Chapter 7: Samantha I
Woodsmoke in the air
Pine needle magic carpet
Smoky bacon beckons
— Clay Taid, One Thousand Syllables
The first thing you notice is the smell. The coniferous aroma mixed with a hint of woodsmoke. It’s the scent of the best and longest vacations for a school kid — summer and Christmas. Evocative of summer campouts with all their freedom, and of the sparkling Christmas tree scenting the entire house, and all those presents!
As a kid, I could barely withstand the excitement waiting for the hikes and summer nights under the stars, and for the Xmas presents waiting to reveal their surprises amidst piles of colorful torn paper. I swear that for years, I refused to get excited over much of anything because I couldn’t take the anticipation.
Same thing with the wiggling fingers of my dad, threatening to tickle me. I’d collapse into a mass of giggles, even if the fingers never got to my belly or neck or toes. It was just all too much. Thank god I’ve learned to ride the excitement and enjoy the anticipation.
When I found out I could split my work time between UCSB, in the Department of Ecology, Evolution and Marine Biology,and at UCSC, in the Molecular, Cell, and Developmental Biology Department, I found myself revisiting that childhood excitement. I was nearly bursting to get to it, and I nearly did collapse into giggles at how much it reminded me of summer and Christmas anticipation. But, dammit, I wasn’t going to stifle it this time.
Dink, my Chiweenie, knew something was going on when I got the letters of acceptance for the gig. As I started jumping up and down with joy, he jumped on the couch to get out of the way of my deadly boots. But then he picked up on the vibe and started poinging on the couch in concert with me. Cross-species communication and contact high at its best, for sure.
When Hedwick, my partner in love, showed up, he probably thought I’d gone nuts. I grabbed him ‘round the neck, still emulating a happy pogo stick, “I got it! I got it!”.
Dink started to growl a bit. He tolerates Hedy in the bed, but he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like sharing me much at all.
“Good grief, Sam, what did you get - chorea?”
“Chor … the dancing disease? Ha, ha! Yeah, it only skipped 550 years and landed on me, right? No, I got the jobs - that’s jobs, plural - with a “z,” part of the time here at UCSB and part of it at UCSC, in Santa Cruz! The beach and the forest, Babe! What could be better than that?”
“Um, staying here in Isla Vista with your one and only Hedwick? And more to the point, your beloved little Dink over there on the couch giving me the evil eye.”
“Hedy, you know I love you wherever and whenever I am. But think of the opportunities for my career and for what feeds me. Yeah, the ocean and waves feed my soul, but being surrounded by forest is just as delicious and soul-filling. This way, I get the best of both worlds.”
“Well, I guess I can manage with you gone now and then. The surf ever beckons the Hedman.”
“And Dink will love you taking care of him, Hedy.”
Hedwick does a double take. “And why will Dink be here?”
“It gets chilly in the redwoods, Hedwick. Our little man over there would rather die than wear one of those humiliating dog sweaters. You know how at night, how he heads under the blankets. He’s just a little heat-seeking wiener.”
“Hey, I resemble that remark!” says Hedwick.
“Don’t I know it, Buster! Look, I leave tomorrow, so...”
“Tomorrow?! That’s pretty short notice!”
“Yeah, but tell you what. I’m ready to celebrate. Let’s leave Dink in the living room and go warm up the sheets so that you and your thingamabob can miss me even more. What do you say?”
“Well, when you put it like that…” he strips off his shirt over wavy ginger hair revealing that amazing six-foot surfer’s body with those rippling muscles, and dives for the bedroom door. I am about one-half second behind him, preparing to miss the thingamabob myself.
It’s true what they say — 73 is the new 29. I’m sure Hedy looks the same as he did back then, and honestly, he seems to have the stamina of a teenager. He wraps around my 5’11” body like a rubber band with all the bounce and snap. My lanky limbs with their dusk tones (inherited from my North African parents) intertwined with the freckled and ever-sunburned skin he inherited from his Irish ancestors — the O’Manachains — create one fine multicolored tumble
While he’s got curves in all the right places, I’m a bit more, er, cylindrical. Hedwick teases me: “I like my women like I like my waves — tubular and wild.” We’re in year five of California’s usual eleven-year domestic partnership contract, but things are going swimmingly, and I expect we’ll renew a time or two anyway.
Morning comes much too early, but even before I roll out from under the sheets, my pink morning hair crazily surrounding my head in neon tones, sweet Hedwick is there with a cup of Tesora from Phil’z with just a splash of cream, just how I like it. Honestly, I could smell the grinding of the beans and the brewing of the brew, but I just lay there taking in that aroma, letting it wake my brain by happy association.
The little personal nanofactory — or The Replicator as it’s more commonly known, — is fine as a glorified 3D printer, but it’s just not up to the task of making decent food … and nowhere near making coffee that tastes like coffee.
So, we share a pot of the world’s favorite drug, double-check Dink details for the coming couple of weeks, to which Hedwick grits his teeth only slightly. But my man is willing, and he loves me, and last night’s activities have left us both pretty happy with each other, Dink’s displeasure at being left in the living room notwithstanding.
The Phil‘z’s is finished just in time as the UCCar, a Nikola T23, arrives. There’s no driver, so Hedwick tosses my bags into the vehicle, gives me a hug and a kiss, then grabs his surfboard and heads for the waves. Dink will be fine for a couple of hours by himself. There’s the tiny little dog door Hedy cobbled together that opens automatically on the pup’s approach, so that’s handled, and any Dink tinkle will be outside watering a tiny little spot in the backyard.
And I’m off, out up 101. When we get to SLO, I tell the car to take the coast route, through Morro Bay and the lovely Cayucos, the last real beach town in the bottom half of California. I make a quick stop at Piedras Blancas to simultaneously gaze in wonder and laugh at the big, beautiful oafs they call elephant seals.
Up on the cliffs of Highway 1, I find I’m lucky that the UC car is often used for University research, because it’s got a drone cam in the trunk! I call up the control panel on the dash of the T23, and tell it, “Car, opaque the windows, open the roof, and give me a 360-degree projection from the drone cam onto the interior windows.” The car is practically all windows, so I expect a show.
I have the drone emerge to fly parallel to us about 59 feet to our left, alongside the edge of the cliffs that we are whizzing by. I’ve got Pastoral Headbangers’ orchestral rock cranked up to 11 and good god, is this fun! I look to the right and see from the flying camera’s perspective the very Nikola I’m in with some crazy chick’s electric-orange hair flying wild up through the open roof. That’s self-reflection for you, ha!
The car’s AI keeps the ride as smooth as silk, but the “gee”- force from the twists and turns this highway is famous for pushes me into the seat and omigod, the surrounding video! A solid wall of white fog approaching from the left, ridges, trees, and mountains (and me in the car) to the right, the edge of the cliffs and crashing waves in front and below, and — well, I try to never look back, so who knows what's projected on the rear window?
Through the drone cam’s eyes, I see a flash of yellow down near the water’s edge and tell the device to scope it out. The drone dives hundreds of feet in moments and I feel my stomach flying right out of the open roof alongside my crackling indigo hair.
The drone slows as it approaches what from a distance were just yellow splotches. They turn out to be decades-old bulldozers from one of the slides that is forever wiping out stretches of this highway. The half-buried hulks are mostly rusted, with only splotches of the bright paint showing. It’s like something from Mad Max VII.
What a thrill ride! Better than a roller coaster, I’ll tell you!