them. Keeper was out just past them, enjoying the relative safety of bobbing in the swells before they crested.

In a short 15 minutes of playing in the surf, the waves steadily grew to exceed our collective comfort level, especially with WoodSprite hovering in her life jacket and pinging back and forth between Flight and me. She was having a glorious time in the water, giddy as could be and with the utmost (and perhaps misplaced) trust in us both. After a quick conference with Flight on the increasing wave action, we agreed that it was time to extract ourselves from the growing danger.

Flight moved with WoodSprite to the shore. I watched their progress for a wave or two and turned around to encourage Keeper to make his way in as well. As I located him between crests, I saw, just beyond him, no more than five yards farther off shore, the pseudo-serpentine motion of a sizable rounded triangular black fin riding the water’s surface. Initially curious and trying to process what it was I was seeing, I watched its undulating motion for a moment until my mama bear instincts kicked in and I shouted to Keeper as calmly as I could muster, “Keeper, get out of the water. Keeper, now. Get out. Swim, Keeper. Now. GET OUT, KEEPER, SWIM. NOW.” As soon as he was closer to shore than I, I too hightailed it to dry land.

A little breathless from the adrenaline rush, my eyes immediately sought out Flight’s and nonverbally invited him to pull away from the kids to debrief. My brain had been running through all the possible explanations as to what it was I had seen (it had submerged and reappeared a couple of times), so I hoped for corroboration or disavowal of my observations. After acknowledging we had seen the same something, we agreed that whatever it was certainly wasn’t porpoising, so cetaceans were likely off the table. So that left what exactly?

Exactly.

I was just happy to rejoin oblivious Firebolt perched near our towels, giving thanks in accounting for all 100 fingers and toes of our flight.

Thankfully, it was months later when I did the research on the various possibilities and have come to the conclusion that, based on the apex and coloring defining the fin, it was likely a juvenile Shortfin Mako Shark or an adult shark of the Blue or Bigeye Thresher variety, none of which are docile or genteel creatures.   Hmm… It was that or one of the voracious beasts fabricated and continuously revised by my equally insatiable imagination…

Not sure there is one, but that got your attention, no?  Having never been to Malibu, I really had no idea what to expect. In retrospect, what I guess I had envisioned was a little something like this… Mad Pacific Ocean views that go on and on, dotted by surfers bobbing in wait for the perfect wave and with the near-ground taken up by cozy retro beach cottages boasting price tags in the obscene category. On the rare occasion my preconceived notions come close to mirroring realty and this was such an instance.

Here is the view from our bedroom window.

And one later on without Flight blocking the scenery.

We pulled into the Malibu RV Park, home of these rock star views, with about 30 minutes to spare before we had to race to our oldest nephew’s water polo game. If my high school memories of this sport’s controlled violence had been refreshed when watching our youngest nephew play earlier this season, they were blown away by the barbarous execution of plays at the collegiate level. There seems to be something rather unsportsmanlike to have dozens of legit (sanctioned – !!!) plays with the intent of drawing a foul to remove a player from the opposing team specifically to press the numbers advantage. Good gravy.

Our nephew plays Center (or Hole Set), which is where the majority of the match’s skirmishes seem to unfold – or maybe that’s just where my concerned aunt’s focus was. While I’d like to think the other team’s center was responsible for the lightly veiled fisticuffs (he is a dainty 6’7” and 285 lbs and performed many an obvious gator roll just outside the 2-meter mark), I’m aware that our sweet nephew is quite capable of same calculated episodes of brawling. Over dinner both Flight and I observed to our nephew that his counterpart seemed especially brutal in the match. Our nephew flashed a grin and assured us, “Oh, he is, but when you get him out of the water, he’s the nicest guy ever.” I’m still not quite, quite sure what goes on underwater, but I am certain I want no part of it.

Intent on taking it all in, I had been mesmerized by the preview thrashings during warm up. My reverie was broken when I heard that this match was in part funded by the Calabasas something or other. I turned to Flight and asked, “Are we that near there?!?” “Yes, we are, so if you’d like to see your cousins, you should contact them.” As I have previously mentioned, my sense of California geography is rather, um, lacking. I thought we had one or two drives ahead of us before we neared this particular outcropping of Los Angeles and had it on my mental calendar to contact my cousins later in the week with plenty of time to schedule a leisurely visit. Well, shoot. I immediately sent a quick email and fortunately made impromptu plans to get together late the following morning. More on that shortly…

After considerable hand wringing (by me), the Pepperdine-Long Beach State game came to its conclusion with our nephew’s team the decided victors. We took him out for a celebratory dinner at Duke’s. This restaurant chain holds fond memories for me as Flight and I spent one of our first non-date dates hanging out in the Waikiki original comparing our respective minimal grasps of the Dutch language. While growing up I had been yelled at firmly spoken to in Dutch by my father and Flight had previously dated a Dutch girl, which meant we were then on equally poor footing with our vocabulary. Flight has since become fluent in the language (lucky!), having studied Dutch at the Defense Language Institute prior to his posting as an exchange pilot with the Dutch Navy, whereas my familiarity with the Dutch language has not advanced noticeably. I have often marveled that while some men might take up a new sport to get in good with a future father-in-law, learning my father’s native tongue and living in the fatherland really goes above and beyond. Good man. Both of them.

We parted ways with our nephew hoping, but not really, to see him over Thanksgiving. If his team performed well for the remainder of the season (WOO HOO – GO WAVES!) he’d be stuck in the pool with his teammates over the holiday (Um, yay?). If they didn’t do as well as they hoped (boo!), he’d join us in Grass Valley at his Dad’s parents’ place, which is truly a special gathering (YES!).

The next morning we had a delightful, albeit it far too short, visit with my father’s brother’s daughter and her family. Of all my first cousins, she’s the one with whom I have spent the most time – and I think the world of her. She lived with us for a summer in Algiers while I was four and my sister was newly on the scene to help my folks as we all adjusted to becoming a family of four – pretty cool gig for a high school summer. She also stayed with us for a stretch while getting her feet on the ground in the professional music scene in Chicago. She is a classically trained orchestral flutist and was on the soloist circuit for a while before she packed that in, moved to LA and started a now very successful television film company. No drive, that one.

Because our short time together was so precious, Flight and I acknowledged our bad parenting before permitting our kids unlimited screen time so we could catch up with minimal interruptions. Their oldest is away at Texas A&M studying Ocean Engineering (because that’s what all the cool kids do) and the youngest was off taking the SAT before his high school water polo tournament later that afternoon. Obsession with this ruthless sport must be a California thing, not unlike Maryland’s Lacrosse Madness (that’s a story for another time…). Although neither my cousin nor her husband is officially retired yet, they are both spending less time working and have become involved with several community projects, not the least of which was starting a local youth orchestra. Good for them.

We were so busy visiting that I neglected to take any pictures to prove it actually happened, so you might be thinking I’m making this all up. As expected, I had a fantastic time with them and am still wondering why we haven’t made it a more regular occurrence. When last we connected I was solidly pregnant with Firebolt and I’m hoping it won’t be another nine years before we see them next.

My heart replenished with all the great family time, we headed to the beach for a leisurely afternoon. We each assumed our standard positions: Keeper and Flight were boogie boarding, Woodsprite was frolicking at the shoreline, and Firebolt was engrossed in a book. After twenty minutes or so of baking in the sun, I decided it was time to cool off in the waves, where I pulled a total rookie move.

For those of you far savvier than I, this needs no explanation, but for the rest of us clowns residing in a big top, I offer this observation. Although I may have earned my undergraduate degree studying Ocean Engineering and might even have taken a course on Wave Dynamics, it was somehow lost on me that in practice, despite our best efforts to quantify her actions, the ocean really just does what she wants. For example, should one be nanoseconds tardy to the wave riding party, she has no qualms about running said dawdler through an aggressive shoreline wash cycle, complete with sinus cavity flushing. While I have previously experienced such aggressive drummings, it was never while sporting brand new Oakley sunglasses perched on my nose. Flight and Keeper both looked at me quizzically as I prepared to body surf, but neither of them said a word about the new glasses adorning my face, perhaps operating under the incorrect assumption that I knew what I was doing. My angel similarly remained silent. Perhaps she was too busy shaking her head…

In case you were wondering, Oakley Fives have a float time of about three seconds (Flight briefly had eyes on them when I resurfaced, spluttering) before they become one of Ariel’s trophies. Since my back-up pair looks as though the girls have repeatedly used them as an American Girl doll-sized skateboard (they haven’t), it looks like I’ll be running to the Navy Exchange to replace them when we get to San Diego next week.

Knucklehead.

Flight already mentioned that the Malibu RV Park was pretty incredible, which it was, and that we’d arrived in the midst of a vintage camper rally boasting a Pirate Night shindig, but he neglected to mention our neighbors. We got to talking with the lovely family in the next spot over. They were visiting from Denmark and doing an aggressive tour of the Western US before flying to New York the following morning.

When asked where they had traveled so far, they mentioned they’d been in Oregon for the wildfires and Las Vegas for the shooting – not exactly the best taste of the good ol’ US of A. I further cringed when they told me they, too, had stopped in Solvang. While the Disney-esque town little resembled their homeland, they pronounced the Danish pastries as being both dead on and delicious. I guess we will have to try them our next pass through – Denmark, that is, not Solvang. Leery of compounding whatever assessments of our country and her inhabitants they might be making, I chose not to share to my favorite (and only) childhood memories of Denmark, which, sadly, include nothing from outside the gates of the original Legoland.

Speaking of Legoland, we’ll be abstaining from that park on this trek through Southern California. WoodSprite is eager to pay homage to the mouse and, as it will be for her birthday celebration at the end of the month, we’ll just go with that. But first, to Crystal Cove!

After we do our daily exercises in the roadschooling basics (you can learn more about what we’re doing here and a three months in summary here), we usually have the afternoons free to go out and play. Our field trips have included all sorts of outings (Junior Ranger evolutions at the National Parks, museums, hikes, beach exploration, river floats, etc.), but two of my favorites happened while we were in Santa Barbara.

With a nod to Kubo and the Two Strings, a catch phrase in our family has become, “You are a mean Mommy, aren’t you?” to which I always reply, “Yes. Yes, I am.” Because we opted to have school on Columbus Day (but school was held on the beach, so does that really qualify as mean?), we chose to forego studying the basics two day later and instead headed directly to the Physics Laboratory offered at Six Flags Magic Mountain.

Our first stop on this phase of our journey was at Cedar Point in Sandusky, OH, where we had talked about the three basic types of motion (constant, variable, and periodic) as well as requiring each of the kids to use accelerate and decelerate in at least three different sentences throughout the day, which they turned into quite an entertaining challenge. On our way to Magic Mountain we reviewed these types of motion, but today’s lesson was going to focus on Newton’s three laws of motion and the transformation of energy from one type to the next (e.g. potential (a roller coaster cresting a hill) becoming kinetic (picking up speed at the bottom of a hill) and eventually thermal (braking components must get hot as they slow the cars)). It was the perfect venue to explore Newtonian physics and thermodynamics – and it was free as we had already purchased season passes for Six Flags in Maryland and they are transferable between parks. Who knew?!.

When we pulled in, we were surprised to find ourselves in the parking lot nearest the entrance perfectly in line with the enormous orange and blue funnel for one of the water park rides. I always need to take a picture of where we park or make it a point to orient myself or else I will need to walk the endless rows of cars armed with the key remote to home in on our vehicle. Having only one day to explore this park, I was very glad to see that Magic Mountain’s water park was closed given there were so many wicked coasters to check out.  Thankfully, this was as close as we got…

The whole family offered a few surprises in what they would and would not ride. Flight now has little tolerance for having his brain scrambled and, strangely, he reaches his limit for rollercoasters before I do. I would have thought that with a tendency toward vertigo, roller coasters would be a no go for me. Instead it would appear that as long as I keep my eyes open and intently focused, as well as having my legs and/or arms anchored, I can tolerate most rides. Unless, of course, I grey out, which pretty much rocks my world and, sadly, that has been happening more often the longer I live in my body.

As Flight already mentioned and the empty parking lot foretold, there were few lines at the Park and upon arriving, Flight launched Keeper and me to go ride some of the big stuff while he stayed with the girls in the younger kids section. Keeper and I started with Goliath.

We rapidly moved onto Scream and Twisted Colossus, where Flight and the girls met up with us. Before we moved much farther around the park, Keeper and Flight backtracked slightly to ride Twisted Colossus (Flight’s status report: totally overhauled from back in the day, hardly the same ride…) and Goliath. The girls and I played a game of Golf to pass the time:

Keeper and I split off and waited in one of the few lines to ride Tatsu. He caught sight of the suspended riders dangling from their harnesses, turned to me and pronounced, “NOPE. No way. I am NOT riding THAT.” Apparently, to fall within his safety and/or disorientation tolerances, one must be standing or sitting upright for a coaster. Okay then, lunch it is!

Surprisingly, I was impressed with the (relatively healthy) food selection offered at Magic Mountain. Flight and I dined on sushi and edamame, while the kids had their standard combination of cheese and bread, with maybe a burger or two thrown in for good measure. Certainly no Single Thread, but it was far better than I have seen at other parks.

WoodSprite was intent on leading us to Ninja, one of the few roller coasters someone of her stature might ride.

Although we enjoyed other rides along the way, she was singularly focused until we all rode the Ninja.

The kids seemed to enjoy our lab day – and Firebolt finally became a roller coaster rider. Having waited in many a line with her during other park visits only to bail at the last minute, walking through the car to let the folks behind us ride instead before we regretfully made our way to the exit. This was a huge leap for Firebolt as she doesn’t always like to break away from her comfort zone. WOO HOO!

While Keeper, Firebolt, and Flight rode The New Revolution, WoodSprite and I took a turn on the Merrie Melodies Carousel before I kept Firebolt company on The New Revolution.

Overall, it was a fantastic Physics Lab experience, far better than any I have enjoyed in all my lab days. I don’t think I’m alone in wanting to enjoy such establishments without the pressing throng of my eleventy billion closest friends. As we discussed over an impressive Mexican dinner on our way back to Carpinteria, mid-week, mid-October is the perfect time to take in Magic Mountain and I’m not sure I’d return otherwise.

The next day we completed our mental gymnastics in the basics before we set out for our next field trip. On the way get haircuts, Keeper and Flight dropped the girls and me off in Santa Barbara at MOXI – The Wolf Museum of Exploration and Innovation – with the promise to collect us once they were shorn.

I had no idea what to expect, but MOXI is brilliantly laid out and perfect for engaging young minds with hands-on exhibits on all aspects of science. We started on the rooftop and worked our way down to the ground level.

The girls’ favorite exhibit on the roof was an enormous drum with a mallet on each side. Each mallet was wired to a heart rate sensor commonly used on exercise equipment. Firebolt and WoodSprite each took one side and they observed their heartbeats played out on the drum.

Unprompted, they decided to conduct an experiment. They wanted to see what exercising would do to their heart rates. They formulated a hypothesis (that was prompted) before running in place and doing jumping jacks before they rechecked their heart rates. Lo and behold, their heart rates increased just as they’d predicted. Basking in the success of their scientific experiment, we headed downstairs to further explore Newtonian Physics.

After a short discussion on the impact of increased mass on potential speed, Firebolt and WoodSprite built racecars. While they were engineering their rides, I was goaded into participating by one of the museum’s volunteers and put down my knitting to take part in construction efforts. Once we had all put the finishing touches on our creations, we raced them on the impressive track. A solid engineer in the making, Firebolt won the race. On both runs.

The next floor down had several arenas that married up science and art. The girls were thrilled to use color in unusual media (Rainbow Brite didn’t make it into Davista) – sure beats the heck out of colored pencils!

Sadly, the boys came to collect us too soon. After trying to register walking on gravel as quietly as they were able (which was not very), we went into the craft laboratory and the girls learned how to weave a bracelet. The entire family was the beneficiary of this particular craft as the girls were then too busy creating to pick at each other (or Keeper) on the ride back to Carpinteria.

Although I kept my eyes wide open on our return trip, I realized I never made the opportunity to do a realistic assessment of Psych’s portrayal of Santa Barbara. On our way back, we did stop at a local yarn store, where I lament not purchasing any new project work.  Sigh…  Based on our proximity to the beach (only steps away), we didn’t stray far from the immediate oceanfront to explore much of the town, aside from our school field trips. Looks like I’ll need to return to Santa Barbara proper at a future time to conduct research in earnest. One does what one must in the name of science…

We departed Pismo Beach and made way for Carpinteria. Our travel south took us through the town of Solvang, which was created in 1911 by a bunch of Danish-Americans hoping to recreate some of the homeland in their new environs. The town is vaguely Scandinavian in a Disney-esque kind of way, but the pastries are spot on. Or so we later heard from our neighbors at the next RV campground who were visiting from Denmark. We didn’t have room following our lunch at The Red Viking, where we enjoyed traditional fare of sausages and plenty of cabbage.

Needing to stretch our legs and promote digestion before jumping back into Davista, we strolled about town and checked out a few stores. Our very own Red Viking favored us with a photo shoot:

On our way down to Carpinteria, Flight and I were fondly recalling some of our favorite scenes from episodes of Psych. The TV show had been set in Santa Barbara and, having never seen the town in person, I was curious to see how much I might recognize. And it was close to nothing. I have since learned that Santa Barbara wanted no part of that show and so the town was pseudo-recreated in British Columbia for filming. No wonder I liked the town so much on the little screen…

Our arrival at the campsite was spectacular, in the truest sense of the word spectacle. Flight already self-reported complacency in the recaging-his-gyro exercise, but he neglected to mention my role in the Captain Crunch episode. Our SOP for setting up camp had evolved into our collectively scouting a place to disconnect the Subaru, having us both jump out and decouple the car (after setting the parking brake – forgot that once or twice…), and then I jump into the car and follow Flight in Davista to the site. I park the Subaru out of the way, pop out of the car, and would serve as a guide to help Flight coax Davista into the spot and stop in the most advantageous location, taking into account: access to the girls’ bikes on the back; distance to the electrical outlets, fresh water source, and sewage ports (if available); space for the port side slide to expand; and, if possible, room for the enormous awning to unfurl on the starboard side.

Just after we pulled into the campground, we disconnected the Toad as usual and I found an out of the way place to park the Subaru as Flight maneuvered Davista to back in. I, too, was complacent and for the first time ever stayed in the car while Flight was docking Davista. “Flight’s got this…” I thought, as he so often had before. When I saw where he was headed in the next point of his 17-point turn to perfectly back in (it was reeaaaaaaaaaally tight), I realized he couldn’t see through the roof. By the time I bounded out of the car and hollered “STOP!”, my warning came too late.  Tree – 1, Davista – 0.

I did not take any pictures of Davista’s gaping head wound, deferring to Flight’s comfort level as he had been at the controls when said air conditioning modification happened. As soon as Davista was shoehorned into place, I went back inside and offered Flight his choice of duct tape (Firebolt’s pink unicorn or standard silver) and adult beverage (beer or single malt). He opted for the silver to dress Davista’s wound and waited on the single malt until battle damage had been assessed. Keeper and I had planned to make a CostCo run with the intent of procuring a blanket similar to one Grammy and Papa had just purchased there (and he had luxuriated in while we stayed in their driveway) and I further offered to take all three kids with me so he could process (and enjoy some Balvenie). Flight sighed and said rather resignedly, “Thanks, but you and Keeper go. I’ll hang out with the girls.”

One little aside… CostCo has been our primary shopping venue for many years. We actually have a saying in our family, “If CostCo has it, we need it. If CostCo doesn’t have it, we probably don’t need it.” No kidding, we bought our living room and master bedroom furniture at CostCo, as well as other smaller purchases. We typically can’t get out of there without spending a minor fortune. Now, however, we are entirely limited by space and weight and can’t CostCo like we used to, but we did manage to buy Keeper a new blanket and some cheese because you can never have enough cheddar…

We returned to Davista to find Flight in better spirits (maybe having ingested some?), prepared dinner, and planned just to chill on the beach the following day.

Our Columbus Day on the sand amidst the tar deposits was intentionally slow so we could gear up for our upcoming scientific field trips scheduled for the next two days.  We had Physics Labs on tap at Six Flags Magic Mountain and a trip to MOXI, The Wolf Museum of Exploration and Innovation. I have to say, roadschooling is pretty awesome and I’ll delve into how that experience has evolved in the next post…

 

In anticipation of our upcoming departure from Alamo, we spent the remainder of our afternoon tending to mundane necessities after we returned from our insanely luxurious date night in Healdsburg. Laundry and grocery shopping seemed far more ho hum in comparison. The next day’s plans, however, were far from humdrum. We were going back into The City to see the Blue Angels show, one of the highlights of San Francisco’s Fleet Week.

The last Blues show we caught (and Flight and I have seen them a plenty) was in Annapolis this past May where they performed as part of the Naval Academy’s most recent graduation week festivities. Unfortunately, there was then a low cloud layer over the Severn River making it impossible for them to execute all planned maneuvers safely, so we witnessed an abbreviated show. Bummer. Waking to a cloudless sky in Alamo meant we’d likely get to see the whole shebang. WOO HOO!

As we caravanned into The City, I was pleased to see how welcoming San Francisco was of all our service members.

Although I also found this dated sign that was maybe less accepting of society’s previous outliers…

A few days ago while we were on one of our cable car rides we sat next to a gaggle of sailors, one of whom was wearing the “Crackerjacks” uniform that has been newly approved and tailor made for women. Because I now only dabble in the Navy as a Reservist, she was the first female sailor I had seen so dressed, so I asked her how she liked wearing it. She gushed her enthusiasm for the new duds, but pointed a few seats down to her friend who was garbed in the traditional Dress Blues and said, “But she can’t stand it.” Interesting.

A perpetual armchair sociologist, I couldn’t help but further casually observe the sailors, both as they interacted with each other and the rest of the car’s occupants.  Extremely polite and respectful towards the gentleman operating the cable car (I expected no less), I next saw this same “Crackerjacks” sailor shoot a picture of one of the many rainbow flags hanging in the windows, quickly flip her phone over to show one of her male compatriots, and say with a big grin, “Hey, I took this for you.”  His appreciative and equally good natured response came, “Aww, thanks for the support.”  It would appear that the more things change in this woman’s Navy, the more they stay the same.  Good to see.

As we zigzagged through The City to Fort Mason, Flight pointed out the numerous prior naval bases strewn about The City. I had no idea San Francisco was so thick with military presence, but the current military establishments number at or around 39, which doesn’t include all the modern military ruins littering The Bay Area in various states of disarray. Curious as to how many bases have come and gone over the decades since The Big War, I Googled away and got distracted by this awesome stash of images. Although my cursory search didn’t yield the number of bases from back in the day, these pictures were certainly worth a peek.

Flight already alluded to the insider information on choosing this location and that was indeed the gouge (Navy term for collective corporate knowledge). We trundled our picnic fare to pitch camp at the perfect setting (yes, that’s Alcatraz the Snowbirds are about to overfly). It was helpful that we had two “best campsite” seekers among us now to find just the right spot – and, also as Flight mentioned, it was an added bonus to have the cockpit comms narrating the visual display.  Please note our overwhelmingly interested Firebolt (head buried in her book) and WoodSprite (not even facing the show).  Sigh…

While the Blues were amazing as always, I found the Snowbird team representing our neighbors to the north to be more impressive:

Maybe it was the novelty of watching them, but the Canadians seemed to be doing many of the same precision maneuvers with three additional aircraft. It would be unfair to call them the opening band for the Blues, but they were clearly not billed as the main event.

 

In between the two teams was a United 747 (um, what???!?!? – we were shown only low dirty passes, but, sadly, no barrel rolls…) and a single-seater acrobatics demonstration, the combination of which rendered me first a little baffled and then a little airsick. Momentary nausea aside, it was a brilliant way to spend a glorious fall afternoon in The City.

 

But wait, there’s more… WoodSprite moved to make creative centerpieces using whatever she collected at our vantage point.  After sitting still for the show, the monkeys were eager to move about and climbed all over one of the Fort’s wartime relics (or rather, two of them did so voluntarily).

 

After a photo shoot on the enormous cannon (it was an All Hands evolution convincing Firebolt to participate), we strolled a few minutes across Fort Mason’s expansive grounds to see a food truck armada gearing up to open. There were so many amazing dinner options, it was hard to settle on any one truck’s menu. I left Flight to his own devices (which we both generally prefer) and acquired some wood-fired pizza for the girls.  Keeper purchased his own enormous burrito, and, intrigued by the name, I selected some Naughty Naan and a couple freshly assembled cannoli (different trucks!). We enjoyed a relaxing meal and then returned to Davista to make ready for our departure in the morning.

This stop at Flight’s parents was a real luxury and not just because we had some solid visit time and access to unlimited water. Additionally, the girls were able to build this Trader Joe’s Halloween House that they’d been coveting on every grocery run:

We were also able to appraise our belongings and store those we found excessive (like the house above) with the hopes of reclaiming them (unlike the house above) after our travels. Prior to leaving Maryland we didn’t know what we didn’t know and, now with two months of this lifestyle under our belts, we can more pragmatically assess the usefulness of our gear. A quick rundown on what we’ve learned more specifically (posted at three months in…) can be found here. Although we are only moderately lighter departing the Bay Area (in all fairness, we didn’t dump the bilges before we left for fear of leaving this impression), I’m looking forward to finding some sand dollars at Pismo Beach (they don’t weigh a whole lot) and getting back to the coast for further exploration. Since we chose to keep the kayaks, here’s hoping we’ll find another opportunity to use them…