Ha! Get In The Van

Life Is A Highway

Perturbed by the flatulence? Pic Shield

It’s been a week now, and we’ve showered twice. Although we still think it may be illegal, we’ve camped on the roadside most nights, at the beach or in car parks. Generally we’ll pick up a wireless signal from somewhere (yesterday the account name was CaliBeachBabesX, which had us all hunting around for the local fun lovers), and Shieldsy and I can attempt to send media back to y’all. Meanwhile Talon sets up his computer to log the day’s footage, and the groms cram around his screen to review their day’s work. This is accompanied by a soundtrack of hoots, put-downs and flatulence.

The food has been as unspectacular as you’d think. While we have fridges, they are used as a storage space for water and sports drinks (I snuck some beer into mine, and it goes untouched, these kids are pretty focused), and cooking isn’t really an option. We’ll buy bread and make sandwiches, and smash some cereal for breakfast, but eating mainly consists of dining out and choosing what you’d like to accompany your melted cheese. So far Mexican has been winning, though pizza is a close second as it makes for good leftovers. Despite our best intentions to avoid the fast food nation, the dollar menus on offer at your McBurger type places are mighty convenient, especially when hauling long distances between destinations.

RV lots are interesting places when we do check into them. They are not, as many think, trailer parks. They are for folks, generally retired, who enjoy seeing the big ol’ Home of the Brave by road in a bus, motorhome, or with a caravan slung on the back of their massive Dodge Hemi 2500. They come equipped with power hook-ups, water points, and drains for emptying your tanks into, kinda like a potty for your car, and some of the flasher ones boast internet, pools and restaurants. The folks who inhabit them are kindly looking Moms and Pops, happy with their lots in life, often flying an American flag from their ride, well versed in the etiquette of life on the road. Our first foray into a park saw the two 28ft RVs jammed in a pair of 24ft sites, facing the wrong way unable to connect to the facilities, with boards, wetsuits and towels strewn everywhere. Paired with loud Aussie accents, peppered with slang (see: swearing), and the bare feet that are so unaccepted in the US, and we probably weren’t the most popular campers in the site, but it’s all part of the experience.

The frustrating part about the RV lots is leaving them early on the surfing program. We generally check in late and leave early, so despite the team trying their hardest to make the most of showers and internet and being able to sit around in relative comfort, the freedom of waking in a beachside car park, looking at the ocean, just can’t be beat.

Oh yeah, we’re in Pismo Beach, which according to local photographer Chris Burkhard is, “the only beach left in California that you can drive on.” This gives it an air of Florida-white-trash that seems familiar from Spring Break porn, and it comes equipped with a jetty, pool hall, and bogus surf. Definitely the sorta place that would have epic wet t-shirts contests in summer.

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