Santa Cruz Chronicles - Day 1

Call it what you will, but today was a milestone.  It’s one thing to move out of your parent’s house and into your own place whilst still in college, whether it be a dorm room or a house with classmates or teammates or something of that nature.  But it’s a-whole-nother enchilada when you’ve already graduated from college and you’re moving out of that nest to pursue your... life. (silently screams to self).

  

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The day began at 6:34 a.m.  It should’ve started at 6:45 when my alarm was set to sound.  But no.  My inner organs decided it was necessary that I find myself briskly making my way from my painfully still and horizontal state in my flannel bed sheets, to kneeling before the porcelain throne of nausea.  My mom said nerves were to be expected, but vomiting?!  I settled on the idea that it was merely my body’s physical response to “change,” and left it at that.  The only logical thing to do at that moment in my mind, post-boke, was head out on a run.  Isn’t that what everyone does immediately following inner bodily depletion?  It actually turned out to be a mildly emotional workout for me.  With the exception of one year spent in New York, I’ve been galavanting around the town I’ve lived in on foot practically my entire life.  That being said, one could possibly imagine the emotions I was experiencing while running around my hometown, simultaneously trying to grasp the fact that it was my last run there for who knows how long.  Subconsciously, I answered a long-time question of mine.  It is very difficult to cry while running, but yes, it is entirely possible to cry while running.  

After cleaning up, I spent a good hour or so walking aimlessly through my house, trying to remember and grab every last remnant of my things.  And after I was tired of pacing around, I finished stuffing my car like a bell pepper and pulled it out into the driveway so my mom could get a departure photo to accompany the other pictures she took prior to the departure.  

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Before long, we (my sister and I) were putting the rubber to the road.  We decided that it would be well worth a little extra drive time to take the coast up to our final destination.  But after driving through Long Beach, and Seal Beach, and Manhattan Beach, and Redondo Beach, and any other beaches you can come up with, we eventually hopped on the Freeway to speed things up a bit.  However, not (entirely) to our surprise, the 405 Freeway was jam-packed and we were in stop-and-go traffic for a solid hour.  

Things got fun once we drove past Malibu and Pepperdine, and got further up into what we Californians call “wine country.”  The camera came out of it’s case, and pictures of vineyard fields and rows of grapes were taken.  We lost our radio station, so we decided to let my iPod be our musical guide up the coast.  I’d just like to point out how incredible it is how you can go so long without hearing certain songs, and then BOOM, the song comes on over the speakers, and it’s as if you had never skipped a beat.  Lyrics and all.  Unbelievable, really.                    

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With roughly 2 hours to go, all was going very smooth.  Almost too smooth.  We had filled up the car with gas (not diesel fuel), and were maintaining peppy spirits to arrive to my new place at a decent time and then unpack and grab a bite to eat.  With just those 2 hours to go, all of a sudden, it felt as if a giant rock had hit some part of my car.  But it wasn’t a rock.  Nor was it a car, or anything we had run over in the road.  Out of the corner of my eye, my surfboard (that had been strapped down to the roof of the car) came very loose, and was flailing around like a leaf in autumn as we were humming down the highway.  We immediately signaled, pulled over into the dusty gravel, and analyzed the situation, with no real desire to climb on the top of my car and attempt to re-strap my surfboard to the top again.  All the while, cars and semi-trucks were billowing past us, honking, whistling, you name it.  They probably thought we were idiots of some sort.  After a few scrutinizing moments of deep pondering, we lifted up the back hatch of my car’s trunk and thought it would be wise to attempt to shove my 9 foot 6 inch board into the car with all my worldly possessions.  Low and behold, and much to our surprise, it worked!  I spent the last hour and-a-half of the drive into Santa Cruz a bit hunched over in the passenger seat while my sister pounded out the last 85 miles into town.  

To end my travel-rant on an upbeat note, my new house is quite charming, and my room has great character.  I’ve already been told that it suits me.  Here’s to the first of many nights out on my own, and to all those who helped me get here! 

Until next time.