I left Sacramento and drove for hours toward the beach, committed to escaping the heat and smoke of the central valley. I made it to Eureka and found a mall anchored by a Walmart, hoping to park for the night in that traditional haven for weary travelers. No such luck. A polite security guard told me there was no overnight parking. Lucky for me, I had a little daylight left. I packed up, consulted the app that shows possible wild camping locations nearby, and migrated three miles to a nondescript side street that I never would have found on my own. Bless the campers who came before me and took the time to blaze the trail for other nomads.
In Brookings, I had my car examined for possible front end problems. I sat in the lobby, choking on the smell of rubber tires, and watched the young dude drive off with my car, trying to be Zen about it, thinking, I really need to be less attached to my stuff.
"I don't hear anything," he said. I wanted to say, what are you, deaf? But I didn't. He assured me everything was tight, no worries, and I decided to trust him, not being a car mechanic myself (but having good enough hearing to notice unfamiliar front end noises). He didn't say anything about the check engine light, which I took to mean they only do tires, brakes, and front ends. Check engine lights are not their problem.
I drove on up Hwy 101, through beach town after beach town, getting increasingly tired and wondering if I would ever find a place to park for the night. Finally, after traversing the length of Newport, I found another Fred Meyer. Feeling sick from driving, I entered the big parking lot anbd found it ringed with vans and cars that were obviously there to park for the night. With great relief, I backed into a cozy parking space among my fellow nomads. I nibbled something, cleaned up with baby wipes and alcohol, and went to bed. It rained during the night, soaking the top edges of my window covers, but I didn't care. Clouds! Rain! Cool temperatures!
After stopping to do my laundry in Lincoln City, I consulted my peers on the camping app, which suggested a road along the beach in Manzanita. Based on their recommendations, I parked on the verge with several other cars and sprinter vans and marveled that I had a cell phone signal and a perfect view of the ocean. Nobody bothered me, even though the next day I discovered it might not have been legal to park there after all. This is the dilemma of nomads who seek cooler temps along the coastline. Coastal states are not welcoming to nomads, probably because these states have such a huge population of unhoused. All the rich folks don't want a bunch of decrepit motorhomes and dented SUVs cluttering up their view of the Pacific. Who can blame them? They want what they are paying for.
I'm blogging at you from my cousin's beach house in Long Beach, WA, on the peninsula, a few blocks from the ocean. The house is old and huge, decorated in vintage furniture, pictures, and knicknacks. She's left instructions for guests: check the toilets to make sure they aren't running, pack out your recycling and compostables, and spray Pine Sol around the garbage can to deter the bears. Last night at 11:30 pm the tsunami siren went off and wailed for a good two minutes. I sat there Googling "earthquake" and "tsunami near me" but found nothing, so I went back to bed. I slept for twelve hours.
It's barely 3:00 pm, and I'm just now starting to feel myself firming up into a functional human. I didn't realize how tense and taut I was until I had a safe place to perch and rest. Once I felt safe, I turned into a quivery pile of jelly. I am trying to keep my eyes on the goal: to find affordable housing. As soon as it cools off a bit in the Willamette Valley, I'll leave the coast and get back on the road to continue my search for home.
