The Taco Traveler

I was washing my yankee sheets (ropes to control the head sail, land-lubbers), rinsing the lines of their crusty salt to try to soften them for a long summer’s storage in the middle of San Carlos Bay, Sonora, Mexico, and I couldn’t get it out of my head – this uncomfortable feeling like I’d wronged someone, like somehow I’d done something bad. I was remorseful. It’s not the sort of feeling you want to leave Mexico with – they’ll see it at the border and might not let you back into the States without a back-room interview or two.

I’d posted a casual tweet, a #followfriday post to recommend a couple guys with way more followers than me who certainly don’t need my recommendation…. But for some reason I felt like saying something. Like a really stupid scientist throwing an acid and a base into the same tweet and being surprised when there’s a reaction, I took two guys I follow on Twitter, @shoq and @stephenkruiser, and doled out a rare #followfriday:

A #followfriday of contrasts: @Shoq and @stephenkruiser (though a Right-ish figure, however, SK is more personable than political)

It was innocent enough, and I wasn’t expecting any issues with it (who doesn’t like a mention here & there, no matter how many followers they have?), but @Shoq didn’t care much for the mashup:

@tacotraveler Kruiser is about as personable as a roadside I.E.D. Did that crank pay you to tweet my name with his?

There was a back-and-forth w/r/t what “personable” means, and I suppose I gave in and didn’t want to just come out and say, “dude, stop being a dick,” but I let it go. So there I sat, churning my headsail sheets with a winch handle in a five-gallon bucket of warm fresh water and laundry soap, watching yet another amazing sunset and sipping on what may be my last margarita in Mexico for a long time (okay, I’ve since poured one more and am considering a third), but just feeling emotionally shitty, generally. And I figured out what was bothering me so much about it: I felt like the guy with whom I share a side (or at least several posts) of the political fence, as it were, was just plain wrong about how he goes about it – how he navigates the political landscape. Our new president would agree, I'm sure, that making a vitriolic attack against a political opposite was no better than, say, Cheney, who (let’s face it) is a major dick.

I have no idea what Stephen Kruiser’s radio show is like. Does he stir things up, Rush-style, and make an ass of himself to appease an audience that might demand a bit of lefty hatred or they’ll stop tuning in? I don’t know, but I don’t intend to check, either. I've belonged to a country club and seen enough narrow-mindedness to satisfy me for all time - people like slot cars on a track with no criss-cross: they simply won't change lanes - not on an idea or opinion, no matter how small or large or how unreasonable their position. But when it comes to Stephen Kruiser, the only persona I care about – the only one I interact with (as much as you can interact, as one of 80k followers) – is the one on Twitter. That persona seems like a nice guy, and I can't say I'd really like to discuss politics in 140 character snippets. Politics, for me, requires many more words (and usually a lot of alcohol) if feelings and friendships are to be preserved.

Shortly before my #followfriday post, I was introduced on Twitter (accidentally, via a @Shoq post criticizing a different guy on Twitter) to an entirely different sort of conservative. Someone who, when I looked through his posts, referred once to Obama as “Barry” and in many other posts was just a jerk. “Barry,” I suppose is no more disrespectful than calling our previous president “George,” but the way he said it made him sound like an asshole – like someone seeking the tiniest edge, like someone looking for anything that will annoy the left and ingratiate themselves to the right. I don’t have anything against conservatives unless they get preachy or personal, and I guess it’s fair to say that I have nothing against liberals, either, unless they get personal. Why hate someone for what they believe? My seven and six-year-old know better.

My politics? I’ve been all over the place. After high-school and early in college I suppose I was in a sort of “be like my dad” state of being, where finally getting to live with and spend a lot of time with a father who I'd seen only on holidays and summer trips for much of my adolescence was reason enough for me to adopt his politics and be as much like him as possible. I don’t know – I’m probably stretching, but it’s fair to say that I really looked up to Michael J. Fox as Alex P. Keaton, and like most of those guys I went to a lot of frat parties (never pledged) and started college as a Business major.

Then, in 1989 or so, I discovered a bit of a reader and writer in me and fell into the English crowd at San Diego State. I started hanging with hipsters (hipster-esque as they could be well past the Kero-wacky fifties). I edited a literary magazine. I may or may not have smoked a lot of pot and I may or may not have smoked some of that pot with a professor or two. Basically, influenced by the crowd I liked being with, I adopted the politics of that crowd. That continued into graduate school, where, as a grad TA and English master’s student I became, um... the professor.

In 1996 my grades and my ambition turned me from the scholar route (I’m a pseudo-scholar), and I started working as a contractor at Microsoft. I think I steadily moved more towards the political center as my income rose and the cool-factor of English-major liberalism started to wear off. I started my own consulting business and saw more than six figures (pre-Y2K, when six figures was still pretty sweet), but even then I didn’t have a problem sharing with my government as long as the money seemed well-spent. I drove a red Jeep. I snowboarded. I climbed a couple times a week at a rock-climbing gym. And I dated a lot. I was a well-monied single guy and life was good.

And where am I now? Well, after marriage, two brilliant and beautiful kids, divorce, unemployment... transience, I’m not much different than I was after grad school. I love “This American Life” and “Radio Lab” on NPR. I believe that art, music and writing should be required at every level of school, and that no life could possibly be full without some sort of self-examination in an artistic context. I listen to pop, hip-hop, electronica, the occasional metal, world music, “Adult Alternative,” and I have five versions of Bach’s “Cello Suites” played by five different cellists (if musical eclecticity (eclectic-ness?) says anything about politics). I voted for Obama and I teared up several times on election night (mostly when overt and uncontrollable happiness was displayed on screen, like a Malia / Sasha grin, but if you know me you know that I tear up easily). I don’t believe – either actually or conceptually – in a knowing, caring or vengeful God, but I believe that if there’s a force in the universe that gives a rat’s ass, it would care more that you’re nice than that you worshiped it every week. So yeah, I’m still a liberal. But the most important feature of “Where I Am Now,” as far as I'm concerned, would be my knowing I’m a part of the process – part of the community of ideas – and not the one and only solution. For me it’s about being a good person and letting other good people be good in their own way. And if they're not good, not friendly, not reasonable in their arguments or respectful while conducting their arguments, then move on. Maybe even unfollow. I guess what it comes down to is this: I just wish people wouldn't be dicks.

TT

I'm at anchor in deep water again, with lots of wind, so the anchoring thing could be better. I think this must also be the small black biting bug capital of Sonora. I keep telling 'em if they mess with me one more time, they're gonna pay, and they keep paying. Silly bugs.

Went to a good cafe yesterday and got caught up on all the work email I've missed in the last week and a half since my comp died. I'm sort of excited by the prospect of being so in-touch again, like the isolation of only random Internet - and even fewer friends - is getting to me. I've been frustrated lately with the class of cruiser around here and it only goes to show how truly lucky I was to run into my friends Shiloh and Sailfisher. After the dorado, I made a morning VHF announcement in the Agua Verde anchorage "to the fleet" offering fresh-caught dorado to anyone who would like any. No responses; not even a "thanks for asking." Same thing last night in the San Carlos anchorage. I suppose they don't know me, and don't know that I've taken good care of the fish since I filleted it, but still.... And this morning, after tying up my dinghy I was walking up the dock and saw a couple tying their boat to the dock near the boat ramp. I asked, "Are you going to Marina Seca?" They said yes. I said, "Oh, so this is where you haul out." I'd been looking for the ramp, expecting something bigger; this is just a standard ramp like you'd see in the States for launching your ski boat. Thirty minutes later, after getting a coffee and checking some mail, I went back out to watch the process, to make sure I knew what I'd need to do. I'm ten feet behind this lady, and I hear her say to a friend: "And he walks up the dock and says, 'Oh, this is where you haul out for Marina Seca. I'm hauling out later today.'" And she had this exasperated look on her face. I can't even imagine what I said that so bothered her. Maybe she was amazed that I was hauling out today but hadn't already researched the haul-out location. I don't know. She's one of the cruiser-types I hate around here. The traditional "Ugly American" in a cruiser outfit: floral print cheap tank-top blouse thing, khakis, Tevas. Overweight. I said to them, still standing ten feet behind: "That was me." She turned, half-shocked, embarrased, wondering what I heard and if I saw her expression, I'm sure. I just smiled.

A few minutes later she came over and started explaining all the very obvious things they were doing, just making small-talk to make up for her faux-pas. I played along, but I won't be inviting her over to my boat when we drop them back in the water next season.

So, teleconference in 30 mins, then back to the boat for more prep. I got the sails down in this morning's calm, but will need to find some water to give everything a good rinse before the haul to the storage yard, which is a mile inland. I'll get on a bus to Phoenix Thursday night to arrive Friday early morning, then to the airport where I'll wait for several hours for a plane to Seattle.

Two weeks in Seattle, and then to Florida with the boys for three weeks, then to a friend's wedding in Colorado, then to Seattle again till mid-August. The boys will be flying up to be with me in Seattle for the last couple weeks of July and the first week of August, then I'll fly back with them to Florida and then who knows.... In short, I'll still be The Taco Traveler. Just fewer tacos for a while. Well, fewer cheap, authentic tacos. To be honest, I like Rubios and Tacos Del Mar better than anything I've had in Mexico, anyway.

TT

This content is copyright Sean Anderson 2007-2010, reprinted via site feed. Original content at http://www.tacotraveler.com.

It's been a ridiculous amount of time since I've posted. I've been meaning to write about a few things for a while, but you know... when I'm not sailing it seems I have so much to do, and so little I feel anyone would be interested in reading about. But despite that, here's a little story about what happened after I finally got to San Diego.
 
As you know from my last blog, on Sunday (11/18) I came into San Diego Harbor and anchored, but you can't anchor anywhere in San Diego Harbor without an "Anchoring Permit" which you have to get in advance, or from the San Diego Harbor Police office, and the Harbor Police office is of course, 8-6 (or something like that, anyway they were closed at 11:30 on Sunday night). A little background; at many marinas I've been to, both in the Seattle area and in San Francisco, they have someone monitoring the VHF or answering the phone all night long. There's always a marina employee or a security guard to tell you where you can tie up temporarily until you can get a more permanent slip when the office opens. But in San Diego, there don't seem to be any such provisions. Even at the San Diego Marriott Marina, which is really nice and you'd think there would always be someone ready to take in a boat willing to pay $90 for a single night's stay at their dock, they close at 5pm.

So, with no marinas answering and seemingly nowhere to go, I anchored just off Harbor Island and went below, logged on and discovered a web site that said you could get a slip at the Harbor Police dock for a limited amount of time. With so many cruisers already bound for Mexico after the hurricane season ended (November 1, according to the insurance companies), I figured there might be slips available. So I pulled up anchor and headed over there about midnight. I docked temporarily at an end-tie which happened to be a pump-out location, and walked around looking for a slip to pop into or someone in charge to talk to, and nothing. So I figured, what the heck, I'll wake up early and get out of here before anyone knows. Since I'd been going for about 15 hours at this point, and with no responses to VHF hails or phone calls to about 8 marinas, I felt like I needed to get Chemistry tied up and get some sleep before I became, in boating terms "a danger to myself and others." And besides, looking at the larger dock not 30 feet away there were at least 4 other pump-out stations.

Well, the next morning I was up at 8am (when the Harbor Police Dock office opens) and because I'm too honest I decided I'd go pay for my stay anyway, and check to see if they happened to have a real slip for me to move to. It was there that I ran into the most cruel, angry, unhappy person I've ever encountered. Ever.

The exchange went something like this:

I walk up to the door, which is one of those half-doors where the top is plexiglass with a hole in it. The office is about 15' by 15', with windows south and west looking over the marina through one window and the Harbor through the other. There's a man, 55-ish, sitting behind a desk looking over his bifocals, shuffling papers.

    "Good morning," I say.
    He looks up and glares. Then looks back down at his papers. "We don't have any slips available," he growls.
    "Um, yeah, I see that on the sign here on the window. I'm the guy parked in your pump-out, the end-tie."
    "You're not supposed to be!" At this point, so quickly in the converstation, he may have turned beet red, and seemed genuinely angry. Very angry.
    "Well, I understand that, but I got in late and there was nowhere else to go. You can't anchor anywhere without..."
    "Are you leaving?!" At this point he stands up and starts gathering the papers he was handling.
    "Would you like me to pay for last night?"
    "No. Just be happy your boat wasn't impounded or that you weren't cited by the on-duty officer. GOOD DAY!" He looked me right in the eyes and said this, slowly, and it's been used before and sounds goofy, but the best way I can describe it is dripping with venom. And he tilted his head down and sneered the "Good day" part, like he had practiced very hard in front of the mirror at being hateful, condescending and dismissive. It was sort of evil.
    I was absolutely blown away, and I felt a sort of bemused grin coming onto my face, so decided I'd better turn and get out of there before my grin became noticable and he found a reason to lock me up.

I mean... if you hate your job or your life that much, do something about it. I'm bothered that he treated me so badly, but really, what I feel most is pity. Did his wife run out on him? Did his dog just die? I don't know, there could be lots of reasons for him to be that way on that particular Monday morning. In any case, in my untrained opinion, the guy needs to change something in his life or he's going to hurt someone.

So... What else? I returned a few days ago from Seattle where I had a great Thanksgiving. I've got a month-long sublease of a decent slip where I have a great nighttime running route, and a good daytime bike-ride to most anything I need. Yes, I actually like not having a car; I'm getting into good shape. I will be here in San Diego until 12/22, with a trip to Florida set for 12/6 to 12/20 while R goes to DC. I'm really enjoying having all day long to polish stainless steel and fix stuff I've been meaning to fix. For the past two days I've had all my anchor chain laid out on the finger pier while I painted sections every 40' so I'd know how much scope I had out from now on. While the chain was out, I completely tore apart and re-greased/maintained my anchor windlass. I'm also getting organized and planning things like a SCUBA compressor and a watermaker. And of course, when the sun's not shining and I've polished all I can polish for the day, I generally sit down at my laptop and start working. Speaking of work....

TT

There was a time when I thought this city would be as far as I got on this trip. That I'd get here and love it so much that I'd decide to just re-settle and work, finish building the thing (the web site / technology) I've built, get a nice condo and start the bi-coastal life where I'm with the boys in Florida for two weeks and here for two weeks. If you've read my previous entry, you know that it only took me about fifteen minutes of walking to decide that this place isn't what I imagined it to be, and now I'm left wishing I could just wrap up the four or five people I've enjoyed of the hundreds I've encountered and just take them with me to somewhere that I can only hope is better, less emotionally taxing (not to mention less income taxing). But I don't know, maybe those places will suck, too. And if they do, I guess I'll move on. Or we'll move on.
 
Maybe I'm the reincarnation of the Ancient Mariner who once, many millenia ago, killed the albatross. And now, as penance, I'm forced to wander the earth and tell people how shitty their city is, and that they should stop being such dicks:

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
To thee, though Wedding Guest!
He prayeth well who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.

He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.

Well, that's how Coleridge told it, anyway, with all the praying and the loveth-ing. But it boils down to this: Insensitivity is a crime.

At some point I expect I'll find a place that isn't too bad. A place where people don't accost you on the street and ask for "money for alcohol research" or sleep in every other doorway, where joggers make an effort to spit almost anywhere but the sidewalk, where there's warmth, and light, and good food, good people.... And probably, still, I'll move on. I hope it's always my fortunate privilege to wander the earth and seek out more of those places. Or, more accurately, more of that warmth, more of those people.

TT

When I was in first grade, I lived in Foster City, California for a year. I don't even remember what we were doing here, but I'm sure it had something to do with some work my dad was doing. I remember a park down the road. I remember a front yard made of decorative stones in the shape of a star. I remember a late night at Candlestick Park watching Vida Blue pitch, coming home really late with an airplane the flew around a stick. I remember my school being nearby and once playing at the playground when there was a guy there playing guitar (back when we didn't worry about single guys playing guitar on a playground). I remember walking across a bridge to a store that had those little sticks of wax with sugar-water inside. And I remember falling in love for the first time.
 
Her name was Heather, and I hid around a corner and jumped out to kiss her one rainy day when she and another first-grade friend walked by under an umbrella. I remember sitting in my room on a bedspread speckled with little Russian soldiers dancing that Russian soldier dance, counting my money because I wanted to just give it to her. My mom convinced me to buy her something nice, instead, so I bought her a plastic ring from a machine. It was purple.

So maybe I had some sort of adolescent fascination and unrealistic expectations for this town, but frankly, I'm disappointed to see what it's become. Yeah, sure, you can never go home again, but come on. You can't make eye contact? You can't return a smile? You can't acknowledge a "hello" or "good morning?" After nearly two weeks of nothing but friendliness amongst the southbound cruisers and the hometown Eurekans (with the exception of a few fishermen), I'm just not used to people who have no class. Today on the dock I saw a man wearing a goofy commodore's hat (ala Thurston Howell III) without even a hint of irony. He was walking towards his big but shitty motoryacht, and he scowled when I smiled at him.

I have a new theory about this town: it's so proud of its "differences," its ability to look past all the little eccentricities that make all its individuals individuals, that it's decided to just look past everyone. It's almost clique-ish. It's as if it's gone and separated itself into these distinct groups that all say: "You do what you like in your own bedroom, pal. But I'm going to be over here with my people, and I don't feel obligated to associate with you or whatever you may be." And to be completely honest, I've fallen into the trap, too. There were more people I could have smiled at, been approachable to while walking down the road, but come on... it's San Francisco! What would that dude think if I smiled?

I'm leaving this place on Monday. It's not warm or clean or beautiful enough to be this pretentious. It's just not a nice city. Sorry for all the people who are nice, but so far, from what I've seen, your city is filled with a bunch of dicks. And you're making me feel like a dick.

TT