Adieu, Santa Rosa

It's been a while since the events of this trip took place. Took a lot of tests, wrote a lot of papers, went on a few hikes and such. And yet after all of that stuff, the memory of this brief stopover to Santa Rosa still holds strong. Those four days in early September marked a moment in time where the clock slowed down and attention spans lengthened. It offered a respite from the humdrum of everyday life. With its isolation and windswept, barren and primordial landscape, this island left us with nothing to do except to observe and witness time as it flowed through each passing day. Every crashing wave, every cloud that floated through the sky, every fox that slinked away into the knee-high brown grass, every seal that ducked underneath the kelp as soon as it made eye contact, every ray and dolphin and urchin and garibaldi that lurked under the glassy surface of the water, every gnarled and twisted eucalyptus tree that swayed in the wind, every breeze that zipped across the small dunes—these were the things that we witnessed through an unhurried lens. 

And each of us experienced this passing of time in our own unique ways. Some walked along the shore and enjoyed the coast, others walked all over the island, taking in each new sight with excitement and curiosity. Others perceived it through the camaraderie of others, enjoying mostly the company and the evening dinners and new acquaintances made throughout the passing days. I enjoyed all of it. It was a good trip to say the least. And on that last day, I woke up with mixed feelings. However much I wanted to get off that stinkin' island and take a dang shower and find some wifi, a good chunk of me wanted to remain there, to continue to perceive life through the lens of "island time."

The Research Station

That morning a good chunk of our group went and observed the sunrise for one last time. Not me. The previous day's hike to Lobo Canyon, paired with going to bed at an unreasonably late hour both persuaded my body to not wake up until at least 8:00am. After the sunrise group returned, we enjoyed our final breakfast and then began the long process of cleaning up. We split into groups, some tasked with packing out all the leftovers, others with cleaning the kitchen, some with mopping the floors. It took a while, especially when it came to cleaning the grill. I swear that thing ain't been cleaned once. Not once! Ancient grease and char from barbecues of yore were splattered along the brittle walls of the grill, sealed in place as if held by super glue. But we were determined in our goal of leaving the station in better condition that we found it. So that's what we did. 

After we were done with the cleaning, we met up outside and did kind of a group discussion about our experience on the island. Each of us explained what we liked the most about the trip, what we learned, and what we'll take away and stuff like that. It was an emotional moment for some, and the emotions ran deep through us all. We were no longer just faces; these people that I had seen just four days prior in the harbor, most of them complete strangers, now had names and histories and personalities. These faces, grouped in a circle, with sunburnt lips and crazy hair, were now people with whom I possessed a shared experience. It's a rare thing in life to get to do this sort of thing, to embark on a journey with people you don't know too well. To walk with them, cook with them, dine with them, speak with them. 

After the group photo, all we had to do was wait for the boat. Some stayed back at the station, others mingled on the beach and swam. I chilled underneath the pier with a few new acquaintances. Our conversations revolved around those random subjects that really have no meaning but serve as stepping stones in getting to know someone a little better. And there was an old guy that jumped off the top of the pier three times in a row and almost cut his feet on the barnacle encrusted stepladder. And eventually the boat arrived and we formed the ol' fire line to transport the gear and then, just like that—the engines rumbled to life and the island shrank away into the distant horizon. Goodbye, Santa Rosa. 

Adios

Approaching Santa Cruz

The boat zipped almost peacefully through the incredibly calm surf. As my gaze fell upon the almost glassy surface of the water my eyes became bombarded with the infinite glitterings and sparkles of the sun's reflected light upon the ocean's surface. It possessed the same twinkling flicker of fresh snow in the early morning sunshine. A simple, yet brilliant spectacle indeed.

On our way back we stopped by the famous Painted Cave. It was utterly gargantuan, large enough for the whole boat to fit comfortably inside its interior. The walls of the cave possessed this interesting multicolored hue. Faded reds and greens and grays and blues all mixed together to form the "painted" walls of the cave. The walls themselves were jagged and coarse, with rough edges and sharp points. Tiny succulents clung to the walls, and the occasional bird's nest could be seen hidden away in a few shadowy holes.  The water inside the cave was so still and clear it almost looked like a mirror. We could see the walls as they extended into the water, all the way down to the rocky surface deep below. Kelp swayed beneath the boat in some underwater wind, and the occasional seal and fish could be seen meandering their way through this aquatic forest. 

Painted Cave

We were told to keep our conversations to a whisper so as not to disturb the wildlife. Every sound in there was elevated tenfold; the acoustics of the cave distorted the muffled sounds of the engine and our quiet remarks of wonder to a point where they became unrecognizable. And the ever present, gentle splash of water against the walls reverberated back and forth from deep inside the cave, creating an almost alien sound. It almost sounded as if it were speaking to us. A breeze kicked up out of nowhere, blowing from somewhere deep within the cave. And as we inched deeper and deeper inside the bowels of this fascinating natural wonder, it felt as if we were being swallowed whole by some colossal beast. The cave was much like a throat, in both likeness and in how it bellowed and breathed and whatnot. I tried looking for the larynx but was unsuccessful.

We escaped the clutches of Painted Cave with a slick trick: moving in reverse. We backed on out of there and that was that—it was time to go home. The rest of the ride involved looking at dolphins and such, a quick stop at Prisoner's Harbor, and grabbing several mylar balloons from the water. Our Captain did not like picking up the balloons. We all got to know pretty quickly is furious contempt towards them. They were mortal enemies, him and those mylar balloons. 

The Captain and his nemesis

Prisoner's Harbor

After picking up the folks at Prisoner's Harbor it was a straight shot to Ventura Harbor. About halfway there we stopped for a good twenty minutes to look a a couple of whales. Whales are a big deal. Everyone wants to see a whale. Everyone wants to get a picture. So nearly everyone on board left their seats and scrambled outside, moving from port to starboard without much rhyme or reason. I didn't much care for all of the fuss. Whales are whales. I sat in the back and continued to look at the islands. And just as the engines kicked back on I caught a brief glimpse of a massive tail submerging itself into the briny depths. Interesting to see, but not necessary. After all that I'd experienced, it only served as icing on the cake, another wonderful thing in a long line of wonderful things...

This trip occurred between the 2nd and 5th of September. It's taken awhile to process the whole thing, and writing about it has proved challenging. It's a difficult thing to capture a trip such as this in a meaningful way, especially since it will be inevitably filtered through my own personal experience. But that's just how it goes. 

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