Almost Stranded -- Yachats, Oregon

I'm starting this post from The Village Bean, in Yachats, Oregon. The place is so easy-going that a toddler named Henry climbs up the single step into the kitchen to make friends with the barista. There are only three tables in this small, sea-foam painted room with an impressive array of fish decorations.  Boy and I occupy one table, laptops, books, cameras and coffee stealing all the space. Henry's family -- mother, father and grandma -- sit at the table behind me, and the remaining table to my left is empty except for a half-filled guest book. 

We camped on Clam Beach Tuesday night, at yet another mediocre campsite with outhouses that smelled (and looked) like they hadn't been cleaned in years.  Boy had wanted to spend the night on Mad River Beach, but I googled it (I need to stop googling things), discovered it was illegal to camp there, and told Boy no. 

"These aren't the kind of risks I feel comfortable taking." 

So we had our dinner picnic on the beach by our tent and talked about how we're managing this whole "traveling as a couple" business. 

"I get anxiety," I confessed to Boy as I scraped Pacific sand off of our Spanish cheese. "I want to be more spontaneous, but if I don't know where I'm sleeping, I get anxious. It seems like I have two choices in scenarios like this. I can either have everything planned and feel safe, or I can be spontaneous and feel unbelievably stressed. I mean, this is the reason I hitched through the Balkans. I wanted to practice being spontaneous, putting myself in stupid hard situations and just trusting that life would continue -- without me having to manhandle it. But I was miserable on that "adventure". And so was Tessa. Did you know that when we parted ways in Bratislava, she told me that the trip had been good for her because she was forced to learn how to deal with "stressy people"? I want to grow in this area... I want to be spontaneous and relaxed. But I don't know where my growth zone is. It seems like I'm always either in my comfort zone or in my trauma zone. And I... I didn't want this road trip with you to be like the trip with Tessa. I didn't want your final thoughts to be, "at least I know how to deal with stressy people." So that's why I want to use campsites... I'm sorry." 

I feel like such a disappointment. People read my blog or hear about my travels and assume that I'm the most easy-going, spontaneous person of all time ever. But I'm not. I'm the person who forces herself to do things that a) she's afraid of or b) are super hard. So if I'm traveling the world by myself or hitchhiking through Eastern Europe with a buddy, it's not because I like it or am good at it. It's because I'm afraid of it and want to explore that fear. 

And I feel like people are let down by me when they finally understand that I'm not the kind of person who lives like this because it's fun. I somehow feel like a fake... like they perceive this whole business as a giant game of charades. But... I'm not wearing a mask. I'm just living my fears. And I live like this because I hope that eventually, it'll make me a better person. No... not a better person. A more developed person. 

There was no sunset Tuesday night. But there was a kindred spirit (aka, dirty hippie) who slept with her three cats in a giant truck next to our campsite and kept asking, 

"You guys need anything? You sure? I have water. You need water?" 

"No, we're fine. Thanks so much." 

"You sure? I have water. And weed. I have weed!" 

"No, but thanks a lot." 

We left Clam Beach early on Wednesday morning, eager to see what the coast of Northern California had to offer. 

 

We crossed the border into Oregon around noon, found a place with a view for a picnic and then whiled away an hour walking along the beach.

My favorite part was the driftwood art. Arranged by the tide or built by the passersby. The bits and pieces of seaweed garden the waves cast upon the sand. Like the lovesick ocean is pining for the standoffish shore, and lays all its bouquets at its feet. 

Whenever there's a break in the magnificent, but view obstructing Redwood trees, Boy pulls over so we can take in the ocean together.  

I've now so closely associated gorgeous views with food, that my stomach grumbles every time we get out of the car.

I told Boy that if he found a secluded place where it was not posted, "No Camping," or "Day Use Only," we could stay there instead of finding a campsite. But all the areas Boy pointed out were right off the 101 with no privacy and not enough room to pitch a tent. If my leg wasn't in such delicate condition, it might have been possible to trek down the cliff and to the beach... but I'm more protective of my recovering knee than Boy is about his wrapped and covered wine bottles. So it looked like we could either find a campsite or sleep in the Geo Metro. With both of our backpacks, a medium sized cooler, a bag of books and Boy's two soccer balls. As my recovering knee was already swollen and throbbing from being cooped up in Cummerbund part of the day and from the long walk down to the driftwood beach, I said no.

Seems like I'm always saying no. 

I just couldn't fathom spending the night in Bundy.

So we went to the beach (our ninth attempt at a sunset), watched the gulls --

kicked around one of Boy's soccer balls --

-- and finally got our sunset.

En route to a nearby campsite, the gears started acting up so horribly that even my perpetually optimistic Boy began to worry. His right arm strained as he tried to force Bundy into first, his left foot pressing the clutch down to the floor. 

"We might need to see a mechanic before we get to Seattle... " I whispered in a night that suddenly seemed just a little bit darker without Boy's indomitable spirit filling the space.

Mrs. Peterson was pitched in no time, and we curled up in our sleeping bags and drifted off to sleep under the starless Oregon sky. 

The next morning, we glumly clamored into Bundy and clunked and jerked our way out of the campsite. 

"I think it's the clutch.... not the gears," Boy grunted as he forced Cummerbund into second. "It feels like a sponge. No resistance." 

As all of Yachats appears to be a dead zone for Boy's phone, I suggested we stop at The Village Bean and ask the barista where he/she'd recommend we go for auto repair. Another customer overheard Boy's query, and suggested we call John. 

John. 

Every town needs to have a John. 

John is a traveling mechanic who brings his truck full of tools to wherever you happen to be stranded. And then proceeds to make you less stranded. 

He drove up five minutes after we called him, heard our story, pumped the clutch and immediately exclaimed, "You have NO clutch!" 

"Yeah," Boy grimaced. "I know. I've been fighting it since Colorado." 

"Your clutch is going..." John stepped out of Bundy and peered under the bonnet. "Maybe... maybe if I tighten this screw, it'll give you more resistance. See how it's all the way at the end there?" 

"Yeah... "

"Okay... I think your clutch is gone, but that'll cost four hundred dollars to fix. Two hundred for the parts, two hundred for labor. And since we're all the way out on the edge of the world, I can't get parts today. I could probably have it done by tomorrow." 

"Oof..." Boy wheezed. 

"Oof..." I breathed. 

"But let's check that screw first, how's that? Let me run and get some tools -- usually I drive my big truck with all my tools, but I just finished taking the kids around..." 

"Oh, sorry to keep you from that," Boy apologized. 

"Nah, I was finished," John drawled. "I was just about to smoke a joint and do some fishing." 

"Well, sorry to keep you from that, too." 

So Boy and I waited at the Village Bean for John. I wrote and Boy read. We sipped our coffee and tried not to worry about the condition of our car. 

"If we're gonna be stranded," I reasoned, "there are much worse places to end up. I mean, we could have been stuck somewhere on Highway 50. Where there's nothing except sagebrush and yellow flowers... but here? We have the ocean, a fairly inexpensive campsite, a great cafe and a mechanic who seems really great." 

John returned, and Boy went to see if he could help.  I crossed my fingers, drank my coffee and told myself that four hundred dollars is not a big deal. 

Boy returned within minutes, delight spread across his face and a bounce in his step. 

"Tightening the screw worked. That's all it needed!" 

But when we tried to drive off an hour later (it was a very long coffee break), the car shifted just fine, but when Boy applied the gas...

Nothing. 

I put my face in my hands. 

"I was fine with being stranded until an hour ago. But I got so attached to this working." 

Boy called John. 

"I'll be there in just a few minutes." 

"It's shifting fine," Boy explained to John, "but it's not going anywhere." 

John took the driver's seat and sped away, no problem. 

"It's a whole new car now," he explained. "You need to lift up on the clutch all the way if you want to get anywhere." 

"Sorry to take you away from fishing," Boy apologized again. 

"Nah, I was finished," John drawled. "Was about to go to a graduation. Want some fish?" 

As we had no way of preparing John's fish, we didn't accept. But John did give us several rocks he'd picked up on the beach whilst fishing. 

Yes. Every town needs a John. 

"I think I am making some progress in my fear of spontaneity," I mused to Boy. "But it's a different kind of progress. I'm still -- as you know -- anxious about not knowing where I'm going to sleep, but I don't mind spending money as much as I used to. In the past, I'd put myself in unsafe situations because I was unwilling to spend fifteen dollars for a bed in a hostel. Or I'd stay in super toxic, unhealthy situations because I didn't know if I could afford to leave. But now? Money isn't as big of a deal as it used to be. Because I know-- I trust -- that I have the skills to support myself doing things that I love -- yoga, massage, working with kids -- and that it'll all be okay. If I run out of money and end up back in Grand Junction for the 17th time, it'll be okay. So for me, being okay to spend 26 dollars on a campsite instead of sleeping in a car on the side of the road is a big step. And I'm happier feeling safe in a campsite than I was being afraid and uncomfortable on the side of the road."