I spent my days cooking for 55 people in our make-shift kitchen. Two picnic tables and the propane burners along with the BBQ pit would be the tools of the trade. Three heavy plastic tubs carried pots and pans, A tackle box had been reapropriated as a 'Utensil Kit', full of knives and large metal spoons, spreaders and tongs. A menagerie of tubs and coolers locked away in the back of our large white Cube Truck would be the pantry and fridge. The blue rain fly tied the whole scene together.
Each night was a battle against the swarm of ravenous racoons that would descend upon us under cover of night looking for any unguarded scraps. We could be sure that at 9:30 sharp, the bandits would suddenly appear, creeping towards anything that might smell of a hint of food. I slept each night under our kitchen rainfly; stars in view, but protected from the weather. Unprotected however, from the racoons.
All through the night, I could hear them, surrounding me; sniffing, barking, and chirping to one another. Surely planning a coordinated attack on my face. Every few minutes, in a torpor between sleep and wake, I would jerk upright and swing around with my flashlight, only to see dozens of pairs of glowing yellow eyes staring at me from the shadows. I would reach to grab the nearest object lighter than the cast iron dutch oven and hurl whatever I could land my hands on towards the night time marauders, pushing it along its path by whatever vulgarity I could muster. They would dodge, hiss at me, and scatter off, only to restratagize and regroup, starting the cycle over again.
I was glad to get to hangout with some old friends and make a few new ones. My coworkers are generally interesting people who have amazing adventures and its fun to swap stories. Some had just returned from overseas while others had worked in similar jobs during this company's off season. No one had a boring tale to tell.
In the middle of the week, a quick trip to the beach during a short block of free time turned into more of a journey than had been expected. My friend Josie and I got lost a few times and eventually tried using my GPS for directions. It lead us to a twisted, steep uphill road, amongst fancy houses. When we finally got to the turn that put us on the main route, there was a gate with a sign which read “This is not the way to the beach, even if your GPS tells you it is...” it proceded to give us the directions we needed. We could see the road, the gate didn't protect any property other than 5 feet of hard packed dirt between this littly residental road and the main road. I swore out the window at the top of my lungs, got out to check that the gate was really locked and the quality of the chain. It all turned out to be horribly true, and we didn't have any way to nueteralize the problem, so we had to flip around and go back out the way we came. We finally made it to the beach, where had about 15 minutes to dip in the ocean and take a few pictures before returning to work. But those 15 minutes were spectacular.
Friday came and the work week was at an end. All of my coworkers decided to go to the Lagunitas Brewery in Petaluma to unwind and have some adult-oriented fun. We made our way through the windy roads to the picturesque town and found with brewery with minimal issue. Turns out, our luck was high, because we caught the tail end of the tour, just in time for the free beer tasting. We had a few complimentary pints then made our way to the 'Tap Room and Beer Sanctuary' where we paid for a few more. I befriended a tattooed punk couple from Santa Cruz who had been in town to see a lecture about sustainable living. A live band provided a soundtrack to the afternoon, providing some danceable toons for our crew. A variety of delicious beer was ordered for our table and we shared tastes. I thuroughly enjoyed the “Ruben and the Jets” and the Red.
Finally, I left the crew, they were headed to San Francisco to meet up with other friends and continue the party. I had business to attend to and we said our good byes in the parking lot, a good end for a good week.
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