1X Stories: F

The 1X is a mobile community that connects Pacific Grove with Monterey and the larger world. One of my “bus buddies” and I used to joke about creating a sitcom about the 1X, and he was seriously considering it. It would make a great story.

Anyway, I post little snippets of real life on the 1X on Twitter, and have thought about writing a longer piece. Another time.

F, a Mexican man with a huge, black moustache, is one of my favorite drivers. We’ve had some wonderful talks about topics ranging from the size of the waves on the bay to his years working in the fields to his seven children. Today, we talked about women.

If the bus is empty, as it was this morning, we can talk freely, and I work my way through the thicket of his thick accent to glean some wonderful comments. If the waves are dramatic, he says, “Neptune is angry!”

I look forward to seeing F on the weekends. It’s just a little bit of cross-cultural communication, a little bit of community, a little bit of life.

Flashback: Hitching to Santa Cruz

I am (mostly) a law-abiding citizen. However, once in a while, it becomes necessary to “bend the rules,” as they say. Since moving to California from Massachusetts a year ago, I have been without a car, which in some ways is great, and in some ways is not so great. For example, getting from Pacific Grove to Santa Cruz. This 45 minute drive takes 5 ½ hours on the bus.

I have fantasized about surfing since I was a kid, in the 1960s. I grew up on my older brother’s Beach Boys records, and longed for blissful, sunny days, mountainous waves and Endless Summers. I actually purchased a surfboard at a moving sale in Western Massachusetts a few years ago, but never christened it. It stands proudly in my Pacific Grove bedroom.

When I heard about the Cold Water Classic in Santa Cruz this past Saturday, my surfing genes were switched on. My transportation research indicated that in order to get to Santa Cruz by public transportation (local buses) it would take more than five hours. I’m a practical man, and, doing simple math led me to the stark conclusion that I would not have much time in Santa Cruz if I were to avail myself of public transport. Stoked by memories of hitchhiking in the heydays of the 70s, I packed warm clothing and food, and strode up Grove Acre Avenue. It was 10 am. I stuck out my thumb as one car passed. I cut up to another street with more traffic, and got a ride from a friendly young man in a beat-up pickup. He took me up near the highway, where I was picked up by a gruff mason, who proudly showed me photos of his sculptural fireplaces, fumbling in the back seat. So far, so good.

The mason deposited me by the ramp for the fabled Route 1, and I walked to the highway. I stood in the sun, admiring the surrounding hills and ocean view, arm extended in the traditional fashion, thumb stuck Heavenward in grim anticipation. After a while, a young Mexican guy picked me up. He mumbled something about the difficulty of getting rides on the highway. His English was a little creaky, and my Spanish is nil; we chatted a bit before he deposited me on a ramp in Marina, just north of Monterey. I stood in the sun, enjoying the day, for about a half hour. I looked up after fiddling with my phone, to see a car pulling up.

5-0. So, this was it. The cop was polite, asking questions, checking my ID. “Do you have a knife, sir?” and with that, he grabbed the front pockets of my chinos. I wanted to complain that we hardly knew each other, but my partially-intact memory reminded me that cops don’t generally find these jokes especially funny, and it was just better to play it straight. Apparently convinced that I wasn’t up to anything, he simply said, “I can’t have you walking along the highway,” and directed me to walk back to the ramp, and to the Marina Transit Plaza. After a series of calls, and advice from an old man walking his dog, I decided to hoof it to the plaza. I could get a bus up to Watsonville, where I could transfer to Santa Cruz.

The trip was pleasant enough, gliding by the black fields of “The Salad Bowl of the World,” sprinklers watering the horizon. I glanced at my watch, as the hours passed. It was already early afternoon. Things went relatively smoothly, and I got the bus (a different bus system) to Santa Cruz, my mind bursting with images of mountainous waves and daring surfers. And food. I popped some cashews into my mouth.

A nervous-sounding white guy on the SC bus indicated that I was pretty much screwed, as the buses in Salinas stopped running at 6. He complained bitterly about the frequent announcements indicating stops. “In the rest of the world, if a person is blind, they sit near the driver and ask for help.” I began to worry that I would be stranded. He suggested that the Denny’s was open all night. Great.

I didn’t get into Santa Cruz until almost 3:30. If you do the math, you will notice that my trip took 5 ½ hours. After talking to various people, I realized that I could not get a bus from downtown to Steamer Lane, where the surfing contest was being held. Further investigation revealed that it would take a half hour to walk to the beach, and I had an hour before I had to get the bus back to Watsonville. Again, my astute calculations indicated that I would not have time to get to the competition and back. I was hoping to contact a friend in SC, but was unable to reach him.

So, I wandered around Pacific Avenue, weaving in and out of hippies, burn-outs and street musicians, looking for liquid sustenance. Compared to the staid vibe in Monterey and Pacific Grove I have become accustomed to, Santa Cruz felt like another planet. Planet Cruz. One guy was wearing a T-shirt that pleaded to “Keep Santa Cruz Weird.” I had bought the bumper sticker last year, proudly displaying it in my Massachusetts psychotherapy office. I directed my footsteps to Lulu Carpenter’s at the Octagon, where I procured a delicious iced Americano. I joked to the barista that it was worth the trip. She smiled politely.

I actually asked around to see if anyone knew anyone who was driving back to Monterey that evening. I wended my way back to the bus, and, according to various people, the last bus from Salinas left for Monterey at 6, and I would not make it. To compound matters, it was getting dark. My mind conjured nightmarish fantasies of standing on a dark street in gang territory. My girlfriend informed me that this was “initiation time” for the gangs, during which new recruits go out and murder an innocent civilian to gain street cred. That would be me.

I got to Watsonville, feeling a tad anxious and depressed. An old Mexican man, wearing a Stetson-like hat, plaid shirt and suspenders, mumbled to himself, smiled broadly, and gesticulated as if he were picking something up off the ground with both hands. He repeated this gesture, smiling, and made some apparently incoherent small talk with a couple of the people near him, including a guy who just stared blankly at him. The old man made more movements, brushing his hands together, and holding his palms up, his whole face smiling. I had a flash that his repeated plucking gestures imitated the act of picking, and imagined he was driven mad by a lifetime of stooping over to pick artichokes in the hot valley sun.

The next driver checked his schedule and informed me that the last bus out of Salinas was at 6:45, not 6, and he was due to arrive at 6:40. “If I’m a minute late, I can call them to hold the bus.” I was hugely relieved. I chatted it up with a young student who lives on a sailboat in Moss Landing that her father gave her. We talked about the area, surfing (she grew up in SC) and her various exploits evading men who offered her rides, expecting “something” in return.

One of the other passengers was an elderly African-American woman wearing a bright red dress with gold decorations, a dark knit cap under a bright red lace shawl, topped off with a thin hospital blanket worn like a burka. She was wearing dirty light pink suede boots, and toted a cheap stroller with a plastic baby doll swathed in another hospital blanket, and other paraphernalia. She sat muttering to herself as everyone pretended not to notice. When she got off the bus, a guy near me said, “Where did that come from?” I wanted to respond that she was a human being, and deserved respect, but for some reason didn’t. I repeated it to myself a number of times, thinking that she was probably psychotic, and that it wasn’t her fault she was a bit odd.

Adding insult to injury, I learned that the last bus from Monterey to Pacific Grove had already left the plaza, so I would need to walk home from downtown Monterey. Not a tragedy, as I was accustomed to walking, but I was tired. I put on my jacket and walked the 75 minutes home.

It was disappointing to have missed the surfing, but I had told myself when I left the house that whatever happened, it would be an adventure. Which it was; not one perhaps worthy of a beat novel, but kind of entertaining nonetheless. I imagined, as the bus roared down the highway, that I would start my own bus service connecting Monterey with Santa Cruz. Why should an hour drive take more that 5 on the bus?

Sarah was relieved to see me alive, and I settled in to watch a movie and chow down on a frozen dinner and some ice cream. I realized that, indeed, it was the end of an era, and that if I wanted to get to Santa Cruz, I would have to make friends with surfers with cars. Or just watch the Cold Water Classic on YouTube, like the good citizen that I am.