What a long, strange trip it's been (part 4)

One year ago today I drove into Santa Cruz.

I have to admit, it wasn’t what I thought it’d be. It was overcast and cool. Homeless men pushed their carts along Ocean Street as I tried to find the beach. The area around the boardwalk (an oddity along the Pacific that made me think I was on the east coast) was run down and sketchy. I parked on Riverside Avenue and plugged the meter with an hour’s worth of change, but I only stayed for 15 minutes.

To make it official I walked to the ocean and wet my feet in the water of the Pacific Ocean. The water was cold.

I remember thinking, “What the hell did I just do?”

I could write more about that day, but it’s Saturday and there’s a ton of college football on TV. I haven’t done much to celebrate. The fridge is full of beer (including two oil cans of Foster’s Special Bitter, the nectar of the gods), so I’m going to do a little drinking later. I washed my car — very Californian of me — and I'll go to the beach to listen to the waves and watch the sunset.

A lot of people said I couldn’t do it; a lot of people said I wouldn’t last a month. After one year, here’s what I have to say to those who doubted me: Fuck you.

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