On a San Francisco Ferry

     The sky was windswept and the Ferry Terminal was tragically empty. Void of any workers, skippers, or passengers, the place seemed to dawn a particular sort of sadness, one only found in places that should, in their rightful state, be full of noise and bustle. I waited for the number 14 Ferry which would take me across the San Francisco bay, Southbound to the iconic Ferry Building. While I waited I buried myself in a pitiful state of limbo - I felt no compulsion to listen to music or read my book. I had no desire to buy a snack or print in my journal. The dry wind and the bland sky and the gray concrete seemed to dominate my entire persona for about an hour, then I heard the skipper blow the Ferry’s horn. 

     “That should be us!” yelled a man in an orange vest who stood patiently by a long metal gangway. He swung his arms back and forth rhythmically, toddling his full belt and dangling plastic name tag. 

     I quickly stood up and heaved my 40 lb Jansport external frame backpack and bounded across the empty square. My pack jostled and jumped as I began my climb up the steely ramp. The attendant in orange called after me, 

     “You hikin’?” 

     “Just traveling through” I called back to him.

     “Well, careful of all the people onboard, don’t want to knock anybody overboard today, eh?” 

     He finished his remark with a smirk and a chuckle to himself; he was downright amused and I soon realized why. I quickly saw that there were no other attendants, no passengers, not even a skipper onboard. The Ferry could have been operated by an Artificial Navigator and I would be none the wiser. 

     A significant uneasiness came over me as I scoured the upper deck for even a trace of a soul. I passed the hundreds of empty chairs and tables and stopped by a large porthole to look out into the bay. The sky had transformed as the evening sun began its daily ritual. An orange hue had replaced the gray, streaky clouds and harsh midday sun. The wind seemed to have died down and a pleasant breeze made a few trees in the port dance. 

     I was desperate to cleanse myself of this uneasy feeling. I traveled to a lower deck in search of people and eureka! A small minibar was nestled in the forward Starboard corner of the deck. A young, short woman stood behind the counter. Her face was hidden behind a long, angled slant of hair and it was obvious that she had no intention of making any daring sales pitches. Infact, as I walked to the bar, it seemed that she did not hear me. Not wanting to startle her, I began a painstaking process of making just enough noise to alert her to my presence, but not too much commotion as to completely scare her. I scuttled my hiking boots on the polished floor. I shifted my weight to swing the cords and zippers of my pack. I even coughed a very fake cough and cleared my throat in one last comedic effort to make myself known to her. Finally, I approached the bar and rested my hands by the register. Still, she did not raise her head from its steady position. I could see that she was listening to music. I brought out my debit card and gently tapped it on the counter. I tapped it again, this time a bit louder. Finally, having done what I could to avoid a deathly scare, I spoke up. 

     “Hello ma’am, sorry, I was hoping to buy a drink, if you wouldn't mind” 

     Instead of a drastic reaction or a frightened  jump, she simply looked up at me, took one earbud out, and with a half-hearted attempt at customer service asked me, 

      “What would you like?”  

      I quickly felt embarrassed by my long ordeal of spacial awareness. A suspicion in me arose that, perhaps, she had heard me coming from the moment I entered the lower deck. My theory was that she was simply waiting for an inexcusable order that she, in her position, could not ignore. Somebody walking and stifling and clearing their throat like a fool, however, can be ignored with the excuse that they have not directly asked for a use of your services. I quickly scanned the small menu and ordered a ginger beer. 

     I did not attempt to make any further conversation with her. The interaction seemed stale and, though I yearned for pleasantries, pleasantries seemed like the last thing this young woman wanted. I opened my ginger beer and found a booth by a porthole on the lowest deck of the Ferry. Within a few minutes, the Ferry let off a blast from its horn and it began moving out of the small harbor. 

     I heard laughter from one of the upper decks and soon a man and a woman clambered down the steep stairwell and came into view on the far side of the room. They were both dressed well and walked in sync like some couples do. The man was lanky and wore brown corduroy pants with a high-collared windbreaker. The woman, similarly tall, was dressed in tan khakis, a blue blouse, and a patterned peacoat. They stopped at a few portholes to observe the passing landscape. When they came within a few yards of me I asked them how their day was, and within seconds they were sitting at my table, each with a plastic cup half full of my ginger beer, brimming with questions and brightened eyes. 

     “So you’re really like, out on the road, with your thumb in the air?” The woman asked. 

     “Sometimes I make a sign but, yeah, that sums up my days pretty well” I responded. 

    They each asked about the details of my travels and about the thesis behind my pilgrimage. We covered lodging, clothing, hygiene, safety, first aid, and a myriad of other topics which inevitably arise when talking about hitchhiking. 

     They both sat on the opposite side of the table and leaned in towards me as they asked their questions. They were worried and excited for me and made their feelings known often. The woman, named Carole, was motherly towards me and I did my best to reassure her about my safety similarly to how I reassured my actual mother. The man, named Jason, was filled with questions about the cities I have been to and offered me keen advice about the cities I will pass through moving forward. Soon another man and woman approached the table. This couple was  Gerald and Sue, close friends of Jason and Carole. The group was traveling into the city to attend a baseball game and I was fortunate to have crossed their paths. Soon Gerald and Sue were filled in on my situation. Carole spoke about me like I was her son at Harvard. I asked the group about their livelihood, children, and lifestyles. 

                                                                Carol next to my pack 

     All four were Real Estate Agents and had all met at the same firm 40 years back. Gerald and Sue were married the year after they met, and Carole and Jason followed suit two years later. The group has been close friends ever since and travel often in and around San Francisco city. 

     Sue and I went to the Mini-bar to buy some refreshments. This time the girl behind the counter was slightly more receptive. I bought two cans of GingerAle and Sue bought two boxes of red wine. We came back to the table and within minutes we were laughing, jeering, and belching like family.

     Gerald and Jason told stories from their time at the firm; the pranks they would play on one another and the trouble they would self-prescribe. Sue and Carole told me details about their children and their endeavors. I spoke about my childhood, my homeschooling, and my faith. 

                                                          Gerald (Left) Jason (Right) 

     This group of 5 lit up the dreary Ferry Deck, and as the sun began to set the interior hanging lights of the ferry turned on, completing the cozy optics. This cast a gleaming warm light on everyone's faces as we continued to pour wine and soda. I stole a long glance out the window; we were passing Angel Island. Gerald schooled me on its rich and perverse history.  How it was a place of immigration; a resting place for many foreigners as they sought a new life for themselves. For over a century, instead of the Manhattan skyline and the great Lady Liberty, many immigrants seeking work and refuge in America were met by the Grand Golden Gate and a dozen small, wooden buildings on Angel Island. In 1942, Following the attack on Pearl Harbor, over 700 Japanese-Hawainn Immigrants were taken from the Pacific Islands and kept on Angel Island in America’s first Japanese-American Internment Camp, known as Fort Mcdowell.

Gerald had a deep voice; a professor's voice, one which commanded the attention of all within earshot. He was well-read on the history of the grand bay and continued to inform me about the convoluted history of the small, green island we passed.  

     I did not know this prior to this Ferry ride with Gerald and his crew. To me, Angel Island was simply a lush green hideaway on the North side of an angry, tattering bay. For a while, as we passed the island, we were protected from the brewing seas and subjected to a spectacular view of North San Francisco. 

     Our vessel had one stop. The skipper announced that we would soon be in the port of Sausalito. The two couples and I joked that there was no reason for the stop. The ship was empty and we expected it to stay that way on the seemingly slow weekend eve.

     We bumped the dock and lines were quickly fastened to the Stern and Bow by attendants onshore and the attendant onboard I had met earlier. I saw a horde of people all dressed brightly standing about on the dock. There seemed to be hundreds of them. 

      “We’d better make some room” chuckled Jason. 

      Once the gangway was laid down the crowd of people began to ebb and flow. A steady stream of sweaters and wool hats and colorful sports jackets flooded into the lower decks. Most of them were young. Many were seemingly well off. Nobody was alone. They traversed the ship's interior in groups of 4 or 5 or 6 and made no effort to quiet their conversations, jokes, and songs. 

     A warm buzz hung over the youthful crowd. It was as if the fairest of a fraternity retired early in the night and paid a courteous visit to a local restaurant; they were boisterous but not disrespectful; lively but not destructive. Each person carried a brown package with them. Some were smaller and in the shape of a cylinder. Some were massive crates that tipped haphazardly over their courier. I saw the name in purple font on the side of the boxes: Francino’s Winery and Brewery. 

     “They’re drunk!” Cried out Gerald, doing his best to be heard over the rising commotion. 

It was true. I took a moment to analyze the crowd as an entity as I saw that no one person was walking as they should. Each individual clung to another. Some stood valiantly and tried to care for their companions, but quickly fell into laughing fits over jokes that weren't all that funny. There were hundreds of people in their 20s wine drunk enclosed in a moving vessel and it presented me with perhaps one of the most unique optical experiences. My crew, who had resupplied the table with cold beers and another box of wine, were quick to jump into the party. 

     “What's your name?” Asked Sue. 

     “Where are y'all coming from?” Inquired Jason. 

     “There’s room enough at this table!” Offered Gerald 

     “You guys better not be driving after this” Chastised Carole. 

     Soon enough our table was crowded with 4 additional people. A Consultant from the upper-east side, A copywriter who resided in the tenderloin, A law student who was attending Berkley, and a business student who was attending Mills. 

      I managed to comprehend through slurred speech that the crowd of people had just come from an annual wine festival in Sausalito. The Festival was fairly exclusive and offered thousands of complimentary tastings. Because of the excessive amounts of alcohol, most of the attendants planned on relying on the Ferry and Transit system to deliver them home on that busy Friday night in the city.

      There was about an hour left in the journey and the energy had only increased. The buzz in the room had transformed to a fiery passion as groups broke out speakers and others began to open more bottles of Red. The poor girl behind the mini-bar was barraged by dozens of drunken college students in search of water, plastic cups, napkins, snacks, and the no-longer-existent supply of mixed drinks. 

     Each group that passed our table was drawn in for a short while and, if they understood any of my new friends, quickly learned that I was hitchhiking across America. The two couples I had met bragged about me to anyone and everyone. Toasts to strangers were made in the heat of the moment and I wouldn't be surprised if a few people pursued proposals that night. Bottles traveled through the crowd freely as dozens of corks fell to the ground. 

     If someone's cup was empty then it was a crime; a crime well tended to by anybody who held an open bottle or anybody who possessed a corkscrew.  

       My massive pack, which sat beside me, drew a crowd and I mesmerized many by unfurling my U.S Map and laying it flat on the table. The map was scored and marked according to my travels and it was signed that night by over a dozen strangers. I heard many, 

     “I have a so and so who lives in Idaho… here's their number”

     Or 

     “If you’re passing through Pleasantville, you have to see this waterfall”

     Or 

     “Oh, you’ll be in Seattle? You absolutely have to eat at…” 

I was given recommendations, accommodations, advice, and many other assertions on the Ferry that night. Some of which I wrote down, many of which I forgot, and most of which I left unpursued. 

      I was speaking with a day trader about Nancy Pelosi when a girl, no older than 25, crashed into me. I lifted her shoulders and tried to get her on her feet but to no avail. I took a look at her face and held her hand, all I could make out was “I’m so scared. I’m so scared”. I wasn’t certain where she came from nor did I see anybody who seemed to recognize her. I gave her a dented plastic cup of water and told her that everything would be ok. She rested against the wall and my right leg as I struggled to find her group. I asked her if she had taken anything and she stammered that she had, infact, taken about three bottles of wine. A girl and guy who looked similar in age to the drunken girl pushed their way through the crowd and helped the girl to her feet. Before I had a chance to speak to these people the girl who fell into my lap was whisked away as quickly as she came. She was lost in the crowd and I did not see her until an hour later, once we were off the Ferry. 

     Many more toasts were raised and songs sung. Like a blanket of tolerance, though, the ship went silent as drastically as it became a party. Many people dozed in their seats and a few even laid down on the floor - whether that can be blamed on the wine or seasickness or exhaustion, I do not know. I theorize that it was a combination of all three. The table behind us was out cold. Each man and woman had a baseball cap, scarf, or glove propped over their eyes. They rested into one another and it was a magnificently cozy sight to see. 

     As the Ferry began to approach the center of the City the last light of day was lost below the horizon. The only light was the glow that radiated from the city and the dimmed bulbs of the Ferry. The city skyline was a fine sight; a hopeful image for me as I prepared for a long night in an unexplored metropolis. A sleepful, peaceful attitude had taken over the inhabitants of the vessel. Within minutes we were docked and many groggy, grouchy folks began to stir and make their way down the ramp, into the Ferry building. 

A Photograph taken immediately after de-boarding

      I stayed aboard for a while to say goodbye to my merry crew. Carole, Gerald, Sue, and Jason all gave me intentional hugs and offered sincere, earnest words of encouragement and affection. They departed from me and I watched them go as I prepared my pack for departure. While I did so I saw the Skipper come to the lower deck and I engaged in a short conversation with him. He was an older gentleman with a well-trimmed, gray beard and intense sunken eyes; exactly the sort of fellow you’d expect to be a captain. Before I departed I asked him about the passenger count:

      “326 souls aboard, son, including yourself.”

      “Thank you, sir!” I said back to him. 

      “Well, now it’s about 3 souls on board. You’d best be on your way. Now, listen here-'' he stooped in and dawned a serious look “you be careful out there, alright? Lots of crazies out on the road”. 

       “I will, you have my word.” I said, then, in a foolish moment of attempted honor, I saluted the man as I stepped down the gangway. He saluted back and left me with a smile and a very intelligent, very sober conversation to think about. I heaved and secured my pack to my back and began to navigate my way through the city. On the subway clear to Oakland I saw little sleepy people with their hands around brown wine boxes. Some boxes were seemingly full of bottles, and others were practically empty. They were dispersed into the city and I suspect that many of them are still, charmingly, hung over.

 

Monterey Bay

I stood beneath a large canopy of Fir trees which blocked the midday sun and provided excellent shelter from an unusually windy afternoon. Gusts blew along the pacific and, combined with the surf, met the rocks and cliffs of Big Sur with absolute hostility. Tourists were pulled into various small, tucked away parking lots, and brave beach bums un-mounted boards from the roofs of their various vehicles and began towards the craggy shore. I  shuffled pine needles with my feet and made small, neat mounds next to my monstrosity of a pack, which was laid frame-first in the dirt. I keenly listened for the sound of an approaching car, which I often mistook for the whooshing of waves, and did my best to stick a sorry smile on my face and a sore thumb out towards the small, two-lane highway. Each car that passed me, though, only seemed to speed up or pull into a campsite parking lot. That is until I met Louis. 

     Louis picked me up towards the Northern end of Big Sur National Park. He drove a beaten minivan which was filled with musical equipment, boxes of food and camping supplies, and a weeks-worth of drive-through wrappers. He took a few moments to clear a space for me in the passenger seat, afterwards I hauled my pack into the already overcrowded backseat. I climbed into the cockpit, arranged my camera and cell phone, and shook the hand of the man who sat to my left. 

      “-Nice to meet you, Matthew. I’m Louis. Where are you headed?” 

     I responded with an answer which had already become my typical line. “North!”  

     Louis spoke in a slightly Canadian accent, bending and softening certain vowels, and it did not surprise me when he shared his eventual destination. 

     “I’m headed back to Toronto. I started my trip  down on the Baja Peninsula, surfed there for quite a while, and now I’m headed home.” 

     Louis shared his passions, hobbies, and interesting lifestyle which consists of copywriting for various companies in the Toronto area and long bouts of cross-country road-tripping. He told me about his ex-wife and child who died in the spring of last year. He was articulate and opinionated but also very curious and open-minded. He told me about a time when he and a close friend of his hitchhiked across Asia and became stranded on a small, uncharted island. 

     “Our guide,” he began, after pausing to recall, “Told us that he would be back in 3 days. He told us that we could catch the best waves in Indonesia on that island. When we got there, it was a lake.” 

     “Not a single wave?” I asked. 

     “Not one. There was one surprise, though!” He looked over from the driver's seat “The guide abandoned us.” Apparently, 5 days went by without a return boat in sight. Louis and his friend had only enough food and water for 3 days. They considered swimming in the direction of land. Then, on the 6th day, the skipper returned, only to deliver them to an ATM and drain their only funds at gunpoint. 

      “All things considered” Louis continued “We didn't mind being mugged, all we cared about was getting some food and water.” 

     Louis had many fascinating stories from his exotic life and as we plunged in and out of the various coves of Big Sur he told me many of them. We discussed politics, art, and parenthood; all themes brought into the conversation by Louis with intent and charisma. He was good company to me, and as we barrelled into downtown Monterey I was sad to depart from him. 

      Louis dropped me off at a stop sign 6 blocks from Cannery Row and the main boardwalk. The sun and sky was incredibly brilliant and I enjoyed a short stroll, downhill, towards the bustling beachside. 

     I took photographs of the vibrant flowers in the flowerbeds of many front yards even though I knew that they would turn out to be mediocre pictures. I stopped to read the various plaques dedicated to John Steinbeck and Ed Ricketts and the other literary and scientific giants which emerged from this particular corner of California. I found a small restaurant and ate a large plate of fresh tortillas and pinto beans and a heap of Carne Asada. I paid a visit to a market and restocked on water and granola, not long after washing up in the bathroom of the market. I passed a charming gallery that was half underground and was filled with many people, all of whom looked interesting, but I deemed my framed pack and disheveled demeanor to be too cumbersome amongst the blown glass and delicate paintings, so I continued on without stepping into the gallery. 

      I walked down Cannery Row and wanted to spend my precious bills on every donut, oyster, and grilled cheese I saw. I wanted, very badly, to stay in Monterey, but it was almost four o’clock in the afternoon, and I wanted to reach Santa Cruz before nightfall. I made a two-hour urban hike through 3 miles of snaking neighborhoods before reaching an onramp which put me on the very large, very crowded Highway 101. 

      Hitchhiking on such a busy freeway was certainly intimidating, but to my rueful surprise, a large rig hauling a camper pulled onto the shoulder almost immediately. I ran to the passenger seat and climbed into the large Ford F-250. The man in the driver's seat introduced himself as Andrew. Andrew looked to be in his late fifties and had worry marks and smile marks and wrinkles all over his arms and neck.    He was driving home from a day at the beach and felt compelled, ‘By the voice of God’ to pull over when he saw me. He told me about his wife and his addictions and his hobbies, all of which he explained with an impressive and articulate vocabulary. 

      “I want to tell you,” Andrew began after a methodical pause “I’ve been to heaven. I’ve seen the pearly gates and there isn't a thing prettier or a voice sweeter.” 

     Andrew told me, in vivid detail, about a concussion he had suffered two years prior. He spoke about a slippery floor and a sharp kitchen counter and a long, uncomfortable bout in a rundown hospital. 

     “In that moment,” He continued “I could feel the darkness grabbing at me- tearing at my clothes and limbs, ardently trying to pull me into the grave. Then-” He smiled, taking a moment to reflect or pray or perhaps both, “-the voice of God spoke to me. Christ spoke to me, Matthew, as clear as I’m speaking now, and he said ‘Not yet', and the darkness let me go, and then I awoke in a hospital bed and my wife was next to me, crying”

     Andrew teared up as he spoke and a tear escaped the sunken skin around his eyes and rolled down the right side of his boney cheek. He asked about my journey and asked If I write poetry. 

     “I try, though I am not very good” 

     “Well, you should keep trying,” he responded. 

     Ever since then, I have tried, consistently, to write poetry, no matter how awful it may be. 

     Andrew also asked me if I plan on writing a book about my hitchhiking trip. I explained that, while I may not write a book, I hope to write about many of the people I meet while traveling. 

     “Please write about me, Matthew. I want my story to be out there. I want the world to know that I have seen true darkness and true light. I want the world to know that I have seen God’s face” 

                                                                      Andrew, age 63

       Andrew prayed for me as I looked out at the fields of produce and the distant peaks above Carmel. The highway split into a Y and Andrew took a route into the small town of Castroville. Castroville rests in the crux of Interstate 1 and highway 156. I informed him that I was headed back to the 1, and he told me that I should walk through the small, dreary town and take in ‘The sights’. I did not argue. 

     He dropped me off in the parking lot of a Motel 6. I watched him maneuver his large rig and pull out onto the highway, back the way we came. The sun was beginning to set and turned the stucco surfaces of the businesses and houses around me to pure gold. The only thing between the town of Castroville and the Monterey shoreline was 2 miles of strawberry and lettuce fields and a large, unaesthetic petroleum plant. I began walking along the main street, trying to make it to the Northern onramp of highway 1. I stepped through overgrown lots filled with abandoned cars and spoke with a Latin barber on the steps of his small, empty shop. I bought 3 oranges from the back of a Toyota tacoma. The man who sold them to me did not speak English but was close to the kindest person I met throughout my entire trip-- his smile was radiant and he offered me the third orange for free. I soon traded weeds and gravel and split cement for the smooth pavement of the interstate. The sun was a perfect sphere and was only moments away from meeting the horizon. I thumbed frantically, hoping to get a ride before dark, and within a few minutes, I heard honking from behind me. A large white sprinter van was pulled onto the shoulder and I sprinted after it, praying the driver would wait for me. The driver did wait for me and emerged from the driver's side when I came within a few years of the van. He was young and well-built and had a kind look about him. I shook his hand and he introduced himself as Gavin. 

     The young man gave me a brief tour of his live-aboard van, which was decked out with a bed, sink, bathroom, bike rack, and plenty of storage. We sat in the cab for a short spell, chatting about our previous paths and our eventual destinations. Gavin has lived a nomadic lifestyle for over four years and was on his way to Seattle when he picked me up on the coast of California. Soon after the tour, I found a seat in the cab and we began driving. As the last light of day crept beneath the horizon Gavin and I talked about hitchhiking, biking, backpacking, and our various takes on many of the challenges which arise while on the road full-time. I had much to learn from this young man, and I did my best to ask him as many questions as possible. We drove for 35 minutes before he dropped me in the heart of Santa Cruz. We took a brief moment to exchange information before Gavin climbed back into his van and continued his own journey. 

                                                                        Gavin, age 33 

     I had my heart set on something which, at the time, seemed incomprehensibly wonderful: Taco Bell. After finding refuge in one for the better part of an hour I  began the arduous task of locating an inner-city camping spot. Santa Cruz took a dangerous turn after dark. The wholesome light of dusk was replaced by a starless, bleak night sky, and I was, for the first time on my trip, afraid. I held my knife and flashlight tightly as I navigated various homeless encampments along the banks of the Saint Lorenzo river which snakes down from the Sierra Azul mountain range and empties into the Monterey Bay. I crossed a footbridge and had no luck on the West side of town. The city of Santa Cruz reminded me of a much smaller Los Angeles. It was grim but also alluring in certain areas.   

      The town was, to me, oxymoronic: at the same red light, I witnessed two dodges revving their engines at one another and, in the same panoramic view, two gentlemen on bicycles, wearing knit sweaters, chatting about the waves they had caught early that morning. I passed an ice cream parlor with warm light and outdoor seating and parents who had toddlers running freely, shrieking with joy. A few minutes later I heard nearby gunshots. 

      There was a health market that advertised cheap produce and so I entered into it. It was cramped in the best way; filled to the brim with boxes and bags and packs of every nut, granola, grain, and fresh fruit a progressive cross-country cyclist could need. It was also exactly what I needed that night. The young man who worked behind the counter was fulfilling a difficult sudoku puzzle when I first entered. He was incredibly kind to me and we spoke for over 20 minutes about my trip and his aspirations of becoming a professional surfer. He chatted freely with the few customers who came into the store and called most of them by name. I cannot remember the name of that young man, but I doubt I will ever forget him. He discounted a jar of peanut butter for me and sent me back into the dark fray of the night with a few apples and a bottle of homebrewed kombucha. 

      Outside that same store, I met Garrett. Garrett was a local with a large beer belly and long, curly hair. He was curious about my pack and offered to walk with me along a neighborhood that runs parallel to what he described as ‘The Goonies’ or ‘our skid row’. 

      “You don’t want to walk through the goonies with a pack like that, man,” Garrett explained. “Cops stopped going there a while back. Only respond to murders and crap like that--I doubt you’d make it two blocks without getting mugged. I’ll show you the way I take it at night.” And he did. Garrett led me through 5 blocks of convoluted neighborhood streets, all the while educating me on the history of Santa Cruz. He was incredibly proud of his hometown but was also prone to outbursts of anger when the topic of homelessness, drug abuse, and the city council came up in discussion. We parted ways on Southview street and I continued, alone, back onto highway 1, which was perfectly deserted. I pitched my tent on the shoulder of Cambrillo Road, over Moore Creek. The occasional car would set my tent ablaze with light. I heard coyotes in the hills of the greenbelt nearby. The occasional siren or gunshot could also be heard, though it only took me a few minutes to fall into a deep, uninterrupted slumber.