Close Calls

Driving down the highway, the rain's intensity continued to increase. Turning down Jack Johnson's strumming, I focused all my attention on the road ahead. I was poised to react to hydroplaning. I was tense on the steering wheel. My knuckles were white, and my forearms began to ache along with my shoulders and traps.

This is how I drive when I'm not on a clear, clean highway on a bright, sunny, windless day.

I tried to switch to the far left lane, but I realized it was flooded. I tapped the brakes and returned to my lane. Moments later a small, dark sedan impatiently passed me on the left. I began to think that maybe the conditions in that lane had improved, and maybe I could also switch back. 20 seconds later, that car spun out of control. I saw headlights facing me then turning swiftly to my left as the tail lights of the SUV in front of me started swinging to the left. Faced with the broadside of an SUV in my face, I had two options, try to brake before I slid into it at 65 MPH or cut right after barely breaking.

I chose the former.

I pumped the breaks and realized quickly there would be nowhere near enough time to stop before broadsiding this vehicle. Panick started to well. I abandoned my choice quickly for the latter. I moved to the right after releasing the breaks, holding my breath, both hands on the steering wheel. I maneuvered onto the shoulder, and passed the SUV by inches, just as I heard a sickening and deafening crunch to my left.

The car behind me hadn't been so lucky.

Everyone says we are here for a reason. Things happen for a reason.

What's "A Reason?"

It's a way to legitimize sad circumstances. We laugh off decisions we made that helped us avoid close calls by saying, "I knew it had to have happened for a reason!"

I've started counting my close calls. I've been in 2 serious car accidents, a hairy climbing situation, struck an IED in Afghanistan, was shot 3 times through my backpack in Afghanistan, and just barely missed a pileup on I680 N heading up to Lake Tahoe last weekend, which I just described. I chose breakfast with my friend from Washington instead of cliff diving with friends in Big Sur, and it just so happened the water was too low. My friend died hours later of brain death, right around the time I was having my midday snack at a Latin and rock festival downtown. Knowing me, I would have taken that first jump. My mother was a drug addict, and didn't think it was necessary to go cold turkey just for something as silly as a pregnancy, and lastly, I tumbled down the U-Haul stairs as a toddler, landing squarely on my head. Cold, hard concrete against soft, bloody skin.

So, what's a reason?

Why was I the one dialing the 911 call, shaking, and unable to relax for hours? Why wasn't I the one strewn across the highway in the torrential downpour, staring up through glistening raindrops and distorted beams of light with the realization I'll never walk again?

Hoping for a quick, painless, quiet death.

What's a reason?

I'm searching.

Searching hard.

As soon as I figure it out, you'll be the first to know.

Moments in Monterey

I'm currently in Monterey, CA, for those of you who are interested in following my windy, nonsensical path through post military life. The last day I spent here was in June of 2008. Driving down here from Sacramento, I could barely contain my excitement in my car. I sang, I laughed hysterically, and I'm sure I looked crazy from the outside looking in through the windows of my blizzard torn Rav4 as I tossed my head around frantically to Luis Enrique.

I got in on Tuesday afternoon, heading straight to Marina to switch out my broken GPS and pick up my cargo carrier. (My GPS died after 3 days..I'm a slave driver!) Then it was straight to Monterey. The first night was great. Dave made some fettuccine, and I just hung out, relaxing, and planning for the next few days.

Yesterday was even better. I woke up to birds chirping through the mist. The mist. I forgot about the fog and the mist of Monterey. Misty blue. No. Misty grey. I stepped outside and could almost taste it. It's a wonder anyone can walk through it. It's opaque, almost solid. I wanted to scream down the desolate, wonderfully manicured road leading to the bay, "THERE'S SOMETHING IN THE MIST!!!"

I didn't. But I seriously thought about it.

I drove to Palo Alto, and in the process, left the heavy mist of Monterey in my rear view. I stopped at Nisene, parked, and proceeded to run without direction or worry. The only thing I brought with me was my voice recorder, a smile, and an uncannily peaceful feeling. I pounded the earth with Mizunos. The damp leaves were pressed into soft mud, leaving little prints in my wake. Every hill I encountered was approached with a renewed vigor, every downhill the same. I cruised around corners, onto little overgrown paths, back onto large, semi cleared trails. I ran, I lived, I smiled.

I hit a river, dropped my shoes, and soaked my legs a spell. Refreshing.

Back on the trails, I ran out of the park by mistake. After exploring a nearby neighborhood, I regained the path. Up and down, left and right. Around redwoods, over rocks, under boughs, through the most vivid greens and deep mahoganies.

I love running. I love Cali. I love life.

When I finished, I attempted to enter a nearby bike shop. Luckily for me and for my checking account, it didn't open for another hour. I took that opportunity to head to Santa Cruz. I had a 12:00 appointment at the Well Within. I stopped at a quaint bagel shop along the way, ordering a scramblewich (yes, that's really what it's called) and a tomato bagel. Yum.

I entered my room at the Well Within, stripped down, showered, and immediately entered my spa. I melted on the spot.

"Brrrrrrrrrruja, Bruja, Brujita! Tu me hisiste brujeria. Brrrrrrrrrruuuuuuuuu, demonio!"

Sorry, I digress.

Salsa. YES!

Back to the Well Within, salsa to follow.

A spa, a sauna, a zen garden, a shower. An hour of pure bliss. Pure recovery. Pure pleasure. An hour of being alone with my thoughts, my voice recorder, and myself.

I needed it. I took advantage of it. I left smiling and excited for the rest of the day.

When I returned to my car, I realized I had a little more money left on my meter, so I added another quarter, and took a walk down to the Wharf. I ran into a pack of homeless folks. I gave them the change I had and sat down on the bench with them. I learned about their stories, and why it was better to be homeless in Santa Cruz than anywhere else in the world.

After my stint with the homeless young people, I took a round about route back to my car. I drove back to Monterey, and stopped downtown for some Jamba Juice. Of course that ended with the purchase of a new toy (not THAT KIND!!!).

A tripod!!!

Not for a weapon. Never will I have one again.

For my camera! YAY!

I returned from my wanderings, stopped to visit with Melina in PG, then proceeded to Cat's place. Debauchery ensued.

The wine bottle was mostly empty by my arrival, and I guided myself in by her laughter. I started yelling in the street, "I HEAR YOU, CAT!!! WHICH ONE IS YOUR APARTMENT!!!?!"

We sat around laughing about the past, lamenting about things lost, and sharing stories of the present. Ideas for the future. I love these people. We followed dinner with 2 hours of salsa. I haven't danced like that since before my deployment! I forgot how much I missed it.

There's something to be said for a moment on the dance floor. Unlike life, when you have a million things going on at once, a moment on the dance floor has one. Just one. The music. Nothing bothers you, nothing CAN bother you. It's as if your troubles are flung from your person in a head whip, a hand flip, a kung fu dip. So simply, so carelessly, they spring from your outstretched fingers as they extend. They are tossed from your hair as it slices through the air. Gone.

Then you have a clean slate.

I have a clean slate.

After my cleansing, we went downstairs for greasing of the wheels, some artery hardening, some pizza. I had two bites of a piece donated to the unemployed, homeless salsera fund. We stayed there for almost two hours, playing live percussion, awakening Cannery Row.

Steinbeck would have been proud. Maybe he was dancing in his grave.

We played, we sang, we laughed, we lived. It's a moment that is lost in the past. A moment I can never live again. A moment I will remember for the rest of my life.

A moment that defines why I love my life.

Viva la salsa.