The Power of the Pen

JWise Thoughts

Notebooks

One might think I know enough about myself by now, considering I’m 59 years old and that most of my habits would be fixed; well, it turns out that I’m still learning. On our recent trip up the central coast of California, Caroline bought me a nice little notebook as she liked the motif of snail and flowers on the cover. From the 1980s through the early 2000s, on the rare occasion I did write, it was on paper. When I started blogging, I enjoyed having spell-checking at my fingertips, along with the added convenience of not having to transcribe my handwriting. In 2010, on a whitewater rafting trip down the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon, I picked up a half-dozen Moleskine-ruled notebooks as there was no possibility of having a computer with us on that epic journey.

Over the course of 19 days, disconnected from the grid, I filled those notebooks, and when I got home, I bypassed transcribing them onto the computer and instead wrote what amounted to a first draft of what would become a book on yet more paper. While parked at a number of coffee shops, I tried to flesh out what I’d jotted down in the canyon as the impressions were still flowing through me. Only after that did I transfer those handwritten pages to the computer. I failed to see any connection between the original note taking with what I ended up with: a book instead of a series of blog posts. I attributed what came out of that exercise to the monumental scope of the truly overwhelming environment.

In the intervening years, I’ve turned to writing on paper during other whitewater adventures that took us up into the Yukon, into the Balkans, or just for the convenience of having a paper notebook stuffed in Caroline’s purse while we walked for miles through some corner of Europe. Each time I practiced this craft of using pen and paper, I was blinded by the magnitude of the environmental intrusion of the place we were visiting. Until this last long holiday weekend.

Heading out the next morning after Caroline’s gift, I gave in to the idea that I’d leave my computer in the hotel room and take my new notebook instead. Keep in mind, when I sling my computer over my shoulder, I’m doing so with consideration that we’ll sit down somewhere with wifi or at least a table so I can start writing to capture the events of the day. How was it not glaringly obvious that I was limiting when I’d be able to write? With a borrowed pen from the Red House Cafe, where we had breakfast, I started writing even before we were seated. Waiting in line, I got busy. Once the cafe opened and we placed our orders, I continued to write without having to clear space for my computer. When later we arrived at the aquarium, I didn’t care about going to find a place to set things up, I asked Caroline for the notebook and the “borrowed” pen, and I just started writing when and where inspiration struck.

Why have I allowed myself to lose countless opportunities to write when the thoughts strike me? Sure, I’ve sent myself plenty of dictated emails while driving or asked Caroline to text me a message as I spoke my ideas and thoughts to her but the notebook offers me a different experience. There, on paper, standing next to the sea at sunrise, looking at my wife, I can write to my heart’s content instead of hoping to remember the moment so at breakfast; I can break out the computer trying to remember what was in my heart and mind.

This brief post should act as a reminder to me to let go of the computer and always count on pen and paper. Due to taking so many photos, I’ve grown too comfortable having the computer nearby to make a backup, even though I’ve not had a memory card fail in more than a decade. The computer, in some ways, has become a boat anchor and a habit that needs some reworking. I need to remember the adage regarding the power of the pen. In any case, I do love the action of putting pen to paper and concentrating my thoughts and inspirations at the moment they are occurring. So remember to always have a notebook at the ready with a couple of extra pens.

As William Makepeace Thackeray once said, “There are a thousand thoughts lying within a man that he does not know till he takes up a pen to write.”

In Love – All Day, Everyday!

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

Cambria, California

We easily remember transgressions, one-liners, and bad jokes but try to remember the crashing waves at dawn, a sunset of purple-orange gold, or the sound of a bird chirping as it glides over a river. Try to see in your mind’s eye the pelican’s wing flirting with the ocean, the smile of a best friend no longer part of the world, or the voice of someone who told you they loved you many years ago.

Cambria, California

It is only through words that any of these things live on and are able to be recalled and then shared with others.

Cambria, California

Writing is the exercise that all who claim to be human and have meaningful experiences should be practicing, else these precious moments are as easily lost as the last wave that crashed ashore and is now gone forever.

Cambria, California

Carving names and dedications on trees and benches, drawing them on rocks and walls, attaching locks to cables, bridges, and branches, we try to leave something that offers a kind of permanence that we or someone we’ve loved has been here.

Cambria, California

Leaving a symbol so that we might return someday and find it still there is full of hope that someone should stay in our hearts and memories well into the future. Maybe more of our lives should be spent practicing writing our stories in order to give a larger space to the meaning of the moments that inspire us to not forget those we’ve loved and the special places we’ve shared with them.

Cambria, California

To that end, I must share how I smile at Caroline standing at the cliff’s edge, looking over at me and the small amount of fog between us. She smiles at me and then returns to watching the sea. When pelicans pass by I know she’s taking mental note if they are flying in a V formation overhead or as a string following one another over the waves. My wife is certainly aware that as the morning sky brightens with hints of pink, blue, and a pale gray due to the late summer fog that’s rolling in, the sun crawling over the horizon will be making dramatic changes to the entire scene. To her left, waves have started to capture the first rays of direct sunlight; we are seconds away from seeing the sun for ourselves.

In the transition zone between night and day, there are a few others out here: some dog walkers, another photographer, and the surfers who were here before all of us. The waves grow larger in the advancing day, the fog thickens, and we must get going as nobody gets to linger forever.

Cambria, California

Just one more moment, one more walk to take a seat before the seas and gaze at all that must remain unknown. At night, we’ll do the same as we ponder the void and countless stars that will never warm our brief existence. Though we may never visit the bottom of the sea or a distant planet, storytellers have the ability to bring us places that remain out of reach for most people. When we write our own story, we have a reference point to revisit later in life. The adventures of our younger lives become the narrative of that long-forgotten self whose journey was possibly vastly different than that of the person approaching their sunset years.

Cambria, California

There may come a day we find ourselves sitting at a favorite place by the shore, missing the other who had shared our smiles, joy, and gaze of amazement as we dream of what adventures might still lay ahead. Look out there, out into the distance, and then try to pull it all within you. None of it will stay long as the next horizon beckons, but you should leave yourself and others these breadcrumbs of memories upon the page; one distant day, they might just bring delight to someone looking to remember their time at the seaside when they were lost in love and wonder.

Cambria, California

We must turn to writing in the same way we each care for our own physical health: by exercising. Just as the bird flies as a large part of its nature, humanity uses words for all that we do, and yet we most often simply satisfy ourselves with how we verbally express ourselves, even to the point of being oblivious of our own poverty of vocabulary. At my age, approaching a stage of late-life maturity, I still see the fledgling wordsmith trying to master the flight of narrative that might one day glide effortlessly as birds do over the ocean. The truth is that strength is an evolving asset that must be cultivated on a regular basis, or the skill will atrophy.

Cambria, California

I’ve learned over time that the same might be said about our ability to see and that far too many people are blind while their eyes are still perfectly functional; only their minds have taken their sight away. Truth and beauty may be subjective, but the desire to paint the world as unworthy or digging deep to find truth too demanding is the domain of the human returning to the animal or, worse, a kind of death. To be present, we must be alive and vibrant, riding in on waves and gliding into our potential but can the majority of us bring this idea or reflections to the page? Pride in driving a car, owning a home, and winning a game, are surrogates of distraction to knowing one’s self. When you write, you codify your thoughts and risk exposing that you possess a great inability to articulate thoughts deeper than the thickness of skin, able to tolerate the ridicule of yet being stupid. Writing makes you vulnerable; hence, the majority avoids it.

Cambria, California

But one day, you will be gone. Who might remain that could have enjoyed exploring the depths of the person they want to keep on remembering? What about children, great-grandchildren, or future relatives a couple of hundred years from now interested in looking into the history of their lineage? Who among us wouldn’t treasure the diary of a distant family member writing of their time, surviving in a world so vastly different than the one in which we find ourselves? Our age makes this capturing of fragments so simple, allowing me to sit here in front of the page exploring the brief experiences Caroline and I have so we may never need to sit alone after one of us takes permanent leave.

Cambria – All Day!

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

Cambria, California

After our intense 16-hour day yesterday, we skipped setting an alarm, but our internal clocks didn’t seem to appreciate the effort to sleep in as we woke shortly after 6:00 anyway. We looked out our hotel door over to the ocean and while there was plenty of light out there, the sun itself was yet to appear. The same might be said about us getting ourselves out on the other side of said door as we sat in the room reading and writing. At any moment, I’m certain one of us will take the initiative to shower and it’ll be in the middle of that when the sun barges through a window and has us feeling lazy.

Now aware that we might miss the greatest sunrise ever, I get to the adulting and get this ship of Wise underway. Because I know readers are looking for the smaller details, I’ll overshare by letting you know that just seconds prior, I had doffed my drawers and was heading to the shower when Caroline pulled her head up from her searching for English words related to weaving in her quest to translate some things for her friend Claudia and told me she was just about to do the same. Shooting her some side-stink eye, I turned around and put those still warm and slightly funky underwear back on because who wants to sit their bare ass on a hotel chair? I got back to writing. Later, when Caroline gets to editing this post, she’ll be wishing she’d let me go shower instead of adding this little tidbit regarding my musky nethers in need of washing being aired out here on these pages. Oh good, she’s already turning off the water right before I start in on describing my bowel movement.

Cambria, California

From my butthole, we head out for breakfast which is a short 1/2-mile walk north along the ocean. Yeah, I, too, am hoping my chocolate starfish, or the more politically correct Fudgy Seastar, does not become a theme for this beautiful day.

Caroline Wise knitting in Cambria, California

Breakfast at the Oceanpoint Ranch Canteen was finished, but our coffee was still hot, so why not sit a while, knit, read, write, and sip that coffee for a while longer? Our plan, or lack of a plan, with nothing etched in stone or even drawn in the shifting sands, was as amorphous as my occasionally missing maturity. We could drive up the coast attempting to find the one spot we’ve not been a dozen or more times before (not to imply we wouldn’t enjoy it all over like it was the first time), but sitting here in the cool 63-degree sea air (17c) with me writing and Caroline working on those socks using the yarn from our trip to Rügen, Germany, last year, also by the sea, it starts to feel like we should have a down day. Why not just stroll along the beach, grab more coffee, and return to the Moonstone Grill for lunch while incorporating more of this post-breakfast activity? That sounds perfect, and it’ll be just what we do.

Cambria, California

Across the street to the boardwalk and trail that we’ll follow to the north, further than we’ve ever traveled on this path. For unknown reasons, we never made it this far on our visit last year. Then again, I could be forgetting things, but to the best of our collective memories, this is our first time right here.

Cambria, California

How could we have missed this beach?

Caroline Wise in Cambria, California

We’ve traveled this 100-mile length of coast more times than most Californians ever will, and still we are enchanted by this opportunity to be here again and again regardless of the effort or cost. That we are still able to stumble upon places that we’d somehow missed might baffle us, but we explore them and the familiar sights like they were all found during our first visit here. It’s as though living in a desert prepares your senses with a kind of sterilization process to see the vibrancy in the verdant world where everything is new all over again.

Cambria, California

While we are not looking for jade here on Moonstone Beach, as we are looking for moonstones, of course, that doesn’t mean Caroline won’t pick up the nicer examples of some pretty jade and share them with me. Many years ago, we owned a rock tumbler and used it exactly zero times, and ultimately handed it off to Goodwill. Trying to find the balance between hoarding, collecting, and not getting to attached to things, we do our best to fight impulses to have it all, but as I just looked at new tumblers over on Amazon for only about $100 I can’t help but want to nudge Caroline into getting another one we can store in our closet unused for 5 or 10 years before giving it away too.

Cambria, California

Regarding this photo, I took no notes while out on the coast and so I’m in Phoenix right now trying to find what I’d like to say about it. On my headphones here at Starbucks, I’m listening to Max Richter’s On The Nature Of Daylight, looking for an emotional context to paint the right image, but even with some of the most beautiful music I can find to help inspire me after I’ve left a place, it’s not always easy to find meaningful words that might accompany a photo I found worthwhile to share but difficult to write about. Such is the nature of beauty.

Caroline Wise in Cambria, California

Went as far as we could before realizing that we could sprint around a corner and that if the tide came up, we could return by the road on our right-hand side. What you might not see with clarity is that Caroline is walking on pebbles instead of sand, rock hounds paradise over here and the place where she hopes to collect a solid half a dozen moonstones to take home with us.

Cambria, California

So there we were, all by ourselves, on a private beach of sorts due to the circumstances of nobody else being here, aside from lots of birds. Why no one else is here is a mystery; it’s Labor Day, a holiday, and there’s not a soul unless these feathered friends have souls. Is everyone else bolting home already? And was there ever an everyone else out here? Guilty admission time, yes, for photographic purposes I triggered this seagull blizzard that I’ll from here forward refer to as a “gullard.”

Cambria, California

There’s the matter of a lone surfer, but he’s out in the waves, seemingly content to float alone and enjoy the moment of solitude, not appearing to offer a care about riding the many waves that pass under him. I suppose the same might be said for us as we have an entire beach of sand, and Caroline even found a pink bucket, yet we are not building sand castles.

Cambria, California

It all looks so well laid out, somewhat permanent, really based on the ice plants behind the bleached driftwood, but the reality is that one storm will roll in and redesign everything. So the truth might be that we have been on part of this beach before, entering from the northern end, but on that visit, the configuration was so different that today, we recognize nothing other than the joy of being here.

Cambria, California

Not feeling like we’d walked enough, we continued right past the stairs that brought us down here and around another corner at what appeared to be the south end of how far we could go, but again, we could pass easily enough. Ah, there are stairs down there, so we can go back up the cliffside on those.

Cambria, California

Nope, that wasn’t going to work unless we were about to start entertaining a latent death wish due to the surf cutting between us and the other side where the stairs promised us a path to lunch. Maybe we could have gotten there, but a vertical cliff with what might be a precarious trail to some young bucks screamed at us who are full of age-instilled wisdom with brains that measure the rocks with jagged edges and consider our buoyancy factor determining that if we enter that rollicking water, there were hints of serious injury if not total annihilation.

Caroline Wise in Cambria, California

Are you sure that’s the best place to grab a seat to rinse your feet before putting those sandals back on?

Cambria, California

Finally, off our private beach walk and four miles later, we see that our path is going to take us right over to the Moonstone Grill for some seaside grub. How it became this late is one of those great unanswered questions, as it felt like we just left breakfast. Caroline insinuates that we’ve been lollygagging.

To celebrate such dawdling, Caroline raised a toast with a Manhattan and set in for an extended lunch of resting our feet and senses as just how much ocean can one take in at a time. From previous experience, we knew that no matter what we had for lunch, a dessert was going to be had, and it was the ice cream with hot Oregon berries because, oh yeah. After this indulgence, it was time for more sounds and visions of the sea, and that boardwalk across the street was beckoning.

Cambria, California

Caroline coined a new term today; feel free to Google it after I share it, as it simply never existed before today and will be published for the first time in history right here on this blog. The word, with a drum roll, is “pelicanado.” It describes the masses of pelicans that fly in to drop down to the sea where a bunch of other birds has gathered, as there must be a school of fish below that they are feasting on. As waves approach, the pelicans scramble out of the water (not always successfully), returning to the air but circling back around just to dive bomb right back to where they were feeding. Well, she’s right; it looks like a pelican tornado, a.k.a. pelicanado. Regarding my summation about the school of fish or if this was a social gathering, I willingly admit a total ignorance in the way of pelicaning.

Cambria, California

A young couple sitting at the seashore, they are us, we were them. There were others before them, and others will follow. For the moments we sit there, we are the first and only to see exactly what it is we are witnessing, and these times influence who we are beyond the minutes we’ll take up the bench and claim it as our own. Putting into words what we’ve taken in and shared with our minds and imaginations is as impossible as teasing apart the sand from the surf and sky, and yet we’ll sit there knowing that we are somehow in love with more than the person on our side.

Cambria, California

After walking the length of the beach, this is, in fact, the end, we headed over to some stairs away from the hot sand to find a bunch of benches, a pool, some massive barbecue facilities, and other amenities such as nice cool shady trees here at Shamel Park. A break was just what we needed.

Cambria, California

Somehow, it’s approaching 4:00 in the afternoon, and it feels as though we’ve done a bunch of nothing or, again, in Caroline’s parlance, we’ve been honing our lollygagging skills. Unable to do a thing while we sat doing nothing, we tried rubbing our two brain cells together to muster a plan and realized we needed coffee like pelican need fish. It was awful nice just remaining at our picnic table, planted under the cool canopy sheltering us from the now oppressive sun. The sea breeze wafts over us at a pleasant 72 degrees, and our only complaint might be that we can’t take some with us tomorrow when we point the car towards home. Realizing these perfect conditions, I don’t believe anyone could blame us for this momentary proclivity into zero action and total laziness.

Surfing in Cambria, California

Eyes are heavy by the time we reach our hotel, where the car is parked. We have two options for that coffee, with the second one closing in an hour; it’s the one we’re going to. It’s called the French Corner Bakery. On the way over, I called ahead to Robin’s International Restaurant, where we have a reservation for 8:00, to see if we can move it up to 6:00, no problem. We sit down for our coffees after meeting Justin, the guy behind the counter, and start a nice chat with him instead of doing much writing or knitting.

As the bakery is about to close, we only have to walk a short way across the street, and we’ll be at Robin’s. Our original dinner date was to ensure we’d be on hand for sunset, as we just love sunsets. So now we might miss our cherished moments as the sun dips below the horizon, but we’re practical enough to know that we can’t have it all. Then again, maybe dinner goes by quicker than anticipated and we’ll be back on the other side of Highway 1 before dark. This being our last night out, if we weren’t satisfied with things yet, this trip would have been for naught as you can’t capture perfection in the last hours of a multi-day trip.

Sunset in Cambria, California

Maybe we skipped dinner? Not a chance; we simply didn’t dilly-dally. We got down to business and felt that we’d just have to get back to the ocean for one of these moments of golden glistening ocean and warm orange sky.

Sunset in Cambria, California

Since when was one photo enough when 3 or 4 can better get the point across because choosing one was impossible?

Caroline Wise and John Wise in Cambria, California

Selfies of Caroline and me are obviously not as frequently shared as images of her because I’m the one behind the camera. At some point down the road this or last year, Caroline had said she didn’t feel we were taking enough so I’ve made the effort to get us to pose for these more often. To this end, I scrolled back through the blog this year; 17 pages with seven posts per page took quite a long time, as I’ve probably shared thousands of images this year for Mexico alone. Anyway, it looks like I’m fairly well represented on these pages, though I think I could share more photos of me with my hair out for the mad scientist look.

Sunset in Cambria, California

And this, as they say, is that. The end.

Aquarium, Coast, and Whales – All Day!

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

There was no sleeping in today; we were out at the first moment the sun peeked over the distant horizon. Golden light spilled into the sky, accompanied by a blinding streak of white slicing over Monterey Bay. Over in Germany, some of our family are spending this Sunday together for their annual September reunion. Over WhatsApp, they share smiling faces; we share a view of the rising sun over the Pacific.

Strangely, there are only about a dozen of us out here for the start of the day, well, us people, the pelicans, some seagulls, a few others, and a splashing seal putting on an acrobatics show. The sound of the surf and birds don’t appear to offer the local group of women exercising under the trees enough of a background, so they’ve brought a soundtrack the rest of us can listen to as we pass by. The same goes for some of the walkers and runners who somehow don’t think that they might be disturbing others who prefer to listen in on the natural environment.

We move away to find another beautiful spot under the riot of nature, unpolluted by the ugliness of our fellow humans. Once we’ve basked in the cleansing light of the sun but not yet burned to a crisp, we’ll need coffee to wash off the grime of disdain for the rude people around us. That’s right, we bathe in boiling coffee before trying to drown in it. And where does this ablution occur this morning? At the Red House Café on 19th and Lighthouse. Any ill will towards others that I might have gathered was temporarily kicked to the side as a father passed by with a baby and a toddler in a stroller and their dog in tow. The toddler excitedly announced to us and everybody in earshot that he’d just seen a fungus. That four-year-old boy was serious about how amazing the sight of a real live fungus was, and if that enthusiasm isn’t able to put a smile on someone’s face, nothing will. Not to imply that I’m not generally happy, but I cannot turn off my annoying trait of always paying attention to others, something at which Caroline is coolly adept.

The day had started to resemble yesterday as we were the first in line again and we found ourselves at the same table on the patio, only I order something different while Caroline opted for the yummy frittata again. Last year, when we first ate here, Caroline pointed out how unbelievable it was that we were now sitting here on the cafe’s sunlit porch while on our earlier visits to Pacific Grove, we wouldn’t have wanted to afford the place nor join the line. By the way, this patio and house is not where we ate breakfast; it was just a nice little bungalow on our way there.

Back to the similarities between days: we’ll walk away from the Red House Cafe after our breakfast for a return visit to the aquarium. I’m fairly sure, though, that it will be like visiting for the first time as all the swimming creatures in the cold seawater tanks will have reorganized themselves just for our time among them. Of course, I’ll be taking plenty of photos to prove this. Not that this matters, but I’d like to point out that I’m not, in fact, ignoring Caroline right now as I write these musings as she’s practicing her texting-fu chatting with her German bestie, Claudia. Not only are they communicating across the oceans as Claudia is somewhere in Europe, but my wife is smiling like a loon from time to time. The reason I can’t be sure about Claudia’s whereabouts is that she and her significant other seem to vacation as much as we do if not more. [Nobody we know vacations as much as we do, I reckon. – Caroline]

The parallel universe of coincidence again sees us walking the water’s edge to the aquarium. Is it the exact same time we are arriving for the 9:30 members-only opening, or is it slightly earlier or later?

Once inside, a glitch derails our move to the always-beckoning Kelp Forest, and instead, we are drawn to the Open Sea to experience the jellyfish all for ourselves. Not content to just have my photographs and potentially nonsensical blog posts, Caroline saw the opportunity to bring videos of the jellies home with her.

Was our time among the jellies two minutes, or was it a half-hour? It’s hard to tell now that we’ve learned that these gelatinous Medusozoas warp time with their tentacled ancient arm things. After more than 500 million years they’ve evolved to a level of sophistication that allows them to live in a timeless infinity, pulsing through an ocean traveling forever; that, or they lay in wait to sting a hapless human to death.

After our psychedelic jelly encounter, Caroline needed to maintain the visual intensity, and what other than laying down under a school of sardines could come close?

Try as I might, I cannot understand just why the hammerhead shark evolved with its eyes so far away from its body. What kind of wicked sensing system is in that crossbar that holds eyes that cannot possibly see what it’s about to eat? I should probably do a little bit of searching before making such assumptions, as it turns out that hammerheads have 360-degree vision thanks to their peculiarly shaped heads. Combine that kind of vision with the old ampullae of Lorenzini, and I’m growing increasingly certain that the ocean is stuffed chock full of aliens.

I’m noticing a trend with animals that sport some level of transparency, such as man-killing jellies. These predatory tunicates are able to swallow whole scuba divers who approach too closely. I know they don’t look that big, but that’s because we are looking at them through rearview mirrors, so we can see their immense size in such tight confines found here in the aquarium.

You could wager that I’m now fearful of searching for information about the brittle stars, and I don’t mean the ones from Hollywood. First of all, I came to see that this is not what I thought it was; it is a sea star of the Brisingida family, meaning it’s a predator (hopefully not like the one from the movie). Not your ordinary sea star, of course not; this one doesn’t just filter its meals from the current of water around it. According to an NOAA (National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration) article, “Their spines are covered in tiny claws which act as sort of a “starfish Velcro.” Using these claws, they snag all passing life (regardless of size, I’m speculating) and then pass their meal down to their mouths using tube feet.

Here you go; it turns out that Brisingida sea stars are related to brittle stars, and before I got to the NOAA article, I opened a page from Scientific American about how brittle stars see. This won’t be good, and spoiler alert, the details are about to be shared. I’ll paraphrase here, “Their arms are loosely coordinated by a nerve ring in the animal’s core, almost like eight co-joined monster animals with a mutual interest in where to go, what to eat, and making little monster stars.” And people have the audacity to complain about paying taxes when we are able to go to a restaurant, sleep in a cozy bed, and live on land in houses instead of in this underwater world of nightmares?

Time-warping hallucination-inducing jellies, people swallowing tunicates, and now these f&%#ing hagfish. Blind and toothless, they eat the dead, from the inside no less! Not enough horror for you? They are known to suffocate other fish that try eating them by the copious amounts of slimy mucus they are able to produce; we’re talking serious bucketload amounts of the stuff that clogs the gills of the fish, and if that’s not doing the trick, they can tie themselves into an overhand knot while in the fish creating more difficulties for the idiot fish that won’t be trying to snack on this creeper again, should it survive.

Right after we return to Phoenix, I want to find out if there’s a doctor performing hagfish stem cell therapy so I can be the first man on earth with a self-lubricating slime penis.

After our encounter with the self-lubricating seaworms snarfing on death, we were psychically contacted by the flamboyant cuttlefish to pay a return visit to the salmon snailfish. How did we miss this yesterday? Their bodies are semi-transparent, which does not portend good things, and what about those mesmerizing hypnotic eyes? Oops, too late! Caroline was the first to be put in a trance by the blue-silver eye that allowed the fish to communicate to her that, as a species, they do not like their scientific name of Careproctus, which was derived from Ancient Greek where κάρα or kara translates to face and πρωκτός or prōktos is translated as anus meaning they are Butthole Faces. I want to adopt one.

Are things weird enough for you yet? Do you see those chin fins? The salmon “asshole-head” snailfish uses them to look for food in the sand as it plants itself face first on the sea floor, see photo from yesterday. By the way, you might notice its eyes are now black; that’s because this “Po-Kopf” (German technical term) has met its match with a bigger asshole-head who is stealing its powers in order to crown me King Facia-prōktos.

See that crab? Salmon snailfish are known to use them as repositories for their eggs; yep, you read that right: the fish with butt face uses king crabs parasitically by installing its eggs in the crab gills, turning them into a mobile home/incubator for their offspring. Jesus, Caroline, what are we doing here in this house of horrors?

This is the point in the aquarium where all truths gleaned from any loose-lipped Perciformes will be erased using the kinetic color pulsing living embodiment of the “Neuralyzer” as seen in Men in Black (oh my god, John, just how hypocritical are you?). Obviously, it didn’t fully work on me, and I can only surmise that my good fortune in retaining the truth about the secret marine culture that uses us for its entertainment has been left partly intact due to our particular sequence of events whereby some strange chance I took notes prior to my mind-washing and didn’t trash the crazy stuff I wrote. Trust me, I thought twice about sharing what’s in my notebooks but this is what I found there.

No, seriously, where did the first two hours of the day go? We cannot leave the aquarium without a pilgrimage to the Kelp Forest, but getting there could be problematic as we suffer from “Needtoseeitallagainitis.”

Any number of things could distract us on our journey that must conclude with finding the exit. Oh, what’s this? It’s the old boilers used here when prior to the aquarium taking over, this was a sardine cannery. Funny how, in all the years of visiting Monterey, I think this is the first time I’ve ever photographed the old sardine processing equipment near the entry.

Well, sure, that is a kelp forest out there, but we’re looking for the one with that old familiar musical accompaniment that makes us all sentimental when we listen to it at home in the weeks and months between visits (MBA Kelp Forest Live Cam).

Ah yes, the soundtrack of Jaws starts its haunting throb as the shark approaches.

And with that, we have to bid adieu to another visit to one of our favorite places ever here at the great Monterey Bay Aquarium.

Obviously, we broke free of the aquarium, which is more than any of the fish can say (not that fish say a lot, as far as we know). Though a magic sardine whispered at us that Queen Elizabeth would die in four days, but come on, how could a sardine know that?

You can trust this isn’t just some more lollygagging for the sake of wasting time; we left our car at the motel as parking anywhere near the aquarium is difficult at best and an underwater horror story at worst. Regarding this never-before-seen view of the bay, by us anyway, there’s a small passage between the Hopkins Marine Station operated by Stanford University on the left and the aquarium on the right. The white sand beach is Cabrillo Beach and appears totally inaccessible to those of us on the wrong side of the fence, which is apparently anyone not working at the research facility.

We know we are inching towards the next exit, that of leaving Pacific Grove and the Monterey Bay area. Heavy hearts weigh on empty stomachs having us consider our lunch plans. Oh no, the Mexican joint we ate at yesterday doesn’t open for lunch on Sundays! Lucky us, I called ahead to the Borg that we’d be a bit late picking up our car as we were looking to have something to eat first, and our choice of grabbing a bite at Peppers was nixed; well, the mysterious voice on the other end commanded us to go to the Monarch Pub and Restaurant for some English grub. All of a sudden, the words of the sardine were haunting me like this was some kind of foreshadowing or were the butterflies trying to message us?

Klingeling! That’s the sound a German bike bell makes and has brought me around from my fits of hallucinatory madness, which propelled this writing. Now, back in reality, I’m here thinking of that wonderful post I wrote in Germany just last year that featured 23 images of bicycle bells and some thoughts about the process of aging. You should read it if for no other reason than to cleanse the mental palate of the things drawn out of my imagination, you might have endured in the paragraphs above.

It was 3:00 when we hit Highway 1, traveling south. We were well aware that we couldn’t afford the indulgence going down the coast that we took on our way up. With only 4 and 1/2 hours of daylight remaining to our still glorious day, we’ll be measured, discriminating, and intentional about where we choose to spend our precious time under the sun.

Knowing this limitation, we hadn’t planned on the heavy traffic with two complete stops at construction sites and a serious backup at the Bixby Bridge.

We were about to sail right past Big Sur, or so was my intention, before Caroline wailed about how beautiful the view of Point Sur was, so I quickly pulled over.

Did we even make it a few miles before the view had us pulling over again? Nope, this is looking behind us from the same pullout where I photographed Point Sur, but it is beautiful that way, too; I just had to include it. Now, we’ll hit the gas and get moving, as we have a long drive ahead of us before we pull into Cambria for the night.

Oh, this is nice, but so were the other stops along the way that I’m not including in this post because I’ve already included 42 photos, and that’s simply enough, along with being the answer to the Great Question.

How had it taken us 90 minutes to get this far? The Henry Miller Library is in Big Sur. We’re hardly crawling along at a snailfish pace, but the library is open which for us is surprising as we are typically on the wrong side of the clock for a visit. This can only mean we MUST stop.

For those who don’t know, Henry Miller is considered a literary innovator and has been said to be a major influence on the original generation of Beat writers. His works were banned in the United States for many years, likely due to the sexual content. When I was in my early 20s, I tried reading Tropic of Cancer and Sexus, and neither title gelled with me; they are now long gone. As I cannot deny his influence nor the respect I have for an author who inspires so many other writers, it was fitting that we’d take this opportunity to stop in and even support the place.

While I feel my interest in the Beats has passed, and I read On The Road by Jack Kerouac many years ago, I’d never read his book titled Dharma Bums, and so that was my title of choice today. We didn’t have a lot of time to make choices as we’d arrived shortly before they were closing. Caroline chose Straits: Beyond the Myth of Magellan about, you guessed it, Ferdinand Magellan. This is a beautiful little bookshop full of interesting titles for those interested in alternatives outside the mainstream books that are not typically carried by the dominant big box store.

Leaving the library and enjoying the art and grounds here next to Highway 1, a fully naked, bubbly young lady flutters by as if this might be how she goes about life every day. I keep my camera aimed at this old typewriter as I must control my creepy old man persona trying to escape.

Not 10 miles down the road, the massive view beckons, and we easily oblige, but it’s okay as we are getting close to the halfway point to Cambria at a mere 55ish miles down that way or so. Caroline had already gotten back in the car, and I was about to do the same when something caught my eye.

A spout of water is what flashed into my peripheral vision, and not two seconds later, a whale breached. Yelling at Caroline to jump back out, she was soon next to me. Not only did the two of us see the breach, but the crack that followed was amazing, too. The lens I was using is obviously not ideal for capturing whales more than 2,000 feet away from shore and maybe 150 feet below us, but that’s what I had. I took a lot more photos than this, as we witnessed several breaches in a row, but this was the best one. I also photographed them spouting, but from this distance, those plumes look like tiny, rather unspectacular white splashes.

We sat here a good while, waiting to see the pod surface again and hoping for more breaching, but it wasn’t on the menu of events that blew minds on this great day. Well out of sight, was a barking seal that likely wasn’t breaching. As we continued south, we saw more pods spouting in the distance, but taking photos of them didn’t work out; the memories were terrific enough.

Here we go stopping again as we saw more spouting. No seals within earshot, but we did see some pelicans and some old architectural thing. That’s the Big Creek Bridge built back in 1938, just a few miles north of Lucia Lodge, which is also about the halfway point between Pacific Grove and Cambria.

Now, on the next stop for even more whales and some excited Germans looking for wildlife. While the distant cetaceans spouted there would be no breaching, we left quite satisfied I hope the Germans were too.

There comes a point in time when, as daylight is slipping away, my mind goes to work on the geometry of what lies ahead, where we want to be, and the position of the sun in the sky. There’s no reason to be in a less-than-optimal place for sunset, so we have to pace ourselves; hence, this stop to sprawl before it all.

This photo is only here as a reminder that while traveling Highway 1, there is not only the ocean side of things. Not sure you can see it but there’s a house in the center of the image and something like an artists workshop cabin on the right.

This looks promising, but I think there’s better, so we keep going.

But not before I snap this perfect photo of Caroline smiling in the golden late day light on a curvy coastal road with a background of pampas grass, little fluffy clouds, the moon, and sea while wearing her Mayan motorcyclist t-shirt picked up from Taller Leñateros in San Cristobal, Mexico, earlier this year. What a life.

The last stop during daylight hours, as this is the place we’ll watch the sunset. It has vibes of “best spot” to me. We crawled under some barbed wire and stepped onto some crumbling coastline to find the position that would be just right for this curtain call.

We’re still about 20 minutes from Cambria and were not leaving this spot before that sun fully disappears from view. It is Sunday night, and not sure what restaurants will still be open after 8:00. We opt for a poor excuse for a Mexican place in San Simeon, but who cares when we’ve been feasting on all the wonderful sights found on another perfect day?

Monterey Bay Aquarium – All Day!

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

We missed the exact moment of sunrise because old, as in “the old people” we’ve become. That’s not altogether true, and if anyone is familiar with every word I’ve written here (which even I am not), you’d know that we do not sleep well on our first night out so we had some catching up to do. We still woke at 6:00, but silly me rolled out of bed and started prepping yesterday’s photos instead of taking myself to the shower right away. So Caroline ventured out our front door here at Borg’s Motel, hunting for an image that would open today’s post; this is that photo.

Why we haven’t stayed at the Borg before is a mystery. Maybe we just assumed it would be too pricey due to its oceanfront location? It looks like we’ll be here again before the year’s out, as I have my sights set on Monterey for a return visit, possibly around Christmas time, in order to maximize our aquarium membership.

Now, on to the exciting stuff, such as our walk to the Red House Cafe, as previous experience had us wanting to return. It doesn’t open till 8:00, but we remembered the long wait times of those who don’t arrive early. Twenty minutes before the hour, we are the first in line, but within a few minutes, there are more than a dozen of us waiting at the corner.

I’m carrying a new paper notebook this morning, and after nabbing a pen from a server before the cafe opened, I was able to start taking notes, a luxury I shouldn’t forget. Regarding the origins of my newest writing tool, we picked it up yesterday after Caroline was drawn to it, likely because of that big old snail on it. We were at the Phoenix Gift Shop below Nepenthe Restaurant in Big Sur, looking for eucalyptus soap and whatever else might catch our eye. A pen is what should have caught mine, but I honestly thought this notebook would go home with us without me ever placing a single mark in it. I was wrong.

Our orders were put in, with both of us opting for the Red House frittata. While we wait, we sip our coffees and enjoy the lemon water while Caroline is working on my next pair of socks with yarn from our trip to Rügen, Germany, and, obviously, I’m writing. All this while listening to nearby shorebirds and the clank of pots, pans, and dishes in the busy kitchen. The sun streams in on us here on the patio as Sinatra’s crooning voice wafts in over the speakers.

This was our after-breakfast morning dessert for the eyes, found while walking next to the Monterey Bay to the aquarium. While the views found here are familiar to us, they are not so familiar that we’ve grown weary of them and can easily pass without being distracted. For that reason, Caroline had suggested we walk through the neighborhood up from the shore so we’re not inclined to ogle things and arrive late for our early entry, a benefit for members.

We were about 15 minutes early for the 9:30 early opening and were not the first in line. I should have heeded that note on the aquarium’s website that said that this holiday weekend is one of the busiest for this seaside treasure. The line across from us over in the sun is general admission that doesn’t get started for another 45 minutes. When the doors open, we move quickly with proof of membership and identification through the entry, and before even reaching the Kelp Forest, always our first stop, the massive volume of water all around us is already tugging at Caroline’s tear ducts, pulling at the tenderest of her romantic emotions.

The big draw of this particular pilgrimage to the Holy Aquarium of St. Monterey is their new exhibit titled Into The Deep which just opened earlier this year. I want to admit some disappointment as the newest exhibit relies heavily on displays that depict the environment instead of offering the actual sea life, or so I thought. I understand the inherent expense associated with getting and maintaining living specimens out of the deep, but it was what I was expecting. The reliance on video makes sense when you consider that most people acquire the majority of their information from such sources and so I have to understand that this is what must resonate with them.

Once past that mixed media onslaught, we move into the living displays that have me thinking that I might have been too quick to judge.

There is little in the way of knowledge that might help me appreciate what is nearly incomprehensible for my senses to come to terms with when witnessing psychedelic lifeforms. After the fact, I might enjoy learning about their biology, habitat, and history as we know it, but initially, I just want to take them in, seeing them for the first time in much the same way as the person exploring the ocean’s depths encountered them.

Wonder easily springs from being on hand to see the unknown becoming seen and imagining what its form or purpose might mean. Then again, how could we ever really understand any of that when we cannot fathom what our own place here on a planet means? I’m not talking of those afraid of the unknown, uncertainty, and being alone; they must gravitate towards hard answers typically found in religion. I’m speaking of those who are interested in reality and their place in it, where their own freakish appearance is as peculiar as this comb jelly and possibly just as meaningful or meaningless.

On its way to hunting for food, the salmon snailfish looks like a candle flame as it presses its face into the sea floor, feeling for crustaceans using its fins on its chin. At times, I feel the arrogance of our human species as we see these creatures as lesser things, but what if we were to learn that in each of the lesser creatures, we find the embodiment of our gods? Would we be so cavalier about polluting their environment, allowing them to spoil once we’ve sacrificed their lives because we didn’t consume them in time, or treating them in some undignified way? By placing our idea of god in a distant invisible being, we are free to act irresponsibly as long as we walk a fine line determined by some doctrine or other, ask for forgiveness, or pray. In this way, everything, including people, are not much more than things that can be used as a means to an end as long as we accept that salvation is a part of this existence. In a sense, we have a license to be despicable while through our supposed intelligence, we do not have the means to reconcile this ugly contradiction of our somewhat grotesque existence.

Sealife does not practice religion, philosophy, law, or financial segregation, but what does that have to do with visiting an aquarium? While you might think I come to the aquarium with a mind primed to celebrate the experience, I cannot help but imagine that in their natural habitats, without the influence of man, most other life moves towards a kind of equilibrium regarding resources. Darwinism is certainly at work among all species, but it is the false constructs of a controlling and manipulating culture failing to use its supposed vast knowledge to build a more balanced use and distribution of resources not based on total annihilation that floats into my mind. This spiny crab, on the other hand, portends no hint that it is coming to take something from us; it does not flaunt violence, stupidity, or superiority. We, though, are able to bring an abundance of just that to almost every corner of our planet and each other.

The number of people here loudly exhibiting their television knowledge is a horror show in its own right. So many things are being compared to what they’ve seen on TV at some point or other. It is astonishing that so little is appreciated for its beauty, complexity, or how it inspires their curiosity, but how much it all relates to memories taken from what we used to call the Idiot Box. I’ve never watched Stranger Things, but I now know that some plurality of those here today is very familiar with something they are referring to called a Demogorgon, fuck my life.

Passing around a corner from the Into The Deep exhibit to the Tentacles exhibit (that is going away, according to some chatter I pick up here), we become better aware of just how uncomfortably packed the aquarium is. The first half hour of members, followed by the relatively slow trickling in of the unwashed horde, has to be cherished as in just a few more minutes of this, I’ll be looking to lunchtime when we take some time away.

Now, onto my bigger grump, the “urban trash” look paired with the abysmal ability to communicate with a vocabulary beyond that of a fifth grader. This is a cheese grater to my eyes and ears. What shithole of a pseudo-pretentious style emerging from a landfill did this zombie culture crawl out of, and how have they found the economic ability to be here putting their abhorrent natures on display? Did I get something wrong, and this aquarium is a cruel joke of nature that draws in the worst examples of humanity for the amusement of sealife allowing them to witness with their own eyes the dangers of evolution?

This hostility to my senses is likely unintentional on the part of those walking through here compared to my adolescent years when I put my belligerence on center stage because I hated others’ conformity. But this audible/visual hostility is an affront for no reason other than stupidity and its appearance as the fashion of the masses intended to squash my happiness. Fortunately, there are squid, octopus, jellyfish, my wife, and other life here at the aquarium that earn my appreciation for their ability to appear respectful and content to take in the better side of the spectacle all around them.

We’re about to get out of here but will need to return by 2:30 for our 3:00 date with a Behind The Scenes tour where, once again, the aquarium will be experienced at our speed. Not only will we have that, but tomorrow will also see our return early for the member entry and the calm of the first half hour as everyone else begins filtering in.

Tranquility returns as we bail out of the fish penitentiary and take a stroll over Lighthouse Avenue to Monarch Knits. While not one to mention every street nor really enjoy shopping, Lighthouse as a street name just sounds nice, and the yarn store we are going to means another new pair of socks for me.

Today’s choice of fingering weight yarn is from Hedgehog Fibres out of Iceland. It’s 90% Merino wool and 10% nylon, important for durability. The colorway is called Dragonfly, and as I’m noting these details, I’m left thinking I should have always been writing about these yarn details. We had to tend to this chore today as the yarn store is closed on Sunday.

Following a quick lunch at Peppers Mexicali Cafe, we were in need of a coffee, and PG Juice & Java, just around the corner, fit the bill and the caffeine fix. With coffee and a bag of yarn in hand, we aimed to reconnect with the Borg to leave an offering of yarn in the chamber we’d been assigned. Hopefully, someone calls me out for the hypocrisy of my lamenting of media references earlier while I’m doing exactly that with my nod to Star Trek.

With those necessities out of the way, we are afforded another walk along the ocean for our return to the aquarium. Still not tired of these spectacular views, but then how could one ever grow weary of gazing upon something or someone loved?

We arrived with plenty of time to spare before we headed to…Behind The Scenes. Yes, masks were mandatory as it appears that COVID-19 is transmissible to otters, so they are trying to keep any risk of infection from contaminating the areas where the general public is not allowed unaccompanied.

Unfortunately, our volunteer guide took ill, feeling faint early in our tour, and while staff tended to her needs, someone else picked up tour duties, and once again, we were off and exploring.

Sadly, this tour is turning out to be less than what we’d expected. Some 18 years ago in 2004, Caroline and I first experienced the tour we thought we were joining today; well, that one is long gone. Back then, we donned aprons and enjoyed a hands-on interaction where we participated and performed tasks that had us feeling like more than simple observers. Come on, guys, we can look at fish in tanks from the other side, too.

We explained to our guide how a volunteer from our group in 2004 was able to feed one of the sharks in this tank and that the group prepared food for the penguins. She had no interest in acknowledging that experience; she instead voiced her disbelief that such a thing was ever allowed here, implying our memories were unbelievable.

The guide did allow everyone to line up to feel the top of a jellyfish but, at the same time, was suggesting she was taking some small amount of risk on our behalf due to the slight bit of toxicity she might have to endure while holding the specimen. I’m feeling a bit defrauded.

True, the group walked through employee-only areas; we passed into a hallway of offices that were explained as being the fish and otter clinic, and the flow of seawater in and out of the tanks was explained to us. The tour ended here, and so did some small part of my respect for those who administer the operation; just kill this part of your offering that is half-hearted at best. Please remember, this is my perspective and not my wife’s; she’s pretty forgiving and likely fully enjoyed our time here. [Yes, I’m more forgiving, but I also couldn’t help feeling a bit disappointed. For example, I’m not sure if looking at the place where shipments are received was a worthwhile part of the tour. But there were interesting spots as well. All I can say is that we were incredibly fortunate to have been able to take the tour eons ago. – Caroline]

Shortly after 4:00, we were back on the main floor and lucky us, people had already started funneling out of the aquarium for their dinner plans.

Standing here next to my best friend, I’m the one who sees Caroline looking on with a magical delight in her gaze at every fish and animal. Often, she’s wearing a smile that expresses the same enthusiasm that exists in the innocence of a child. At other times, it’s a studied seriousness that has her following a detail that obviously captured her imagination. Still, it remains in the private domain of her experience unless she calls me to her side to share in viewing the pageantry.

Flashy, dull, colorful, active, or at the edge of perception regarding any movement at all, Caroline will take the time to allow her eyes to dance over the scene, waiting patiently to maybe understand a thing, or is she somehow recording the patterns for future reference? Oh, lucky day that we were here and found this scale-sided boring piddock clam out and awake. So what did it do to elicit this exclamation of good fortune? It was in full presentation, and while not visible to our eyes, it was likely filtering water and enjoying its dinner before the lights went out for the night. This clam has something in common with the plain old sand dollar as far as Caroline is concerned, as there is nothing too languid to not interest her. I’ve watched this 54-year-old woman sit down on the floor before a tank of sand dollars and nearly worship their majesty as they do their sand dollary thing while failing to attract a following like the mighty octopus that always draws a crowd.

I’d like to share with you that there’s one thing here above all others that enchants my sweet wife, who spends the entire day here in absolute glee, but I don’t believe that’s possible as after visiting the squid and marveling at their entrancing pigment parade of shifting colors and patterns, she’s just as joyous when watching the shimmering light reflecting off of sardines.

And if someone thought that something like a blobby sea cucumber that barely moves might be the thing she could just pass by taking on a kind of blasé attitude about it, they’d be wrong. Maybe they failed to consider its color, its surface texture, its shape, or the way shifting light glides over this creature.

When I first laid eyes on Caroline, I didn’t find her attractive or interesting, not to say she was like a cross between a sand dollar and a sea cucumber, but clearly, my opinion changed. Six months later, I fell in love with her following the most delicate of kisses she immediately transformed into an ultra-beauty that captured my heart and soul. Over the course of more than 30 years that we’ve been a pair, her romantic quotient (RQ) has only grown with her keen appreciation for aesthetic sensuality to become one of the greatest attractions she employs to increase the bond that pulls me closer to her. I think that this black oystercatcher is looking at me with that knowing smile of, “You got that right.”

As from the emerald waters, so from the Emerald Tablet, we learn the quote, “As above, so below.” Maybe the lowly fish understood its mirror image or, as Jacques Lacan wrote, its Mirror Stage and recognized it was also from a world above, propelling it to walk out upon the land. That fish is surmised to be the Tiktaalik. I try to imagine this fish, some 375 million years pulling itself out of its universe using its fins in order to meet its god in a world beyond its normal existence. It was then this kernel of primitive thought encoded in the DNA of creatures that told them to look up into the heavens in order to find their maker in the ethereal light that falls down upon this great mystery.

While this sheepshead fish is far from ugly, my last paragraph has me thinking about the differences between those creatures that try to ascend and those that take refuge in the deep below. Consider that many would consider deep sea fish ugly, even going so far as calling some the ugliest monsters imaginable. Our ideas of Satan and hell are from a nether world, and the zombies that terrorize popular dystopian nightmares crawl from out of the earth below. There’s an important bit of insight we can take from this analogy: life does not improve or find beauty when it is busy descending; it must leave the darkness, the depths, and its terrestrial existence to seek higher planes of self-realization or risk becoming a monster.

Next to the otter tank here at the aquarium, I’d say watching the octopuses [yes, that is the correct plural of octopus – Caroline] when they are active might be the next most popular activity, but why? While they are from the world below, they exhibit curiosity, they are mischievous and even exhibit a kind of craftiness. They are better examples of human qualities than many of the wanna-be monsters walking these corridors. Yes, my rhetoric verges on the harsh as I seemingly want to dismiss the masses as closer to troglodytes than real humans, but this is what haunts my nightmares and version of hell. It appears to me that humanity is accepting the descent into mediocrity, ignoring that only when reaching out do we discover exquisite new heights we once thought were beyond our grasp.

Jellyfish existed in our oceans more than 500 million years ago, sharks were swimming among them 450 million years ago, trees appeared about 370 million years ago, and then frogs started croaking 263 million years before the first humans stepped upon the land. Is our supposed free will to do as we please really the pinnacle of life? Somewhere else on this blog I’ve written that I want to believe that birds have a more significant existence than most any human aside from the wealthiest of us. Birds fly, walk, swim, sing, eat for free, sing some more, procreate, parent, and soar in the clouds and just above the waves before taking refuge in their simple but free homes they typically build themselves. We, on the other hand, have all the freedom we can afford, have no idea how to build a home, hope to practice procreation, eat according to how much we earn, and are allowed to walk, swim, or fly where others permit us to.

Maybe birds are not the only masters of a domain. Jellies float effortlessly in a perfect environment well suited to the area of the sea where their individual species thrive. Obviously, they are adept at accommodating change as they have been doing their thing free of bondage and ego for 500 million years. The dinosaurs weren’t so skilled in their flexibility to survive extinction, and I’m increasingly inclined to think we are collectively too stupid to survive our own successes. Yet, I’d bet a crypto coin that many people would think of the jellyfish as one of the lowliest of creatures on our planet.

Majestic with frills and lace fringe, the jelly tumbles through their universe with nary a care as it knows better than to concern itself with the problems of man. In a sense, the jelly is a god having lent us humans part of its extraordinary DNA so that we might take form some 498 million years after having learned what it would take for its species to survive almost everything else that at one time was alive and possibly thriving on our earth. And most would react with fear at the jelly approaching them in the ocean, afraid they’ll be stung and die, and so, in turn, would rather kill this elegant lifeform just as we try doing with sharks and wolves.

It seems that we are the most barbaric of species; we are the dangerous pandemic of death, we bring the pestilence of our very being to the world around us, and then we celebrate the idea that our mythical gods will save our souls. Our souls are monsters from the depths of an evolutionary experiment that might have only been allowed in order to witness the dumbest creatures ever rise out of the primordial ooze.

Don’t get me wrong, while I may decry the handling of our current place in the order of life at this time; I’m grateful for this opportunity to have been here and been able to consider the bizarre rarity that we even came into existence. Maybe the greatest gift of aquariums, coastal roads, forest trails, riverways, and flower gardens is that we might pause and consider the hows and whys we have been offered such experiences and then act as the rational, sentient beings we claim to be. So, big thanks to the life on display here this day that played a part in making me think about how I relate to them.

There’s this moment when we’re somewhere like Disneyland, and the park is going to close in an hour, where we want to rush over to our favorite rides for one more perfect moment. Should we ride Pirates of the Caribbean, It’s a Small World, or, had it not already closed, we’d sit in for yet one more rendition put on by the birds of the Tiki Room. Well, here at Monterey Bay Aquarium, it is the exact same thing when we want to go watch the octopus or jellyfish just one more time. We want to linger at the Kelp Forest watching the sway of sealife to an old familiar piece of music that’s been playing there for decades or come stand in front of the aquarium’s biggest window and wish all the inhabitants a good night.

The sardine. They made Cannery Row here in Monterey famous, in part due to John Steinbeck’s writing of this old town on the bay that was a key supplier of the canned fish. By the 1950s, the canneries had to shut down as the fishermen were no longer able to catch enough fish for processing. Then, in 2010 the largest cannery still in operation over in Prospect Harbor, Maine, had to shut down after 135 years of operation for the same reason. From the 1950s through the early 2000s, sardines started to recover, but then overfishing reared its ugly head again, and since 2006, the Pacific population of sardines has declined by an estimated 95%. While humans might complain about lost fishing jobs and consumers might be willing to pay higher prices for sardines, the sea lions, salmon, pelicans, dolphins, and whales that depend on healthy stocks don’t care about jobs or what wealthy people might pay for a food item they depend on. If we humans don’t wake up and start acting together, first admitting to our own shortsightedness and then our petulant greed, we might ultimately be responsible for destroying what was once abundant and incredibly beautiful.

If you are wondering what single-word superlatives might describe this day, there are none that could adequately convey the breadth of our experience. The photos and my musings will have to do the majority of the heavy lifting.

The California Coast – All Day!

JWise Photo of the Day, Travels

Ventura Harbor at sunrise in Ventura, California

Sunrise over Ventura Harbor and fond memories of a previous visit here that took us out to the Channel Islands with Caroline’s mother, Jutta. Somewhere nearby, we could hear the barking of seals, but we couldn’t find them before turning around for our first walk today by the surf. The light on the shore wasn’t ideal for photos, and we had plenty of other opportunities before the sun sets so we decided to go eat. Breakfast was up the street at a Black Bear Diner, just our speed with all the oldies, meaning the other gray-haired people and the soundtrack playing the hits from the late 50s through the mid-70s. As we were walking out the door, Perry Como started singing It’s Impossible, that’s how old all of us were at this joint. It’s kind of sad that I knew this song until I looked it up and saw that it came out in 1970.

Goleta San Marcos Rd Vista Point on Route 154 in Santa Barbara, California

Highway 154 out of Santa Barbara brings us into the Santa Ynez mountain range that we’ve visited many a time by now. On more than one occasion, we found ourselves up here at the historic Cold Springs Tavern for breakfast with different family members, including aunts and uncles, my daughter, and my mother-in-law. I took this photo at the Goleta San Marcos Road Vista Point.

We keep the windows open driving north, and the cool ocean air drifts in as the temperature fluctuates from the low 60s and, from time to time, hits nearly 80. Here on the inland segment of today’s drive, we are listening to Royksopp (Norwegian thing), Luna (Ukrainian thing), Mine (German thing), and a bit of Ethel Cain (Floridian thing) as vineyards dot a landscape between golden brown rolling hills. The smell of a skunk or two deeply penetrates the car, requiring windows to be opened wider. On the sad news front, the first potential yarn store in San Luis Obispo doesn’t open until 11:00, so we’ll have to skip that stop.

Robin's Restaurant in Cambria, California

On the approach to Cambria, where we’ll be staying in a couple of days, Caroline suggests we stop for an early lunch. I considered Lucia’s just 48 miles up the road, but if we drive slow, and we will, it could be nearly dinner time by the time we reach that spot on the coast, so Cambria it is. We’ve been here before, which can almost be said about everything we’ll be visiting today; here is Robin’s Restaurant. It was just last year, on May 1st, that we first sat down on their lovely garden patio to have lunch on our way to Pacific Grove, making today look like a replay of last year’s coastal adventure.

Caroline Wise at Ball & Skein Yarn Store in Cambria, California

Not wanting to risk that the Ball & Skein Yarn Store would be closed on Sunday or Labor Day Monday, we were going to have to yarn shop our guts out right here, right now. Caroline is only allowed to buy what she can carry, and while she could have easily carried more, her knowledge that she has precious little space at home to store more had her considering just how much she should walk out with. Hmm, thinking about this last bit I just wrote, I can’t risk my wife outing me, so the truth is that the two colorful skeins are destined to become socks for me and were of my choosing.

Shore Birds off Highway 1, California

I’ve been mentioning Highway 1 and should point out that it’s also referred to as the Cabrillo Highway; maybe this will help the search engine algorithms note this post. We are just 5 miles up the road from our lunch and shopping stops and are already pulling over across from the San Simeon Creek Campground at the sight of Birdapalooza happening right there on the beach. All the shore birds were here, species from near and far just co-mingling like this festival was some kind of hippy hangout of a bunch of naked birds from Big Sur. (The people of Big Sur will know just what this references.)

It was at this point that the photographer on this expedition realized the extent of his own stupidity when, KNOWING we’d be having wildlife experiences, he left his 70-200mm lens in Phoenix, Arizona, where it wouldn’t be zooming in on pelicans, seals, or, potentially, whales. Why was it with us? That’s already been answered; I’m an idiot, that’s why.

Highway 1, California

There’s a funny thought in my head when we aim for any coastal region, and that is we’ll be taking our time not to focus on photos, writing, or knitting but simply getting out in these gorgeous places to meander a bit. We’ll stroll the trail, walk the beach, hold hands, smile at one another, and gaze at all there is to take in on the preciously rare visits. Reality plays out differently from those naive expectations where idealized leisure should rule our day; we become anxious to see all and to see more. We want to discover that one corner, configuration of elements, or contrast of hues we’d never before witnessed. As though the sun bearing down was building an angle of repose using beauty in this construct created just for Caroline and me that would start cascading into an incomprehensible wash of such tremendous exquisiteness that our minds would be torn out of reality and cast into nirvana.

Caroline Wise and John Wise near San Simeon on Highway 1, California

And this would be the appearance of my hair after returning from nirvana.

San Simeon on Highway 1, California

There are seven little dots left-of-center in the sky; they are pelicans. Has it been that we have rarely traveled the coast during late summer that we’ve not been so aware of their presence as we will be during this 5-day jaunt, or are they always here, and we are distracted by the other trillion details that clamor for our attention?

Empty Elephant Seal beach in San Simeon on Highway 1, California

And then this! Now we know with certitude that this is the first time we’ve ever traveled this road in September. Why does an empty beach signify this? We are at the Elephant Seal Vista Point looking south; never before have we seen this sight without the presence of a colony spread far and wide across this protected stretch of beach.

San Simeon on Highway 1, California

We are still at the Elephant Seal Vista Point now heeding the advice of a sign near the entry of the parking area that pointed to a northerly section of the beach and said, “Best Viewing.” This affords us the opportunity to share this seldom photographed section of the space between the two beaches the colony occupies.

Elephant Seals in San Simeon on Highway 1, California

Sure enough, a small gathering of mostly adolescent seals was to be found over here. Thinking about it, I feel like I could have used any of the 100s of other images I’ve shot over the years to share here that would show a beach stuffed with these fat sea sausages lounging in the sun, tossing sand onto their baking sides, and grunting into position between other seals, vying for that perfect cozy spot that only an elephant seal can appreciate.

Highway 1, California

I just looked over to last year’s photo of the same location and saw that the sea was silver and that I was standing on the other side of the street. Part of me thinks that I should limit my efforts in writing this narrative by eliminating photos that are so similar to others I’ve posted, but then I might just remove every image included in this post and simply summarize our five days as “We visited the Big Sur coast again and went to the Monterey Bay Aquarium.”

Highway 1, California

We are witnessing the hand of time representing the universe that has crafted this one moment where sea, sky, and earth painted in blues, greens, silvers, tans, and browns (and uncountable colors in between) come together to shape a view that only eternities are able to create. We might capture the scene and even attempt to put words to the pictures, but we stand before nature, stupid and illiterate in comparison, while the unseen fish to the left, the birds above, and the plants that cling to life live in harmony with their environment. It’s sad that we humans, with our ability to understand what we do wrong, seem incapable of correcting our mistakes.

Highway 1, California

There is so much to smell, hear, and wonder about while standing at the edge of land. Everything else that isn’t here loses any importance. You are at a place that invites contemplation or nothing more than quiet appreciation. For a second, you are allowed to be a plant standing under the sun, oblivious to the trials and tribulations of a society that thrives on chaos, scarcity, fear, and uncertainty. If you are strong of character, you too might be able to find these places of turning away from the worst aspects of our inhumanity. Or maybe this type of solitude is too abrasive to the intensity you require to maintain the turmoil that propels you to keep racing down the highway of anger.

Highway 1, California

This pampas grass does not belong here; it is invasive. But it is beautiful as it captures the wind and offers a golden-red contrast to the blue sky and sea. Behind us are the mountains that make this coast so relatively difficult to visit, though we benefit from those who carved such a treacherous route here long before our arrival. Including the many pullouts along the road, we are allowed to crawl as slowly as we wish along this narrow trail hugging the coast, and from there, we step out of a car to stand before some of the greatest art nature has to offer, even if it’s out of place.

Highway 1, California

The color of the shallow waters begs us to know why we’ve ignored its glory for more than a year. How could we not return sooner to pay homage to such grandeur? Are the memories we carry with us over the past decades and many visits to this 100-mile stretch of America along the Pacific Ocean really so indelible that we can afford such distances between our returns? Absolutely not; we are failures for ignoring what burns so deeply in our imaginations, but time and money dictate that we are only allowed the share of life we can best afford; such is the equation of the present day.

Gorda on the Big Sur Coast of Highway 1 in California

Wouldn’t you think that where there’s a kelp forest, it would stretch for miles? It seemingly does not, at least from the appearance of this one whose canopy reaches the surface of the glistening ocean. If I was a fish deep below, maybe I’d wonder what it was like to be those plants that touch the edge of space and almost intrude upon another dimension.

Gorda on the Big Sur Coast of Highway 1 in California

It’s taken us more than 3 hours to drive the 35 miles (56km) from Cambria to Gorda; I believe we might be driving too fast. Then again, here at 3:30 in the afternoon, we only have about 4 hours before the sun sets and then maybe 30 minutes of civil twilight before the night sky descends upon us. Of the night sky, we have had more than a few opportunities to enjoy the sight of it right here in this area as the Treebones Resort is just up the road a tiny bit, where from a Bird’s Nest high above the ocean we looked out in astonishment that we were the only two humans on the entirety of the earth who were doing just that.

View from Seven Stairs along the Big Sur Coast on Highway 1, California

Once again, we stopped at the Seven Stairs pull-out. Last year there still was water flowing from a spring somewhere up the ravine. Today, it was dry as a bone, so instead, I present the view south from across the highway.

Highway 1, California

While I know this is not the view north from Seven Stairs, I’m not sure exactly where it is on the drive, and it really should stay that way because if we knew the exact layout of the coast, would it be so surprisingly new every time we are here?

Rain Rocks Rock Shed & Pitkins Curve Bridge near Lucia, California on Highway 1

Rain Rocks Rock Shed & Pitkins Curve Bridge south of Lucia is relatively new to our visits. It was already built when we visited last year in 2021, but in the 6-year gap where we didn’t drive Highway 1, this was one of the sites prone to frequent rock falls.

Highway 1, California

Writing of our 6-year gap in visits, we first visited the Pacific Coast together back in January 1991, and then after moving to the United States in 1995. It wasn’t until September 1996 and my mother-in-law Jutta’s first visit to the United States that we took her and ourselves up the coast. Old camera film without proper records betrays any idea of knowing much about dates or if even those old cameras were ever developed, so some trips out this way might be lost in the fog of time, but after a quick scouring of the blog posts, I have made I can share the following.

Highway 1, California

We visited all or some significant part of this section of the coast on these dates: October 2001, November 2001, January 2002, April 2002, May 2002, January 2004, October 2004, February 2005, May 2005, November 2005, December 2005, November 2006, January 2011, November 2011, December 2017, May 2021, and now again in September 2022. I linked those previous trips to the months they occurred.

Up until this moment of writing this post, I had no real idea of how many times Caroline and I have been so fortunate to visit the central California coast, but our photos say it’s no less than 19 times. Sure, if you live in the San Francisco area or Santa Barbara to San Luis Obispo, or even to the east over the coastal range, visiting the Cabrillo Highway (a.k.a. Highway 1, a.k.a. PCH) along the Pacific Ocean might be the most natural thing to do regularly, but we are just two normal schmoes living in a desert 650 miles (1,000km) away.

Highway 1, California

Good thing we didn’t wait for Lucia as the restaurant and gift store were mostly destroyed in a fire that shut it down last year; it’s in the process of being rebuilt, we hope.

Eucalyptus trees lining Highway 1, California

The dominant smell on the coast might be sea air, but it’s the eucalyptus that excites squeals of delight from us when we catch its fragrance as we continually pass through. Every visit to the central coast we’ve ever made it is the eucalyptus we dream of and will forever associate with this part of California. Jumping ahead in the afternoon, Caroline and I couldn’t find a sign of our favorite eucalyptus bar soap we first bought out here, nor did we have luck last year, so we started thinking that Big Sur Country Soap company might have ceased operations because last year we were unable to locate any either. Well, looking at this photo of the eucalyptus trees, I checked to see if there was still a web presence, and while the site was down, Bing search supplied me with a phone number to the company. Sheila, the founder of Big Sur Country Soap answered and assured me things are still going forward and will be sending out an order for me shortly.

Sun and silvery sea on Highway 1, California

At least on this day and countless others, actually, we have experienced untold perfection, and through my feeble attempts at conveying a hint of this with my writing and photographs, I can’t imagine anyone could gather a hint of just how exceptional our shared time has been. The little things like the scent of eucalyptus, a cloudless sky or one dotted with puffballs, the reflection of the sun in a blindingly bright strip of silver, a random butterfly, a barking seal, or a slight breeze that weaves all of these things together to bring them to us personally as we arrive at the right moment to experience it all in a way that no one has ever shared with someone else before. This is all ours because we bring ourselves into these places full of love and little expectation other than we’re certain that no matter the conditions, it will all be perfect for us.

Highway 1, California

If you look back on our many excursions up and down this wild coast, you’ll notice two things: rarely will you ever see others, and you might note that we’ve never visited Hearst Castle. You could have the impression that we are alone out here; well, that’s intentional for our memories as I make an effort to snap an image when no one else is in the frame. This way, I’ve captured how we see ourselves out in this landscape, just us and all the things that are most important. Regarding Hearst Castle, both of us have been to European castles and not even Versailles outside of Paris ($22) or Schönbrunn Palace in Vienna ($26), charge anywhere close to the almost $100 per person it costs to visit Hearst Castle.

View from Phoenix Gift Store at Nepenthe in Big Sur, California on Highway 1

We are at the only slightly lesser great view from below the famous Nepenthe Restaurant here in Big Sur, at the Phoenix Gift Store. After trying the restaurant one time many years ago and receiving rushed service for the food we found mediocre, we’ve never given it a second nod, not that we haven’t considered it if only for the view but the outpouring of elitism from the customers and some of the staff left a permanently poor impression. In my view, a picnic along the coast anywhere else, lunch in Cambria, or waiting until you reach Carmel or Monterey would be the better choice unless you need bragging rights and self-congratulatory selfies that show you’ve been to Nepenthe, the Icon.

Garrapata Beach in Big Sur, California

Garrapata Beach cannot be passed by, however. We must stop, although I was a bit worried due to Caroline’s healing foot that was just operated on 29 days earlier. But here we are, about to finish the last dozen or so steps before reaching the beach.

Caroline Wise and John Wise at Garrapata Beach in Big Sur, California

Considering that I pointed out our previous 18 visits to the coast, one could figure that I’ve shared this at least half a dozen times before, but I’ll state it again: this is one of our all-time favorite beaches. In the early years of our visits, there were never any other cars at the unmarked pull-out, and you could barely see the trail, but in the distance, you could just make out the partly broken stairs leading to the beach. We’d walk out to the loudest waves we’d ever heard as the sound bounced off the cliffs you see behind us in this photo. Not only that, they approach the shore out of the depths and quickly crash and retract with a respectable amount of obvious violence that warns you to be aware of these waters. Never have we seen someone in the surf here; nobody surfs Garrapata.

But here, on a late summer day, things seem pretty calm, relatively.

Garrapata Beach in Big Sur, California

This is something new to us that we’ve never seen before, and maybe for good reason. It’s a kind of cave, or maybe it’s more appropriately called a blowhole, created where the surf rushes in to carve out the underlying rock, leaving this opening in its ceiling. Looking for a better description, I came across only one mention of this “blowhole” at Garrapata in a news story that showed helicopter footage of deadly surf rushing into this space from “14-foot waves spaced 9 seconds apart” while they were trying to rescue an 18-year-old who fell in from above and disappeared into the whitewater. Yikes.

Garrapata Beach in Big Sur, California

I said there was a good reason we’ve not been in here: the shoreline at Garrapata is always being reshaped by the surf, and on this day, just as we were turning around from the south end of the beach I noticed this small opening that looked at first glance like a ledge, but it was the appearance of light beyond the opening that looked inexplicable. At first, I thought to just let it go, and we walked on but then considered that the next time we were here, that opening might be hidden by the shifting sands. So, we did what all knuckleheads would do: we crawled in and hoped there wouldn’t be some rogue wave crashing in through that narrow slot. It’s a good thing we knew nothing about the kid who died here back in 2019, as we would have never entered this place. All the same, it appears that we might now have posted the first photos from within the Garrapata blowhole.

Caroline Wise at Garrapata Beach in Big Sur, California

There are songs that tell the story about these being the days of our lives, and they don’t lie; these are those days.

Garrapata Beach in Big Sur, California

This drive has been one of the most stress-free journeys up or down the coast we’ve yet experienced. I attribute this to the fact that I’d decided to go as slow as I pleased, to not curse those crawling up our backside, and to pull over as soon as I saw anyone far behind that was likely going to rapidly close the gap. I don’t know if this strategy impacted the amount of time we spent on the coast, but I can share that we averaged just under 14mph for the 104 miles between Cambria and Pacific Grove. Of course, there were probably between 30 and 40 stops along the way that contributed to our speed of slow.

It was after sunset when we checked into Borg’s Motel at Lover’s Point in Pacific Grove, and we missed the moment the sun sunk below the horizon while driving through the forested area east of Carmel, but who cares, considering all that we’ve seen and experienced on this glorious day.

For dinner, we headed up the road into Monterey for a visit to the Wonju Korean restaurant, where we ate a couple of times last year. It was the same lady working everything by herself as during our previous visits and again, for being in a tourist town, it’s a good meal.

But now it’s 9:00, and we have to drag ourselves back to the Borg as we have to rise with tomorrow’s sunrise to keep the magic of vacation vibrating at the right frequency, that being perfection.