Flight of 5

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…

 

I’m pretty sure that the old joke about “watch this” holding the top spot among famous last words isn’t limited to aviation circles.  Not that I actually said “watch this” when pulling into our spot in Carpinteria, but I was kinda thinking it.

First a quick catch-up – we drove from Pismo down to Carpinteria via the faux-Danish town of Solvang, where we had a lunch-and-stroll session, and narrowly managed to avoid eating the featured-on-every-corner æbleskivers, reasoning that they were a ball of sugared, cooked dough with jam on them, and probably would taste exactly like the description sounds.  Generally we’re unable to avoid such things, so I was proud of us.  Being full from lunch helped.

Solvang was another place I remembered from my distant youth, and it’s grown up into a mini-wine country town along with Los Olivos and a couple other towns in the Santa Ynez valley.  Sideways helped the rest of the country discover what many Southern Californians already knew about the area, and they play it, if not to the hilt, then at least halfway down the blade with various Sideways themed tours and the like.  It’s a nice place to explore, and the weather was perfect as I assume it often is.

Here’s Woodsprite in a large artificial clog.

We arrived in Carpinteria fairly late in the afternoon, probably more like early evening due to some dead-stop traffic through Santa Barbara.  It wasn’t dark yet, but was getting there.  I was on top of the world.  I’ve previously mentioned my feeling that I’d scored a coup by nabbing a beach-front spot for the week at Carpinteria.  More than that though, I had a sense that we had this thing – this whole uprooting the family and seeing the country via RV Thing – wired.  Driving had become much easier, we’d conquered (?) Highway 1 and multiple national parks, we could set up and break down quickly, we weren’t making mistakes (again, ?)…  “I’ve got this” was my overarching mood.

We pulled into Carpinteria State Beach and saw our spot, and though I wouldn’t say it dampened my mood, I would say it was not as expected.  Beach-front yes, though a small row of dunes prevented us from actually seeing water.  No hook-ups, but I knew that already.  What surprised me, though, was how tight it was.  Our beach-front spot was actually three spots right next to each other, and we would be sharing it with two other motorhomes.  And by sharing it I mean “turn sideways to walk between them.”  Furthermore, maneuvering into the spot didn’t appear to be a simple matter, as there were two more motorhomes right across the narrow street from ours.

Not to worry though, I’ve Got This.

I started my maneuvering with our neighbors looking on, though trying not to be too obvious about it.  Tacco was outside, positioning herself in the spot in order to tell me when to stop.  I have 4 mirrors and two cameras all looking at something slightly different behind me, and I’ve gotten pretty skilled at coordinating their use in order to shoehorn us into tight spots in reverse.  “Watch this.”

As I delicately positioned Davista for a perfect slide into position, I made what is truly a rookie mistake, one that I’ve made when backing a boat under tow as well – when backing up and paying close attention to what’s behind you, don’t forget about the front!  I’d been sliding underneath a tree with low hanging branches in order to get where I needed to be and not thinking much of that, when suddenly I simultaneously heard both a “STOP!” from Tacco and a sickening crunch from above.  The neighbors averted their eyes and pretended they hadn’t noticed us.  Never a good sign.  That tree wasn’t as friendly as I’d imagined, and among the thin, low-hanging branches were fully grown limbs, one of which had done battle with our fiberglass roof and won.  I knew immediately what had just happened, and my adrenaline surged, but not in the good way.

I was able to back straight out of the bad position without damaging us further, but I knew we had a problem.  I did manage to keep it together enough to get us into the spot without further damage, but not before realizing that we were far better off pulling forward into the spot than backing in anyway.  In my euphoria I hadn’t even stopped to think about it.

Upon climbing onto the roof, I was treated to the view of about a 4” by 16” jagged hole in the fiberglass, complete with bits of wood and leaf clinging to the edges.  Right on the corner of the roof too.  We were lucky in that it didn’t penetrate all the way into the inside, but it would clearly need to be covered to keep out any water.  Duct tape to the rescue!

Here’s our spot, in the far more friendly morning light.  I wish I had a picture of the hole, but then again maybe I don’t.

After settling down and re-caging my humility gyros I realized that we don’t have this even CLOSE to wired.  We’re uprooting our entire house a few times per week, and there are countless moving parts, all of which are subject to break or be banged up due to poor judgment or bad luck.  On top of that, most of them are of the “must be repaired now” variety, and could go so far as to bring us to a dead stop somewhere very inconvenient.  There’s no room for cockiness.

Again we were fortunate, in that the duct tape seems to have sealed it well and it appears we have no more than a fiberglass repair on tap (with no immediate urgency – no rain in the forecast!).  But it wasn’t an auspicious beginning to the Carpinteria beach dream stay I’d been so looking forward to.  On the other hand, I probably needed the attitude adjustment.

In the Navy, this is the type of incident that earns you a new callsign, and frankly I’d be happy to ditch “Flight” for something more creative, but Cap’n Crunch or Limbs or Doofus don’t excite me much.  I won’t encourage a change.

It was tricky to cut the cord that staying at my parents’ house had become.  Creature comforts, a non-public bathroom, my parents…  On the flip side, though, I had pictured the next phase of our trip, the Southern California Beach phase, ever since we started planning, even when the trip was still theoretical.  My thinking went something like this:  When would be the absolute best time to beach hop down the California coast?  October, definitely.  Where should we stay?  Enough places to get a good feel of the West Coast’s variety, but with some places at which we can get in the water, particularly near the end of that stretch.  A surfing lesson was high on the list of priorities, as somehow I had managed a Southern California beach-heavy childhood and adolescence without ever getting up on a surfboard, or even trying.  A travesty I fully intended to remedy.  I had been looking forward to all of this, and to introducing it all to my family.

Pismo Beach, on the Central Coast, is not a particularly good place to surf, I think, but it was a multiple-visit childhood camping spot at which my last visit was probably age 13 or 14.  It’s a pretty unique place in that there is a huge field of sand dunes on which people ride ATVs and dune buggies.  What’s more, it’s one of the few (possibly the only?) California beach(es) on which you’re allowed to drive your car and camp right on the sand.

My memories of early camping trips are hazy due to their temporal distance, but the one that stands out most was when we took my Dad’s parents along with us.  My sense of it is that, like much else back then, Pismo had much more of a “Wild West” feel, with the corresponding lack of oversight.  I’m speculating here, but it was the late ‘70s / early ‘80s — these were the days when people drove around town with 3 people in a 2-person convertible, seatbelt-less, smoking, and with an open beer, and if you passed a cop they’d wag their finger at you while smiling.  Or so I’m told.  I imagine there were likely some controlled substances mixing with the all-day-all-night dune buggying.  And here I should be perfectly clear — I’m not talking about my parents’ activities.  All we did was camp on the beach and do some hiking and clamming.  We didn’t even have a dune buggy.  We were the outliers though — everyone else, it seemed, was there to hit the dunes.  Anyway, my grandfather wasn’t particularly hip to the constant buzz of the engines and the occasional sweep of the headlights across our heavy canvas tent’s walls.  “Oh, this is great. Yup, this is just great.  Fantastic.  Love this.  Oh hey, THAT one was close.  Wow.  Great.  Yup” and variations on that theme went on until I drifted off to sleep and likely for hours thereafter.

As well as the dunes, there are the large and tasty “Pismo clams” which can only be found there, and a decent little town to explore as well.  I had been looking forward to getting back.

My assumption was that there were no motorhomes allowed on the sand.  Not that it mattered, as there was zero chance I would be taking Davista out there.  So we booked at an RV park further to the north, with access to the beach.  It ended up being quite… I was going to say “commercial,” but that’s not exactly what I’m looking for.  “KOA-esque” is closer.  I guess what’s happening is with a bit of RV-ing experience under my belt now, I’m starting to mentally group RV campgrounds into 4 types:

Type 1 – Primitive and pretty.  This is what you tend to find at National Parks.  No hookups (i.e. electrical, water, sewer) and not really designed for RVs, but they tolerate your presence and have a few sites that can accommodate your length.  They’re going for max scenic beauty and peace and quiet.  You’re a hindrance to that, but they’ll let you in anyway.  They’re popular, because National Parks.

Type 2 – Also pretty and government-run, but RV-friendly.  This seems to be more the State Park model.  Sometimes city or county park.  Full hookups, large and level parking spots, picnic table and fire ring, and lots of space.  Your neighbors aren’t right next to you looking into your window through theirs.  I really like these.

Type 3 – Commercial “Kampground”.  These are the KOAs and many of the private RV parks.  Generally they’re not big because they had to buy their land, so they pack you in tightly, but they try to make up for that with creature comforts like cable TV, wifi, a game room, a general store, etc.  They also often try to create a party-ish atmosphere it seems.  These are the most expensive.

Lastly, the Type 4s – the No Go.  Basically a Type 3 that isn’t trying.  They give you a parking lot with the bare minimum of space, a power hookup and some allegedly clean water, ask for your money, then turn a blind eye to whatever happens next.  These are sketchy and easily recognizable (and avoided).

There are outliers and hybrids among all these groups of course, but hey, stereotypes can be useful.

So our campground in Pismo was firmly a Type 3.  The kids loved it.  Go figure, I guess they value the creature comforts more than the space and the scenery.

I forgot to mention the drive.  Here it is:

Not terribly scenic, and a shame to miss out on Highway 1 and Big Sur to our west, but we did get a chance to talk about El Camino Real and the California missions from back in its Spanish colonial days.  Firebolt was the only one who took much interest in that discussion, so I pointed out the El Camino Real road markers with the hanging bell,   and she now says “coooollll” whenever I point out another to her.

The access to the beach I mentioned turned out to be an asterisked access.  There was a small set of dunes between our RV park and the beach so we couldn’t actually see the water, but at the access gates to the dunes were long-winded signs explaining that the RV park’s management had no control over the flow of Pismo Creek, and we know you used to be able to walk right to the ocean, but with shifting tidal flats and geology and erosion blah blah yadda yadda bottom line: you have to walk a half mile either way or cross this stagnant body of water of indeterminate depth in order to reach the beach you’re looking at right in front of you.

Good thing we brought kayaks!

So we ended up with our own semi-private beach after we inflated our flotilla and ferried our beach gear across the creek delta (which ended up being entirely wade-able, as long as you didn’t worry about what you might be stepping on).  A squadron of pelicans doing their thing entertained us nearby, there was great kite flying, and the beachcombing was entirely decent as well, though the water was still a bit cold for full-immersion swimming.

Despite our having just left their house, my parents met us there on the first night, having just driven down to Malibu to catch my nephew’s water polo match.  This was the first time we shared our new “home” with anyone else, which was its own entertainment, both for us and for the kids.  They declined our offer to make beds out of the dining room table and couch and opted to sleep in the back of their 4Runner instead, which I did feel a little bad about.  Had there been more room I’d have set up a tent and slept out & offered up the bedroom (or at least offered them the tent and sleeping pads), but this wasn’t that kind of campground.  They did ok though; they’re troopers.  We even managed to stay up late and watch the football game on our outside TV while bundled against the cold, which was more fun than it sounds.  I guess I’m more thankful for those creature comforts than I let on.

Pismo was a short stay by design (only 2 nights), but I discovered on the second day that my Dad had been not-so-secretly looking forward to driving on the beach again even more than I had.  So we made plans to drive their 4Runner and our Outback down to the dunes to “check it out.”  We didn’t really define what that meant, and it became clear pretty quickly that this was our (i.e. my dad and I) thing, so our lady-folk sorta stepped aside and went along with it.  They brought some beach gear and games and probably a snack or two, but otherwise just enjoyed the show.  Somewhere deep in my lizard brain I had a notion that maybe we’d rent a dune buggy or a couple ATVs for a bit, but I don’t think I ever voiced that ahead of time.  I just wanted to go play.

So off we went in our cars, through the state park’s gate and onto the sand, with nothing but a cheerful “You’re 4 wheel drive, right?” from the ranger at the booth.  “Of course!”

Almost immediately I questioned our wisdom.  It took about a minute.  I’m sure Tacco had been questioning it all morning.

What I remembered from the Pismo of my youth was a long, flat, stretch of fairly hard sand.  I was far too young to drive, but I do remember that it looked quite easy to drive on.  I also remember the smattering of tents inland from where you drive, and the dunes further inland from that.  What I saw was entirely different.  It was soft sand – VERY soft and somewhat deep sand, with the waves washing both themselves and random blobs of seaweed right onto the area in which we’d be driving.  There was nothing hard or flat about it, and we had to maintain quite a bit of momentum just to keep moving.  We did ok initially, but it was a rough ride and required significant maneuvering to avoid some of the bigger hills of sand and piles of seaweed, not to mention the people who insisted on walking on this same beach, as if it were, like, a beach (c’mon, can’t ya see I’m driving here?!).  Maneuvering while maintaining momentum is a tricky dance on sand.  It’s also disconcerting to have sandy saltwater from the remains of a wave that just broke come splashing onto your windshield.  It seemed prudent to drive near the water’s edge as the sand only got deeper and softer as you got further inland, but I couldn’t help but imagine the tide rising to swamp our car once we inevitably got stuck.  “Why do they allow this?!?”

And where were the dunes?  And the tents?  I quickly assumed they were further south, but after about a mile of swerving uncomfortably down the beach I still couldn’t see them, and began picturing not only having to turn around and drive back across that same stretch, but imagining how far I’d have to be towed once I dug into a patch of sand from which I couldn’t extricate us.  I wish I had more pictures of this, but we were all quite busy.  Here’s the one I have of us from my mother in the car behind us, no doubt listening to my dad imploring me not to slow down.

Alas, to no avail.  My nagging doubts eventually overcame our momentum, and I pulled over away from the ocean to stop and figure out what on Earth we were doing.  Mistake.  Stuck.  Of course.

I went back to talk to my Dad, who had been having a much easier (but not easy) time in his 4Runner, and learned that this stretch of beach was indeed not the dune / camping stretch, but also that there was another beach access point just about a half mile ahead, so even if we hadn’t wanted to continue past it into the actual camping area, if I had pressed on we would have been able to drive back off the beach there.

What I also quickly learned, and is probably obvious by now to any observant reader, is that we were in no danger of being swamped by the high tide, we were driving on Pismo Beach right at high tide, which is precisely the wrong time to drive on Pismo Beach.  An hour later or an hour earlier and we’d have been just fine, happily trucking down the previously alluded to stretch of hard, flat sand.

After some scenario gaming, we opted to try to push the Outback forward enough with the 4Runner’s front bumper to allow it to get moving on its own again, and then make it to the next access point, where we’d drive back off the beach and proceed to Plan B.  My clutch’s nasty burning smell informed me in no uncertain terms that it didn’t like what we were doing, but ultimately our scheme worked and we made it to the dunes/camping access point only to find a sizable audience of locals with lawn chairs set up, watching the spectacle of Pismo tourists and sand-driving noobs attempting to drive themselves off the beach at high tide and cheering the several who got stuck.  I guess that’s a Thing there.

Suffice it to say we never made it to the dunes, but we did spend quite an enjoyable afternoon set up with our towels, a picnic table, and some tasty local seafood, complete with clams, at show center for the parade of surprisingly large RVs shimmying through the sand and muck.  Evidently they allow them on the sand after all!  There is also clearly a booming tow-truck (and tractor) industry in Pismo, too, and the armada of flashy tow vehicles headed out to rescue hapless RVers received a fair share of the applause, hoots, and hollers as well.

Overall, despite the missteps, Pismo was a great success, at least as assessed by the kiddos.  They had a blast.  And often that translates to a parental blast as well, we’re finding.

Tomorrow we leave for Carpinteria State Beach just south of Santa Barbara, where I managed to snag a reservation at one of the few no-kidding beachfront sites for four nights.  I feel its pull.

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…

Tacco covered the whole “Bay Area” thing already.  What she didn’t cover, and may not even know, is that it goes deeper.  Having grown up the LA area, I was used to considering my home the absolute center of the universe (which is pretty typical I would think) and assuming that everybody else agreed with this (which may be a little more LA-centric).  LA is interesting that way – Tacco was dead on about the whole “back East” concept, but understated just how dismissive we were about “back East.”  It wasn’t a compliment to talk about things that were “back East”; it wasn’t even neutral.  What’s more, the stereotypical LA mindset of my youth, and maybe even today, goes so far as to dismiss even the rest of Southern California as rube-ish.  San Bernardino / Riverside?  Sorry, too far from the beach.  San Diego?  Please.  In my world, the universe’s center stretched about as far south as Laguna Beach and as far East as “The 5.”

Don’t get me wrong — where I grew up is a great place; I still feel at home when I’m there and in the vicinity.  I feel no pull to move back, but I have zero complaints.  But some distance-related perspective made me realize that my arrogance was probably a bit misplaced.  Downey, my hometown, is perfectly pleasant in its own concrete jungle suburb sort of way, but would meet NO ONE’S center of the universe criteria except someone who lived there.  Oh we knew, though.  You all envied us.

My LA provincialism bumped up against Bay Area provincialism when I moved up north for school, and makes for some solid comedy in hindsight.  I couldn’t understand how being “twenty minutes from Everything” wasn’t immediately understood by everyone else to be the trump card of all trump cards.  Bay Area folks would list off their own incontrovertible proofs of why the Center of the Universe was actually 350 miles north and I’d be surprised I had to explain how wrong they were.  In my mind we had beach, mountains, desert, city, lots of fast food, and Disneyland.  Boom!  Checkmate.  In the meantime, folks from places like NYC or Chicago would be over in the corner rolling their eyes.

At the time, there seemed to be a San Francisco / Los Angeles rivalry that LA wasn’t even aware of.  SF was more or less “that cutesy town up north with the cable cars and stuff” then but was otherwise never really thought about by LA-folk.  That condescending pat on the head was not reciprocated by our northern neighbors, I discovered.  Rather it was a dead serious “here’s why we’re better” laundry list.  All of the elements of which had a good bit of truth to them, by the way, but still, LA couldn’t be bothered to compete.

At any rate, before I went down the rabbit hole of silly intra-California squabbles and extreme provincialism, I was trying to get around to my post title, which is what you call San Francisco when you live in the Bay Area, even when you’re speaking to someone who isn’t from the Bay Area.  Because clearly “The City” would refer to San Francisco, even if you were in Omaha or Fort Lauderdale or Providence.  What you absolutely wouldn’t ever call it, unless you were being arch and ironic or arrogantly making fun of outsiders, is “Frisco.”  Obviously.  Even “San Fran” is iffy, even though I tend to let that one slip on occasion.

We had been in the Bay Area for a week and hadn’t yet taken the kids to The City; it was time.  And there’s no better time to visit, in my opinion, than Fleet Week.  Fleet Week tends to fall over the first full weekend in October, which is the dead middle of summer in San Francisco. June and July’s fog, mist, and chilly wind tend to shock visitors to San Francisco expecting, you know, summer. Even 10 minutes away across the Bay and to the south down the peninsula the seasons run their normal course, or at least the Californian version thereof.  But late September and October tend to look much more like a normal summer in The City, at least a mild one.  Various ships pull into port and sailors flood the streets, and there’s a huge airshow featuring the Blue Angels at what has to be their most spectacular venue, with show center right between Alcatraz and Ghirardelli Square.  Despite any stereotypes about the typical SF resident, San Franciscans love Fleet Week.

We actually managed to head into The City twice, once to watch the airshow and once just to play tourist for a bit.  On the first day we started at the Embarcadero Ferry Terminal, where there’s a food court of sorts that makes it nearly impossible to choose among the multitude of equally good options.  Then we did a bit of cable car riding over the hills toward Fisherman’s Wharf, with the kids standing on the outside step  and leaning into the street Rice-a-Roni style.  The cable car used to be a reasonable deal and an ok way to navigate the downtown area, but at some point they changed their fare structure – it’s no longer reasonable.  Kids dug it though!

Ghirardelli Square got Keeper’s blood pumping.  He’s a big dark chocolate fan and a connoisseur of sorts, so getting to squeeze as many of the little sample-sized squares into a souvenir tin was right in his wheelhouse.

He is not, however, a fan of museums, which is unfortunate because we’ve been striving to visit more than our share, and we found a great one right on the waterfront that’s run by the National Park Service and talks about San Francisco and the Bay Area’s maritime heritage.  Frankly I didn’t even know it was there, and it’s excellent.  Firebolt and Woodsprite loved it as well, and found to their delight that there was an opportunity to earn yet another Junior Ranger badge.  They’re amassing quite a collection.

Our last stop was Chinatown, which always makes for an interesting stroll.  We didn’t get to eat there, but did manage to buy a 3 yolk moon cake, as the following day was the Mid Autumn Moon Festival, at which they’re traditionally eaten.  It’s a pretty nasty little foodstuff, in my opinion (which was shared by the rest of the family).  Lotus seed paste with salted duck egg yolks scattered within, and surrounded by a thin crust.  Heavy, oily, somewhat gritty, very caloric, and not particularly tasty either.

We split ours into about 8 pieces to share with my parents, but only about 4 got eaten.  Maybe it’s an acquired taste.  But I’d have much rather introduced my kids to traditional Chinese food via dim sum.  Next time.

Friday was airshow day, and not only did my parents join us, but they let us in on a viewing semi-secret, which was that their Disabled placard and our military ID gave us access to parking at Fort Mason, which is essentially right at show center, with panoramic views.

We parked easily, feet from our viewing spot, and managed to sit next to a gentleman from LiveATC.net, which records and streams Air Traffic Control comms online.  Today he had a live feed of the airshow performers’ cockpit communications on his speaker, which was a great (and often humorous) supplement to watching the maneuvers.

At one point soon after the Blue Angels took off and were heading toward show center, one of the pilots was asked in a quick exchange, “How’s your rider?” “Good!  GLOC-ed twice already, but yeah, good!”  I laughed out loud and noticed quickly that I was the only one and that all the other show watchers in our area were looking at me quizzically.  Oh yeah, that’s right, you guys don’t speak Jive.  So I quickly translated for them – that one of the pilots had a passenger along for the ride in the back, who had passed out from G Forces twice already in the short flight, but was “doing great.”

I find it extremely difficult not to enjoy a good airshow, particularly when the Blues are involved.  I do find that I’m no longer “wowed” by the maneuvers like I once was, but the symmetry of it, the precise formation flying, the excitement of the people around me – all of that makes for a deep contentment.

Aviation appears to be a bug that Keeper did not catch, which I suppose is a minor disappointment on some level, but will probably serve him well career-wise.  They’ve said for a while now that the last fighter pilot has already been born, as the trend and technology inch more and more toward unmanned flight.  I don’t think airline pilots’ jobs are in any danger of going away any time soon, but the issue isn’t one of technology.  As with driverless cars, there are minor technological bugs to be worked out, but the larger issues deal with public acceptance.

Keeper started off the airshow viewing a bit surly, and asked why he should be interested in “a bunch of planes flying around,” but he came around after a few of the performers did their thing and the infectious positive vibe of it all overcame him.

Afterwards we walked over toward a Food Truck gathering called Off The Grid, which had set up on the west side of Fort Mason.  More excellent food, and a free mechanical shark to ride!  Hard to get the gist from a photo rather than a video, but he fell off pretty quickly.  Oh, and did I mention more good food?  I did.  Still, yum.

As sunset neared, we ate the rest of our dinner, played some cards, and tossed the football around on the huge field.  The kids were ecstatic, which was great to see.  It’s far from a given.  Also, it’s been much more challenging than we’d anticipated to get them out and about.  Inertia being what it is, they often default to staring at a screen in their beds or at least in one of the motorhome seats, and they resist our exhortations to get outside and move move move.  Keeper, after challenging everyone to a race and then running top speed around the field for no particular reason, informed us, winded, that he “had forgotten how great it feels to run around.  It’s been so long!”  I asked him to please, please remember that.

Think he will?

Tomorrow we’re off to Pismo Beach, and the beginning of our three week Southern California beach stretch, which I’ve been looking forward to.  I spent much of my childhood and early adulthood convinced I couldn’t possibly live away from the beach, and then I discovered for the rest of my life that I most certainly could.  I’m wondering how revisiting my childhood will affect me and the others, as well as what they’ll all think of where I grew up.

Flight already gave a brilliant summary of our over-the-top dining experience at Single Thread, so I won’t devote much print (that expression is approaching dodo status…) to my version. There are a few things about our dinner I would like to add before I address the main strand weaving through and connecting all my present thoughts, namely the assessment of our journey to this point, what our trajectory looks like for the immediate future, the next few months, and ultimately the years beyond…

Before I get to that particular thread, as who knows how long I will wax poetic while I pull on that one, I wanted to bring to light a glaring omission in Flight’s recap. As with most ludicrous dining experiences (and we do have only a handful of such data points), each table is assigned a sommelier to describe the wine offerings and, more important, how each one complements the flavors of each dish. Flight opted for the “standard” (hardly) wine pairing and received an amazing taste with every course, which I believe he accurately captured. His oversight, however, was in neglecting to address my non-alcoholic pairings, to which I attribute his only enjoying a few jealously guarded sips while I was savoring each and every quaff.

The non-alcoholic beverages were beyond anything I might have imagined, which is, of course, why I don’t run such an establishment. Seriously though, what would you concoct to bring out the flavors in house-made tofu that has the consistency of burrata with an equally rich flavor (we learned the sous-chef had been perfecting that recipe for nearly a year – !!!) paired with the season’s best tomato harvest and capped with a snow of orange pepper all resting on some other goodness I can’t remember?

Um, Orange Crush and something tomatoish? At least the color would be right…

Or how about this… I mean, where do you even start?

Single Thread’s what – I don’t even know if there is an actual position responsible for such creations – is charged with this monumental task. To go with the aforementioned tofu dish (and I feel lame for referring to it as such), I was presented the perfect blend of strained fresh tomato puree, oolong tea of some variety, and hints of other earthy flavors that my inadequate palate couldn’t quite identify. Without exception, I preferred my non-alcoholic choice to Flight’s wine pairing. Whatever the exact title, they (and surely it must be a team of “they”) are very gifted at their job. I never thought I’d ever form these words together in a sentence, but my favorite drink was a turmeric margarita of sorts. ?!?!!!

Exactly. It was insanely good.

While the food and its presentation was nothing short of exceptional, the service itself involved the coordinated efforts of at least a dozen professionals outside the kitchen and it was flawless. I have to say, it felt luxuriously decadent to have one’s every need anticipated and then exceeded by a factor of ten. Although we thoroughly enjoyed our escape to living as royalty, we had much that needed our immediate attention.  Since we only had a short time without our kids who tend to derail most trains of thought when Flight and I are discussing anything from toothpaste preferences to the meaning of life, we had to make the most of our time away, most notably to get our crap together and do some planning.  I’m reminded of an article in The Onion from many years ago. Ah, would that I had such a week…

Save finding the Money Tree, which I believe must be located in the same grove as the equally elusive Time Tree, our plans to further execute our intended flight path (entirely fluid as well) are somewhat dependent on how long we can continue to pay a mortgage on a house that hasn’t yet sold while we travel the country. I know there’s got to be a calculus equation to optimize the length of time we can maintain this lifestyle, but I can’t want to bring myself to define or solve it. I really don’t want to cut this experience short for reasons I don’t yet quite understand, so I’m tempted to ignore the algorithm constantly morphing in the background and have tried instead to focus on getting into a groove and living in the present. Maybe that’s my way of trying to identify a concrete and potentially priceless variable to enter into the equation, thereby proving the value of continuing our trek even at the risk of irresponsibly ignoring the obvious financial repercussions. I don’t know…

As far as what we are learning and my appraisal of those lessons, I can lump them into general categories, namely our growing knowledge of Operations (how we plan and execute everything from meals to travel route to where we park to Flight’s work schedule, etc.), Roadschooling (educating our three delightful children wherever we move our mobile classroom), Living as a Family of Five in 280 ft² and, separately, my observations on how each of the kids has taken to this adventure. I’ll try to flesh out these notions in the coming weeks as I am able to get to them.

Ultimately, I give our Operations performance an “average,” although only just (see this post for an explanation of ratings). This lukewarm assessment is mostly based on our having made the most of some phenomenal experiences we’ve managed to enjoy thus far (e.g. exploring the UP, The Eclipse, kayaking in String Lake in Grand Teton National Park, floating the Deschutes, hiking the Cascade Trail, etc. – hurray!) that counterbalances our efforts (or dismal lack thereof – boo!) to include the whole family in our quest to see our nation. While we did a fair job of helping the kids create their respective spaces prior to getting underway, we haven’t done well with roping them into the whole experience since departing.  Frankly, we’ve botched that altogether and, now that we’ve recognized it, we’ll appropriately course correct.

Official roadschooling is just ramping up really and, as I’m still getting a feel for how that will unfold, “average” seems to be about right. You can read more about why we’re even going down this road and what my initial and potentially naive thoughts were here.   Overall, we’ve been learning throughout our entire journey, certainly beyond what our kids might learn in any classroom, however I can’t specifically define what our actual school year will look like just yet.  Nor can I possibly imagine what fruit the seeds we’re planting might produce. Since that can’t be known for years to come, I’m content just to see what our days will soon evolve into following our extended summer of travel.

Our experience living as a Family of 5 in ~280 ft² gets an “above”. Living together just so has been poignantly rich but with some associated heartache too. I guess that’s expected in any family situation, certainly, but as Flight noted I think that we tend to feel the range of emotions more acutely because there is really no escape from each other. However, this constant close proximity has necessitated that we better learn how to effectively talk things through, appropriately identify and assert our boundaries, and immediately articulate any frustrations and joys along the way, which is something (I hope) that should serve us well regardless the size of our next family living space – and beyond. There’s still so much to learn as we continue our individual and collective journeys (kinda life’s whole point), yet I can’t help but feel as though we’re solidifying something priceless as we move forward, all likely owed to these self-imposed space constraints.

So, where does that leave me in defining the algorithm?  I’m still not sure, but likely no further along.  The bottom line is this: I’m loving this deployment and all that it entails.  Sure, we can certainly do many things better, but learning how to do so as a flight may be what this particular journey is all about.  We seem to be evolving well with the growth it’s catalyzing in our family and I’m fairly certain I won’t ever be able to assign that a value.

You’d think I’d have learned my lesson in planning biking excursions with our children. Nope. Ever the optimist (I have Flight to blame for that…), I thought it would be a slightly different although certainly no less grand plan to bike the other direction down the nearby trail to make a Whole Foods run, and this time enlisted Keeper’s company for the trek. Cool mother-son time, right?

Our intent was to purchase some steak to grill for dinner, and a few other assorted items. Between my not bringing a bike lock, which meant Keeper had to stand guard duty while I shopped, and Keeper’s prescription sunglasses going on walk about (they fell out of his pocket, but we retraced our route and fortunately found them), I was surprised that I actually found what I was looking for (and then some) in the butcher’s case. Still smarting from having downed yesterday’s event and threatening to have a repeat performance today, I wasn’t sure that would be feasible.

Achieving only one below for the lock situation (I wasn’t going to own my copilot’s issues), I marginally passed the event and we brought home dinner fixings. After we devoured a delicious dinner, followed by some strong puzzle work, the combination of which made for a most welcome (i.e. relatively drama free) evening, I dove into planning tomorrow’s outing in “The City,” tapping into Flight’s parents’ savvy.

Flight was landing at SFO and, since we were going to collect him, we planned to spend the afternoon and into the evening exploring The City. Our first stop was the Embarcadero, specifically the Ferry Building, to grab lunch.

If you’ve not explored this collection of foodie establishments, you are definitely missing out. After slowly circling the building to assess all the options, we settled on the familiar comforts of grilled cheese (although ridiculously appointed) and burgers and enjoyed dining out on the patio where we had a great view of the USS Essex, a sizable amphibious assault ship that was docked at a nearby pier for San Francisco’s Fleet Week. More on that next post…

I had been most intrigued by the offerings available at Humphry Slocombe Ice Cream on our pre-dining tour. Although you can enjoy ice cream at any time of the day (it’s not just for breakfast any more), Flight and I try to model “lunch first” behavior, even if it is comprised of variations (albeit tasty) of bread and cheese, which woefully appears to be our kids’ go to choice. Although Humphry Slocombe wasn’t quite on par with Salt & Straw of Portland, I was duly impressed. Check out the flavor selection:

I think Flight picked the most wisely: “Secret Breakfast” touted bourbon and corn flake goodness (!!!). Not to be outdone in selection, I chose Persian Lime & Curry, which showcased the Oaktown Spice Shop’s not so secret ingredients.

Many moons ago, Flight and I agreed that whenever we dined out (okay, maybe not necessarily observed with today’s lunch), we would lean towards menu selections that we don’t typically or easily could prepare at home. Because I also prefer to make my own ice cream when we are living in a sticks and bricks house (unfortunately the key component of our ice cream maker wouldn’t fit in Davista’s freezer), I am always on the lookout for new and different flavor combinations.   I do enjoy curry and lime paired in savory dinners, but was not sure how those flavors would come together when presented in an ice cream medium. Let’s just say it was no candy cap mushroom ice cream for sure, but was above passable. That said, I’m pretty sure I won’t be concocting my own wherever we next settle. Secret Brekkie, however, totally rocked and I’m already planning my take on the recipe.

Happily sated, we made our way to Ghirardelli Square to appease Keeper’s (and my) dark chocolate fixation. As we stepped out of the Ferry Terminal Building, Flight reminded me of one of our previous visits where we’d thought to hire a bike taxi up to Ghirardelli Square. The cyclist took one look at the five of us, minus several years of growth, and said, “Nope. I can’t get you there.” While outwardly chuckling at the memory, I fervently hoped that our kids would be more enthusiastic about the trek, especially one that included riding cable cars – and with the potential reward of a dark chocolate carrot.

We (Keeper and Flight) spent most of our (their) time in Ghirardelli engineering the best method to stack single-serving sized chocolate squares in a souvenir tin so as to maximize the number you could take home. Whenever I go to their Flagship Store, I am always curious to see what seasonal samples Ghirardelli will be handing out. Today’s taste was Pumpkin Caramel Spice, about which WoodSprite uttered this high praise, “Hey Momma, it’s SO GOOD! This is my favorite chocolate ever. Can we please, please, PLEASE get some of these?” It warmed my heart when Keeper then systematically asked everyone in the family which chocolates they preferred so he could be sure to include those in the tin’s inventory, and included several Pumpkin Caramel Spice for his youngest sister.

 

Before we departed the chocolate mecca, Firebolt was interested in watching how the chocolate was made and sidled up to the case where some variety of fruits and nuts bathed in chocolate was being poured. In reward for her curiosity and asking good questions about the process (chemistry class complete), Firebolt received a sizable sample, which she then shared with the rest of the family. I was just about sweet treated out and was eager to get away from the sugar factory and walk a little more.

 

As we ambled down Jefferson Street towards Fisherman’s Wharf, we passed a door labeled with the National Park Service emblem. “What’s this?” I wondered in a Jack Skellington sort of way and was similarly sucked into the retail space associated with the San Francisco Maritime Heritage Museum. I purchased one of the NPS stickers for my passport (yes, that’s actually a thing I first learned about in Yellowstone) and asked some questions about the museum across the street, namely whether or not there was a Junior Ranger Program for the girls to complete.

Before we stepped across the street, a lovely woman was at the register checking out. Apparently there was a deal where if you spent a certain amount of money, you were given a free gift, either an orca kite or a double-sided astronaut puzzle, options that are almost as hard to choose between as tarantulas and ponies. Because this woman had no children at home to spoil, she asked if our girls would like to be the recipients of said free gift. “Yes, please!” they replied in unison. When asked whether they would prefer the kite or the puzzle, Firebolt replied, “Puzzle” at the same time WoodSprite said, “Kite.”

Hoo boy. How’s this going to go down, I wondered…

The girls amazed me by talking it through and opted for the kite, which WoodSprite happily received and hugged closely to her chest, sporting a delighted grin. The woman behind the register said hopefully, “We can do two kites, if you’d like.” Obviously a little disappointed but working hard to be mature about this turn of events, Firebolt frankly said, “Well, I’d prefer the puzzle,” and, although I appreciated her honesty, I pulled her aside for a short discussion about being gracious and grateful for unexpected gifts. Just as we wrapped up our teaching moment, the cashier handed Firebolt an astronaut puzzle. “We can do two free gifts, just make sure you go across to the museum to check it out.”

Whoa! Although they didn’t really need any extra incentive as they were both eager to add another Junior Ranger Badge to their growing cache, we made a bee line for the museum which was approaching closing time. Understanding the time pressure, the girls moved briskly through the building, intent on achieving their mission. As we made our way from room to room, I was thrilled to learn how The City had grown (I’m a bit of a history nerd that way) from a haphazard collection of sea shanties to a “solid city of brick and stone” (Richard Henry Dana said just so in 1859).

Amazingly, most of the city’s acreage grew as a result of so many landfill operations, most notably turning Yerba Buena Cove, the original port and staging point for the Gold Rush, into the current downtown district. Periodically when renovation or other construction work has necessitated additional digging in this region, work crews have discovered random remnants of the cove’s previous life, including wholly preserved ship hulls, sleeping under San Francisco’s streets. Apparently it was easier to just fill in around any abandoned vessels than move them elsewhere.

Badges in hand after swearing in at the 11^th hour, we embarked on one more cable car ride, this time to Chinatown.

Early into our exploration of the area, Flight purchased a 3-yolk (Most Auspicious!) Moon Cake from one of the bakeries, to savor in honor of tomorrow’s Moon Festival.  As we walked along the streets and window shopped, occasionally going into some of the stores to explore, I was reminded of my brief day-long visit to Hong Kong many years ago where I saw a similar variety of shops packed even more cheek-to-jowl. Although Chinatown didn’t quite smell the same, which I attribute to finding fewer butchers’ shops per capita locally, the menus were eerily identical. And I couldn’t understand a single one, then or now.

Even with a modicum of exposure through Chinese Medicine pinyin, my grasp of Cantonese and Mandarin hardly even approaches basic understanding and the few words of English provided on the (see below) menus were meant (I think) to enlighten potential customers such as me. It did nothing of the sort. I’m not sure I know what Explosive Chili Peppers or Spicy Nummbing Kidney (not to be confused with Flaming Spicy Kidney, the next offering over) means exactly, but Firebolt’s expression captured my thoughts exactly.

Instead, we opted to go to Zachary’s for some more, wait for it, bread and cheese, this time of the Chicago Deep Dish Pizza variety. We all thoroughly enjoyed the dinner, if not the one off service, yet truthfully I was already salivating over tomorrow’s anticipated feast of justice awaiting us at Single Thread…

 

 

 

It’s a tough choice really… Upon our arrival in Alamo, Flight’s parents had reminded me that it was tarantula season in nearby Mt. Diablo State Park. They suggested an outing to check out the enormous, hideously hairy, burrow dwellers that were out and about in droves. In the recesses of my can’t-unsee-but-would-prefer-to-banish memory bank I recall seeing pictures of my niece and nephews from years ago holding same tarantulas (even the male spiders live more than a decade) against the backdrop of the Mt. Diablo. A closet arachnophobe (maybe my 8-year old self was scarred by this scene from my favorite movie?), I have the heebee jeebees even now as I type this.

Were I to be asked about touching tarantulas on purpose, “No, thank you,” would confidently escape my lips before the question’s second syllable was uttered. However, since I didn’t want to come between my children and a cool formative experience with their grandparents, I remained silent in the discourse. I deferred to the three who would potentially be picking up the wee beasties and posing with them for photo ops because I certainly wasn’t going to do it.  Unfortunately (?), our kids were also less than enthusiastic about such an undertaking and I could not want to try to talk them into going.

Sorry, Grammy and Papa, I just couldn’t.

After our Stanford tailgate, football game, and overnight on the Farm, we had a small window of opportunity for some girl-bonding time following a late lunch. I had intended to enjoy a lovely outing with our girls during this time, but instead made a debacle of the remainder of the afternoon.

Instead of stalking tarantulas, the girls and I opted to ride our bikes down the local trail to feed carrots to some of the neighbors’ ponies. Okay, so they were actually horses, but nominally downgrading the cute factor associated with our chosen activity doesn’t really change the story. Flight’s parents live along a lovely paved hiking/biking trail that runs for miles, connecting several of the nearby towns. Our agreed upon destination was maybe 1/17 of a mile down the trail, literally less than 100 steps away from Davista’s door.

After the horses gobbled up every last carrot the girls offered, I got an idea. An awful idea. I got a wonderful, awful idea. Encouraged by the girls’ enthusiasm to take their bikes out on the trail, I thought we could maybe ride a little farther down the path as I knew one of the houses along the trail boasted a menagerie of farm animal statues and would be a cool thing to see. Great plan, right? Unfortunately, I, um, neglected to get buy-in from either of my fellow riders before extending our excursion, which is what naval aviators would refer to as a “Below in headwork.”

That probably warrants some explanation…

While earning their wings of gold, naval aviators are graded on every aspect of a training flight, namely how well you: preflight the aircraft, can speak to the aircraft’s interconnected systems, brief the weather and its impact on choosing alternate airfields, complete your checklist items, execute any and all emergency procedures, and, of course, preflight, start, shut down, and post-flight the aircraft – and everything in between. Most critically assessed, however, is your ability to think things through while sitting in the hot seat. That overarching aspect of evaluation is called “headwork.”

When Flight and I were in our respective flight training pipelines back in the day, for each of these graded criteria you were awarded an “above (average),” an “average,” or a “below (average),” meaning you outperformed, were on par with, or deemed a total knucklehead when compared to your fellow aviators in training, respectively. Two “belows” on graded criteria in any one flight constituted an event failure or a “down,” which required a performance review board (or PRB = the opportunity for you to own your shortcomings before a host of flight instructors) and, if given the opportunity, an event refly. If you achieved two downed flights, you would be asked to find a new occupation instead of flying aircraft for the U.S. Navy. Ouch. If you chose a less than ideal alternate airfield, that wasn’t nearly as big a deal as not being able to effectively think things through, most especially in self-induced crises. Receiving a “below” in headwork was just plain bad juju.

And I earned mine today.

Selling the girls on biking over to feed the horses was one thing. Asking them to ride almost 34 times as far and uphill (both ways) appeared to go beyond the flexing capability of either sleep-deprived young lady, especially Firebolt since Flight had raised her seat higher than her confidence allowed and, lacking the proper tool, I had been unable to lower it. And I insisted she ride anyway. We’re only going to feed the horses, I had assured her.

Understandably (maybe?), upon being charged with riding further, Firebolt felt as though she had been hoodwinked and, far from tacitly accepting this change in plans, loudly complained with every pedal stroke that moved us farther down the trail and away from relaxing at Grammy and Papa’s. At one point she actually refused to cross the next road, even when I reassured her that the “farm” we were aiming for was most definitely on the next block. While I was starting to realize I had lost all street cred and thought I might never find said “farm”, I truly didn’t understand her misgivings about our quest – I mean who wouldn’t want to see Shawn the Sheep, right?

I finally managed to coax Firebolt across the street, at which point she subsequently flat out refused to move any further. Stubborn as they come, that one. No idea where she gets it… Fortuitously (?), Firebolt had dug in her heels steps away from one of the trail’s few water fountains. While Firebolt had been fighting against making any forward progress, WoodSprite’s accompanying whining harmony had been to the tune of being oh so very thirsty. I thus earned another “below” for today’s evolution, this one for failing to pre-flight and pack our provisions, which currently numbered zero. Not even sunscreen I noted with a glance to the cloudless sky. Crapitty crap, crap, crap.

WoodSprite dismounted and was helped to slake her thirst by none other than her exceptional big sister who held the bubbler valve for her while she gulped down some of the city’s best warm water. Frustrated with Firebolt’s recalcitrance (and my own inability to manage any “averages” on this event, let alone “aboves”) and well past my own tolerance for whining, I mumbled something to the effect of “I think it’s just up here, I’m going to check” and pushed forward on my bike to further investigate. I stopped only about 20 yards beyond the water fountain where the “farm” serenely awaited us, but that short separation was past the comfort level for the girls, neither of whom had heard my explanation for moving on, seemingly without them.

“At last – there it is!” I thought, much relieved, and gave thanks for having the target in sight. My gratitudes for having reached our destination were cut short, unexpectedly interrupted by caterwauling erupting from both girls as they each burst into tears. Firebolt’s angry tears were accompanied by an incredulous littany, “That’s IT?! THAT’s what we’ve come to see?! That’s not even a real farm. Those animals aren’t REAL! You didn’t say they weren’t REAL!” WoodSprite’s alarmed bawling, “Mommy, don’t leeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeave… Moooommmmeeeeeee!!!” was proclaimed in a panic, as she tried desperately to get back on her bike to catch me before my presumed escape.

Strong work, TACCO, strong work.

Disgusted at having been further bamboozled, Firebolt boycotted viewing the animal statues altogether. WoodSprite, after recovering from her perceived abandonment, did venture forth to check them out, but was similarly underwhelmed by our objective. She placidly communicated her disenchantment in one long, cool, assessing look that, with the candor of the very young, spoke volumes.

I heard her loud and clear, “Three Belows. Hey Momma – that’s a down.”

After a few painful moments taking in the “farm,” all of which I spent wondering just how I had gotten us here, we remounted our rides and unceremoniously cycled back to Grammy and Papa’s, hot, tear-stained, and eager to retreat to our own corners. Exceptional execution of intended girl-bonding evolution. I think, perhaps, holding tarantulas would have been less traumatic…