I.

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Toothbrush? Socks? Pajamas? Jacket?

 

As I drive out of the driveway, I run through a mental checklist of things I usually forget. I always feel a certain anxiety leaving home for a few days, knowing I’ll be without my usual comforts—which just goes to show how attached I am to my stuff. I mean, God forbid I should ever forget something as essential as my electric toothbrush. I might actually have to drive a whole two miles into town just to buy one of those cheap analog ones! As I think about my pampered modern life, I make a promise to myself to take more camping trips instead of always opting to spend my time away in a well-furnished vacation home with all the latest conveniences.

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I am going away for my annual retreat, this year at Sea Ranch on the northern coast of California, where the rugged coastline butts up against wide-open meadows and dense redwood forests. Unlike rowdy Tahoe, the nearby alternative, this magnificent area has mostly been left unspoiled. No McDonald’s drive-throughs, no 7-Elevens, no Safeway’s, no smoke-filled casinos or overcrowded restaurants, no speed boats or Jet Skiers, and no stand-still traffic in what would otherwise be an alpine paradise.

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Unlike Tahoe, the small coastal community of Sea Ranch has evaded the crowds, mainly due to its somewhat difficult access—a two-lane road that winds precariously along a seaside cliff—and the fact that it has none of the aforementioned amenities. Sea Ranch is where you go to be sublimely bored and withdrawn, looking out a window that perfectly frames the natural beauty surrounding you. Even the tastefully designed houses have a certain introverted, antisocial aspect to them. Despite their charming conformity, they are spaced well apart, allowing the residents to imagine that nobody else is around. And except for the infrequent passing vehicle or the occasional buzz of a handyman’s circular saw, silence is prevalent.

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Needless to say, Sea Ranch isn’t for everyone, especially people who are addicted to their electronic devices and loud recreational vehicles (which amounts to most people, by my calculation). No, Sea Ranch is for those who still enjoy curling up next to a sunny window and reading a good book, spontaneously making art, going for a long walk, watching the sunset with a glass of wine, or delving into a long conversation about the meaning of life—you know, all of those things we used to do before the internet came along.

The drive is pleasant once I get off the main highway. After going through Petaluma, I stop to stretch my legs and order my usual fish tacos at Bodega Bay. From there, it’s just a short jaunt through the little coastal town of Jenner, and then the perilous drive up Highway 1.

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Just past the area known as Sea Ranch is a river and a small town called Gualala, a Native American name meaning “where the water goes down.” There, I pick up my rental key, then head over to one of the two available small markets located directly across the street from each other to stock up on all my favorite eats for the week. Both markets know their customers well, catering to Bay Area foodies who expect nothing less than the finest beer, wine, meats, bread, and cheeses.

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In years past, when the girls were smaller, we would come up here once or twice a year and stay for a few days. But those days are long gone, and now it’s just me who visits this little Pacific sanctuary where the Pomo tribe used to gather kelp and shellfish in woven baskets, and the Spanish herded cattle.

 

Since I retired, I have made it a yearly thing to go on a two-week meditation retreat, alone. When I was in my thirties, I used to attend silent meditation retreats at a Buddhist center tucked away in the nearby hills of Marin. There, I developed the skills to meditate for long hours and focus my mind. I enjoyed some beautiful insights in those early days, but mostly I just liked how it stilled the mind, temporarily cleansing me of the constant chatter that reverberates between my ears. It was through Buddhism that I was also able to get through all my “stuff” without the need for a therapist, and to set foot on a journey that continues to this day. Eventually, I moved on from Buddhism, seeking answers to life’s questions elsewhere. But I still enjoy being a yogi, spending time in solitude, and clearing my mind in order to gain a better perspective.

 

The house I’ve rented is typical of the area, a modern structure with sleek vertical lines and long diagonals offset by rustic plank siding. Large windows and the lack of any landscaping or fences creates the feeling of being totally immersed in nature. The hallmark architectural design of Sea Ranch was inspired by an early Russian settlement not too far south, Fort Ross, which you can still visit today.

 

The original Sea Ranch concept, developed in the 1960s, was to create a community that would harmonize with the environment and have minimal impact on the natural surroundings. However, in recent years, there have been more and more houses dotting the hillside, threatening the original vision with overdevelopment. Nevertheless, the quiet atmosphere of the community perseveres.

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As I drive up to my rental, situated just a stone’s throw from the seaside cliff, the house appears bigger than I had imagined it from the pictures. I park the car on the short gravel driveway and power off my phone. Before I left, I told everyone I would be off the grid for a couple of weeks. This never seems to perturb my wife. I’ve always worked and played at home, where I have an office and a woodshop just off the house, so she looks forward to these yearly retreats when she doesn’t have to see me for a few days.

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From the driveway, a charming stone path with a wooden awning leads me to the front door. As I walk up to the entrance of my temporary new home, I notice a small statue of the beloved Hindu deity Ganesh with his various elephant and human body parts fused together. He is seated at the doorway, frozen in a friendly namaskar—a good omen, for sure.

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I proceed to unlock the front door. As I walk in with both arms full of groceries, what stands out to me most is the silence. Oh, the painful silence! Next, a profound loneliness sets in, and I question coming alone. “I should’ve asked one of the kids to come with me,” I tell myself. “I could’ve at least brought the dog along.”

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Inside are two bedrooms; a bathroom; a medium-size kitchen with a gas stove; and a large living room with two big leather sofas, a bookshelf with old romance novels, and a cabinet full of board games. The living room also accommodates a dining table with four chairs, and a simple centerpiece that includes a long piece of driftwood with small white tea lights tastefully wedged into it.

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The interior has a contemporary style, but it is still modest and cozy. Except for the bedrooms, there is tile flooring throughout interspersed with area rugs. Ocean-themed watercolors are placed sporadically on the walls, along with old, faded photographs of—I assume—the owner with friends and family. In the master bedroom is an antique pine dresser with drawers that stick, and a small built-in closet. A large skylight and a fireplace more than make up for the bedroom’s drab decor. Other house amenities include a laundry room, the garage—locked and not accessible—and a patio with a gas grill, deck, and sunken hot tub. All in all, not a bad place to wind down and get back in touch with reality.

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Every object in the house feels totally still and inert with a tinge of mystery, as if placed here by extraterrestrials. The only thing moving is the tiny dust particles dancing in a razor-sharp ray of sunlight beaming in through the kitchen window. Even the bottle of wine, left on the dining table with a note from the caretaker, feels lifeless—like it’s been sitting there since the beginning of time.

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I tell myself that I have landed on the moon, vulnerable and alone, with nowhere to hide.

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Continue to Part II

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