MY HOLIDAY IN HELL: A RETURN TO THE BELLY OF THE BEAST

The last vacation I ever had was in October of 2018. It was a spectacular, week-long fishing trip to the secluded, pristine beaches of Baja for what was one of my most epic sojourns ever. Since then? Nada.

While I fully comprehend that I retired shortly thereafter, I’m here to remind y’all that not having to show up to a job each day, while amazing – does not constitute an actual vacation, at least to the extent as I define one. Once back from Mexico, it was ‘Game On’ while I prepped the house in So. Cal. to sell while simultaneously building ‘Fate Estate’ here in Neverwhere, WA. Oh yeah, Ms. Fate was diagnosed with all manner of rare, significant health conditions, thereby making her permanently disabled. So, as I’ve said previously – 2019 could suck my… Yes, we were striving toward our goal, but at an unexpected, sadistic crawl and with no vacation in sight.

Nevertheless, I finally made it to the new place in late February and was all excited to begin the nesting process. I brought only a dining table and the bed as I was planning to furnish the new home from scratch.

And then, of course, the world shut down…

Long story short, I finally was able to acquire (albeit slowly) all the needed accouterments, but it took a long while and not a little effort. Amid all this intermittent procurement of household necessities, like something to sit on indoors beyond beach chairs, there were all manner of large projects such as finishing the studio, painting the house and garage, landscaping and all the other attendant chores of settling.

I’VE GOT TO GET OUT OF THIS PLACE

It is all on me to ensure that the machinations of domesticity are appropriately greased and running well. After 8 months of this, I was, admittedly, ready for a bit of a getaway. And at that precise moment, the phone rang.

It was my best buddy inviting me, yet again, to our annual “guys trip” that has been occurring for 26-years. We generally go to Catalina Island, but it was off-limits this year as a result of the pandemic. He informed me that he’d relocated the trip to Palm Springs where there was a family place that could accommodate all of us usual reprobates, now flying in from all over the U.S.

As I needed to get out of Dodge for a moment, I immediately booked my ticket. Yes, as regular readers know, I despise Southern California, but I figured it would be an enjoyable reprieve spent with friends where I could relax from the past 2 years of hectic retirement.

I also thought that if I was headed back to the belly of the beast for a weekend, I may as well extend my trip so as to include seeing several of my other friends. After a few calls, blessed by their generous hospitality, my 11 day adventure was set!

If I only knew what was in store…

THE AIR HERE TASTES LIKE POISON

With COVID19, the airports were, thankfully, deserted. As a former weekly business traveler, it was goddamned bliss to experience virtually empty airports and planes. Even more shocking was the pleasant surprise of an absence of the usual seas of urine that are a veritable plague in airport restrooms. I was on my way and things were looking up!

While I was acutely aware that it was unseasonably hot and the usually polluted air was even more contaminated with the smoke from a zillion nearby fires, this fine intellectual knowledge was zero preparation for the hideous reality that awaited me upon landing.

It was as if I was gently descending from the soft wings of my aircraft only to witness a bombed-out, bleak and ugly sky above which precariously hung a distressed orange orb (formerly called the sun) attempting to radiate what amounted to some Lovecraftian version of a zombiefied, post-apocalyptic ruin. Even more eerie was the absence of the ubiquitous traffic and congested parking lots in business and retail areas. It was a bizarre sight approaching the airstrip – no cars, no people, no nothing.

And then I landed. I quickly caught an Uber and, what with the vacated freeways, I made it in record time to the neighborhood of my former home and current bachelor buddy. He had let me know he’d be out for a few hours, so I dropped my bag and decided to take a walk around the little town and check out the scene as it were.

The first thing that hit me was a stifling, malodorous scent that unceasingly permeated the air. Sure, there was the usual snoot full of urban life and, of course, a faint whiff of fire smoke, but it was underscored by something far more prevalent – the smell of garbage; the smell of open sewers.

My initial reaction was that this was some type of immediate issue born from the oppressive 100+ degree heat or a municipal hiccup of some sort. However, what I learned after 7 days staying in 3 separate locations, is that this is the de facto smell of Southern California. It wasn’t a fluke – it always smells like fetid, poisoned waste. I just never recognized it because I had lived there for my entire adult life and it was the norm. Now that my body had accustomed to breathing only pristine mountain air for nearly a year, it was magnificently, unescapably obvious.

I was unsure if I wanted to walk past my old home, but curiosity got the better of me and I strolled by. The new owner did not appear to have done much since she purchased it notwithstanding trimming some of the larger trees and repainting the fence. For me, looking at this place I had lived for 18 years provoked an unforeseen, but powerful reaction – regret. As I stood across the street gazing at my former home, which I loved, and inhaling the rank miasma, I felt profound sadness that I lived in Southern California as long as I had.

That evening things improved as me and my friend visited the restaurant of another friend and had a glorious meal. Notwithstanding a quick bite during our move, it was the first “real” restaurant experience I’d had in about a year and it was exceptional. I don’t eat out a lot, but this was something extraordinary – it felt like things were a bit more ‘back to normal,’ at least for a few hours.

Sadly, the weekend was scuttled by the increasing heat, lack of much going on due to closures, and my growing sense of existential malaise. Overall, it was pretty rotten and I was already now wanting to head home. To liven things up, we ended up booking an overnight tuna fishing trip with yet another friend, so I had high hopes of bailing out of ‘Urbanopolis’ and wrasslin’ some massive bluefin tuna in the clean sea air some 70 miles offshore.

If I only knew what was in store…

A $300 22-HOUR BOAT RIDE

We boarded around 9pm and, as per my miserable luck on this trip, ended up with the worst bunk on the boat. Aside from being akin to a small coffin, my face was less than 12” from the ceiling. While I am not prone to claustrophobia, no reasonable human could possibly sleep in this berth, particularly with the jostling and pounding of the rough seas we encountered during the 7-hour steam to the fishing grounds.

Having got zero sleep, at 3am I headed up to the galley, got some coffee and chatted with another sleepless fisherman. Once dawn arose, or more importantly, when the waft of frying bacon hit the lower deck, our day officially began. I am keenly aware that fishing for tuna means that you have to actively hunt for them. This meant we spent the next 15 hours motoring about. During that time we stopped 3 times when the captain found some and then things devolved into abject mayhem as 14 anglers were all feverishly rushing about ignoring any sense of decorum while trying to land themselves a kraken.

It might have been somewhat pleasant, but as it turns out, the winds had blown the plumes of fire smoke well into the Pacific and, even out here, it was more of the bombed-out, smoke riddled skies. So much for the fresh sea air. There was a bright spot in that my friend, who is not a fisherman, actually caught a huge bluefin. One of only 3 caught that day. He was over the moon and that 30 minutes of watching him battle the fish ended up being the highlight of my trip. Outside of that, for me it was a grueling 22-hour boat ride that cost me around $300 for a whopping 43 minutes of actual fishing. Oh, and at this point, I had been awake for 34 hours straight. Awesome!

COVID-INDUCED HYSTERIA

As we were headed back to port, I received a text from my buddy inquiring if I had gotten a COVID test. I let him know that, as I told him previously, I would get one after I returned home since Ms. Fate is immune-compromised after he’d mentioned that it might be a good idea before we all convened in Palm Springs a month ago. Long story short – he now informed me that a COVID test was a non-negotiable requirement of going. Needless to say I was fucking beyond furious. Why was I being told this 27 hours before heading to Palm Springs? Why was I not told before I even paid for my plane ticket, before I paid for the trip, before I had actually flown down? It was so ridiculous, it transcended the insane.

I had plans with my friend the following day to do more fishing. Plans we had made over a month ago. Plans that required him to take the day off work. I wasn’t about to not only bail out on him but then have the audacity to ask if he would drive all over Southern California for me to see a doctor to get a prescription for a completely unnecessary, hysteria-induced COVID test and then get one (which is what my insurance company required of me). This whole situation was categorically beyond the pale and I was so consumed by rage and fury that I couldn’t even think straight.

When I awoke the following morning after finally getting some sleep, I was still enraged. I decided, at that point, given what a colossal fail this trip had been thus far, I’d just go home the next day. I had had enough. Also, I didn’t want my being pissed off to ruin our day of fishing and otherwise subject my buddy to my ire. Moreover, I realized that even if I’d gotten the test at the expense the day’s plans and unforgivable rudeness to my friend, my rage would have only intensified by the time I got to Palm Springs and I would have unleashed my barely controlled invective at everyone for 4 days, thereby ruining their trips as well.

Once I changed my flight, it was a wonderful day surf fishing at the beach. I quickly realized how much I truly missed having the powdery sand betwixt my toes and standing in the warm and gentle surf – even amid the smoky skies and lack of actually catching any fish. Later that night we had a spectacular meal of fresh, lightly seared bluefin tuna from our overnight trip (courtesy of the captain’s catch). It was the best day of the entire trip for sure.

BRINGING IT ALL BACK HOME

It was bliss to finally arrive home back on my beautiful mountain breathing pure, fresh air. Enjoying the kitties while watching the families of deer and turkey nibble away a mere 20 feet from our deck allowed me to recover from the week’s shit show. As predicted, my post-trip COVID test was negative, but I was (and am) still furious about the situation.

I was able to reflect that this trip had been the worst I have ever had – out of thousands of them, even including business trips. But what I’ve realized is that travel, even suck-ass travel like this, is always worthwhile. If nothing else I learned a few things. First, I really enjoy spending time with my friends and there were a couple of great moments on the trip that brought that home. Next, I realized that I love where I live and how I live, certainly more so once I returned from the belly of the beast. That chapter of my life is definitively, unequivocally closed – there will never, ever be any looking back. Maybe it took a holiday in Hell for me to truly realize that this here, this now is what is meant to be for me. And for that, I am grateful.

HOW ABOUT YOU?

Have you ever had a horrible travel experience, but later learned from it? Is travel, even if it’s bad, always worth it? I’d love to hear your thoughts!