Chapter 14
The Hearst Castle Caper (In 3 Parts)
FIRST PART
Of us all, only Sally had never been to California before. After apologizing to her for making a joke about her fishing abilities, and her telling us “No matter- I’m having fun,” we headed south towards Big Sur. Strapping Sally into the shotgun seat we told her this was going to be the most fabulous ride of her life. We’d quit worrying about how long Sally was going to last on the bus. “You know,” she said, “I left my husband because he didn’t like fishing, not because he wasn’t into politics. And yah, you guys are not all that big on fishing – What? – three fishing expeditions in 29 days? . . . and on one of them I’m supposed to act like I don’t know what I’m doing . . . but you know what? I’m sorta getting hooked on your politics, and yep, I think maybe I’ve caught the biggest fish of my life, a Pirate – better than a mannequin,” Sally ended getting a laugh out of all.
We all had views, but we told Sally riding shotgun would provide the most panoramic (not mentioning terrifying) views. And it did. Heading south on California 1, Skip was driving and doing his best not to careen around the ninety-degree curves high above the sea – precipitously one-thousand-feet straight down from Sally’s window perch – almost like being in an airplane. Behind Skip and Sally, Rocky (our “what is fun guy”) and Huck (our musician) were in seats across from the kitchen galley. Rocky pulled out a cooler and sat in the aisle to get a better view and actually slid off his perch on one curve. “Geez Christ, drive straight Scotchy,” he complained, grabbing for the wheel.
The rest of us were in the back, Patty with her camera on, taking in the sweeping veranda-like view. The large bed (where three of us slept at times) folded-up into a five-seat, wrap-around couch with a fold-up table in the middle. At night you could pull the curtains but now our view was mountains to the left (with redwood groves on the slopes); to the right, plunging steep gorges (and sometimes a sea otter or two); looking behind us, a road clinging to the mountain side (along with the occasional car, van or motorcycle trying to pass us); straight ahead, Rocky’s ample rear.
Sally, based on her exultations, was lovin’ it, and liked being navigator. She directed us to a place called Hurricane Point, a little before Big Sur. We got out to stretch at the beach with ocean spray coming off the rocks. It would have made for treacherous fishing. “Hey guys,” Sally said, looking good in one of her V-Necks and a red beret-like hat, “I know we don’t think of ourselves as tourists, but I’ve never been here before, and I really want to go slow, take it all in, even the Hearst Castle, before we get to San Luis Obispo. Skip, call your friend in San Luis and tell him we’re going to be a day late.”
Patty seemed agitated, stomping around in her cowboy boots looking like she had something to say. Hitching her thumb into that belt with all the sparkles, she started complaining, “You know what, I’m not getting any good film except scenery; anybody can buy a National Geographic video and see what we’re seeing. I’ve got nothing, nothing since that bar scene in Palo Alto where Rocky got the whole bar drinking Flaming Tennis Shoes. We’ve got to do something more than just being tourists on a fishing trip. If we’re making a movie, somebody come up with something along the lines of what that guy Sacha Baron does – you know setting people up . . . besides ourselves.”
“I’ve got it!” Rocky chimes in behind his aviator glasses. “This could be fun. I’ve been to the Hearst Castle. Talk about opulence . . . pompousness . . . extravagantness . . . Trump’s kinda thing – that’s the Hearst Castle. Most the tourists, probably Trumpers or Trumpeter–types – note my picking-up on what you call them, Patty. I’m sure Skip, with my help, can instigate something for your movie here.”
“All right!,” Patty exclaimed. “Now we’re talking. Maybe we can even figure out some guerilla theatre. Let’s scout the place out, camp out tonight, and script some roles for tomorrow.”