Sand and sea with the family

It was back in February, during one of our many texting marathons with Glenn’s family, that the idea came up for another beach gathering similar to those we had enjoyed at Sea Ranch in recent years. Glenn’s mom found a deal on a place that could accommodate all of us at Pajaro Dunes Resort just outside of Watsonville, and so began plans to get together there on Aug. 9-14.

Bear in mind, this all came about during brighter days in late winter when COVID-19 seemed to be on the retreat, vaccines were beginning to make their way into the public, and people were entertaining vacation plans again. There was little time to contemplate the pros and cons of a particular deal, because with so much pent-up demand there was a strong possibility that delaying might result in missing it altogether. Mom booked the place and it was up to the rest of us to figure out how we were going to get there.

In our case, Glenn and Roni needed no convincing. Our last vacation had been in late 2019 — a two-week cruise through the Panama Canal followed by a few days in the Florida Keys. It had been a blast, even if it did fall right in the middle of the hectic holiday season and we had both come down with raging colds near the end of it. You can overlook the negative aspects when you otherwise had a good time. And given all that has happened since… well, we were good and ready for a break.

Ben, on the other hand, was less certain. A perpetual homebody who these days is also engrossed in his work routine, he balked at the thought of spending days away from his familiar confines, even as he reflected on the good memories that had been made on his trip with us to Sea Ranch in 2019. We were welcome to go off and have fun at Pajaro Dunes, but we could count him out. Period.

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F

ORTUNATELY WE HAD enough lead time for Ben to reconsider. Life throws us many curves, and sometimes it’s the things you least think about that change your mind. Like the loss of someone close to you. In Ben’s case, it was two losses — the sudden death of Roni’s sister Vicky last month, and the shocking news that one of his former coworkers had committed suicide at a young age. The reminders of our own mortality, that life is short and we should appreciate the time we have with family and friends, were enough to convince Ben that he wanted to be a part of whatever waited down in Watsonville. And not just for a day or two, as he’d originally considered when we first tried to negotiate with him, but for the entire five-night gathering. He still had time to request the days off from work, and his boss granted them with no fuss.

The only loose end that remained was what to do about our three cats. It had been years since the last time we’d needed a cat sitter, as Ben had been our go-to caregiver for the feline set most of the time, preferring to remain at home as he tends to. Fortunately Ben’s friend Aaron — also a cat owner — agreed to drop in each afternoon to feed and check in on them, so we were set.

We set out for Pajaro Dunes on Monday afternoon, Aug. 9. We probably would have been on our way much earlier, but the house we were staying in wouldn’t be available until 4 p.m., so we didn’t want to get there too early. Commute traffic was picking up, it was turning into another blistering hot day, and we were grateful when we finally crested the Santa Cruz Mountains and our car’s thermometer started dipping below 75 degrees. We tracked our progress via texts with Glenn’s sister Jennifer as she and her family headed toward the Dunes from Hayward. Glenn’s brother Sean, driving with their mom riding shotgun, came down separately. Meanwhile, somewhere out on Interstate 5, Glenn’s dad drove solo from Hemet so he could join the party later that evening.

We were the last of the main group to reach the resort, and once we’d figured out how to pass through the security gate and register at the front office, it was off to the parking lot to lug our boxes, bags and suitcases up what was literally a mountain to reach our rental condo at 11 Cypress Grove. The houses are connected by a series of pathways, and carts are provided to make it slightly less cumbersome to roll your belongings from the bottom to the top. But much like Sisyphus, we discovered that gravity has its disadvantages. We had to make frequent stops, our full weight resting on the cart handle, to keep from getting bowled over by the heavy load.

Somehow we made it to the top and were able to unload. If we thought we’d had it tough, Jenny and Tom had about four times the stuff we’d brought and needed our cart pronto. We were only going to be staying five days, but by the looks of the collection that was amassing near the front door, it might as well have been a month.

11 Cypress, with its seven bedrooms, might have been the perfect size for our large group, but it was not especially luxurious. The decor was quite dated, the carpets threadbare in places, and there was evidence of rot on the fascia above the kitchen deck. But the view of Monterey Bay from the balcony was undoubtedly in the million-dollar-plus category. The place featured three levels, with bedrooms on the bottom and middle floors and a large kitchen and living room on the top. There was some cushioned wicker furniture to sit on, a large circular dining table, a breakfast table, and that was about it. Our bedroom was near the back of the second floor, overlooking the parking lot and a piece of Watsonville Slough.

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G

ETTING DOWN TO the beach was a snap from where we were located, and of course that is where we all wanted to be that first afternoon. What a relief to be away from that sticky Central Valley heat and the relentless wildfires that have been blanketing the region with smoke. We’d packed our suitcases with shorts and towels and bathing suits, knowing we’d be close to the water and ready for some fun in the sun, but perhaps it had been too long since our last beach visit that we’d forgotten how doggone cold it can be there, even during the summer months, and we were thankful for having also packed jeans and sweatshirts.

Tom and Jenny had encouraged us to bring our field scope and Roni had packed her good camera gear in anticipation of what was expected to be a grand display of shooting stars during the height of the Perseids meteor shower. Mother Nature had other plans, however, and we were greeted instead by a blanket of low clouds that made it impossible to see anything more than the faintest outline of the new moon.

Still, it is hard to have a bad time at the beach, and we occupied ourselves by strolling along the shore watching the birds dart among the waves in search of crabs. Our niece Shannon, ever the explorer, set off on her own to retrieve treasures from the low tide.

Roni had baked up a pair of quiches to share that first night, so we enjoyed them for dinner along with a bit of salad. There was time spent socializing, catching up on the latest family news while Ben and Shannon played video games on the large screen TV in the living room. And then all too soon we were ready to crash for the night. Still tired from the drive and the preparations for the trip, it was time to get some sleep. There would be plenty of activity in the days ahead.

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B

Y WEDNESDAY WE'D all had enough of sitting around the house enjoying the beach view and were ready to get out and explore. Sean was eager to do some kayaking, and there were a couple of places up the road near Elkhorn Slough where you can rent the gear and get out on the water to see close up the seals and otters that frequent the river. We had been kayaking a few years ago out at Big Break Regional Shoreline when Roni was working with the Delta Science Center, but that experience hadn’t gone so well as we’d been on a tandem boat and never could seem to get our paddling in sync. Roni was content to remain on land for this excursion, but Glenn thought he’d give it a go — solo this time, thinking that perhaps the experience would be different if not better. 

We met up in separate cars at Moss Landing, which is at the mouth of Elkhorn Slough where it empties into the bay. Sean had decided we’d rent from Monterey Bay Kayaks and was already working his way through the multi-page online waiver form while the rest of us were still deciding who wanted to go along and how. Glenn would be riding solo, as would his dad who had never been kayaking and looked forward to adventuring in his own boat. Our nephew Allen would be matched up with his dad Tom in a tandem unit, while Sean would be seated behind Shannon in their own craft.

Monterey Bay Kayaks charges $40 for four hours for solo paddlers, and $35 each for tandems — not terribly expensive considering they also throw in all the other gear one might need to brave the chilly waters of the slough. We of course knew nothing about what we did or didn’t need, so it was a good thing the staff knew its stuff and guided us along. Kayaking isn’t exactly a dry sport, so it was highly recommended that in addition to the mandatory life jackets we also pull on a pair of nylon pants with velcro fasteners to keep our jeans dry, and a waterproof jacket to protect our T-shirts from getting soaked. We may have looked ridiculous and been strapped down tighter than an inmate at a mental ward, but at least our clothes would stay (mostly) dry even if our feet were still swimming in water…

Our feet! Well, they’d told us nothing about our shoes, and seeing as he’d only brought the one pair on his feet to last the entire vacation, Glenn decided he’d better heed the advice of our instructor, Campbell, when she said he might want to leave the shoes on shore to keep them dry. Rather than entrust them to one of the kayak shop’s lockers, he handed off his sneakers and socks to Ben and Roni, along with his Stetson hat that he’d determined would probably blow away in the afternoon breeze that was kicking up off the bay.

Before heading down to the water and boarding our boats, Campbell gave a brief orientation on how to use our paddles and recover from a roll, as well as a laundry list of things we could potentially be fined for if we engaged in them — such as straying out of the slough and into the bay (a huge no-no) or getting too close to the wildlife, like the Japanese tourist who had dared to pet an otter and had to pony up 50 grand. Sufficiently prepped and now paranoid about the consequences for flaunting the rules, we were ready to hit the water.

The best way to launch a sit-on-top kayak, we were told, is to get it almost fully in the water before straddling it and easing ourselves into the seat, then push off the rest of the way from shore with the paddle. After a bit of trial and error, we were all afloat and getting our sea legs. Shannon and Sean clearly had a routine that worked, and despite this being Shannon’s first time on the water, they were well ahead of the rest of our group. Norm took to his boat well and was right behind them, while Glenn made a half-lap around the harbor so Roni and Ben could get pictures before he went to catch up. Tom and Allen, meanwhile, were slow to get their craft afloat and quickly fell behind the rest of the group, although we heard later that they had at least made it part way up the slough.

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E

LKHORN SLOUGH — OR at least the part we were allowed to navigate — stretches about six miles inland and passes wetlands that are a key habitat for river otters and their young. It had been decided that the four members of our party who remained ashore would drive up to Kirby Park and meet the kayakers when they eventually arrived there.

Meanwhile, the rest of us were having a grand time paddling up the slough despite having missed low tide that would have made the effort easier. Glenn was finding that life in a solo craft was only slightly less difficult than rowing tandem; it still takes a lot of upper body strength to propel yourself through the waves in a straight line, and that becomes more crucial the closer you are to shore where there are shallower waters and more obstacles to avoid.

And then there were those pesky otters and seals. We had been told it was our responsibility to keep at least six boat lengths between us and any animals we encountered, but how does that work when the animals seem unfazed by humans and actually swim closer towards you? We got buzzed by flocks of pelicans and cormorants, as well as treated to precious close encounters with otters rolling in and out of the waves near the pilings of the Highway 1 bridge that crosses the slough.

Four hours may seem like a long time for a kayak rental, but it goes by quickly when you remember that what goes out must come back, and we’d be returning against the incoming tide. Better save enough time and energy to make the homeward leg of the journey. So our goal of reaching Kirby Park to wave hello to the rest of the crew never happened, and we actually decided to turn around less than two miles up the slough. That is, Glenn, Shannon and Sean decided to turn around; Dad was still in full-on Lewis and Clark mode and had managed to paddle up the north fork of the slough to see… what? Only he would find out, as we soon lost touch with him.

As expected, the trip back to the harbor was more challenging than the first leg of our voyage. Once past the highway bridge we had to cross the main channel that connects with the ocean, and it immediately became clear why kayaks weren’t allowed beyond the slough. The waves were much more intense in the channel, and threatened to overturn the kayak despite our best efforts to remain even keel. About the only thing to do was take it slow and bob along the current until reaching the calmer waters of the inner harbor.

We all made it back safely, though, including Norm who eventually brought up the rear. We returned our gear to the rental place after first having to wash out the pants and jackets in sudsy buckets and rinse our feet off at the spray station. Oh those feet! It was only as Glenn was retrieving his shoes and socks from Ben that he realized how badly sunburned the tops of his feet were. He’d used spray-on sunscreen on his arms and legs — all of which were covered by the nylon pants and jacket — but not his feet, which he’d never expected to need any. The result was a rosy red glow that would only grow brighter and more painful with the passing hours.

But it was a small price for the otherwise enjoyable experience — easily the most memorable day of the trip. (And just to provide a quick update, it has been nearly three weeks since that trip and Glenn’s sunburn is still peeling. Always remember your sunscreen!)

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B

ECAUSE YOU CAN'T really call it a vacation unless you turn off the smartphone and put work aside for the duration, Glenn had already cleared the deck of responsibilities with the nonprofit news organization he curates stories for and also vowed to take a break from his options trading for the week, with the caveat that he planned to open at least one new position to keep alive a streak that dates back to the final week of last December. That goal turned out to be more difficult than he had planned, as market conditions Monday and Tuesday didn’t cooperate, so it wasn’t until Wednesday morning that he finally hit the cash register and his put option on Krispy Kreme (DNUT) went through.

But apart from the allure of stocks, there was one financial obligation he couldn’t avoid, which was the U.S. Mint’s product release of the 100th anniversary commemorative Peace Dollar on Aug. 10. You might recall the fiasco that ensued back in May when the mint released the first two coins in its commemorative Morgan Dollar series. Like thousands of other people, Glenn had attempted to pre-order the coins only to receive repeated notices that the mint’s server was down and the order couldn’t be processed.

Because of the problems that day, the mint delayed the release of the remaining coins in the commemorative series, and unfortunately they all got bumped to August. The first of those came up on Aug. 3, and despite some difficulties and great sweating and cursing that morning, Glenn succeeded in getting his order in for one of the coveted Morgans. But the Peace Dollar was different. Unlike the Morgan series that consists of five different coins, there was only one planned release of the Peace Dollar, with a mintage limited to 200,000. That may sound like a lot, but it is a very small run for such a sought-after coin and meant they’d likely be snapped up within minutes of becoming available online.

To complicate matters, Glenn had no idea if there would be good Wi-Fi or cellular reception at Pajaro Dunes. Going online at the stroke of 9 a.m. meant nothing if you had just one bar available and couldn’t connect. So he was quite a ball of nerves that Tuesday morning as he watched the clock and refreshed his web browser at the appointed time.

But in perhaps an ironic twist, there were no delays this time and he was swiftly in and out with his confirmed order within a minute of placing it. The Peace Dollar promised to him for October delivery, the rest of the vacation could itself be peaceful with one less stresser to worry about.

The same might not be said for Roni, who faced an impending deadline for the magazine issue she was working on, with all the stories due by the end of the week. So she brought along her laptop and edited at the dining room table during the afternoon while we were mostly enjoying downtime at the condo. Not an ideal situation, perhaps, but surely better than our brother-in-law Tom who is part of the bargaining team for his union and spent the better part of two days with a Bluetooth speaker stuck in his ear on a never-ending conference call.

Relaxing vacations just aren’t what they used to be!

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A

DAY AFTER our kayaking trip found us back at Moss Landing, only this time it was fish rather than otters that lured us. Dad had heard rave reviews of a restaurant there called Phil’s Fish Market, and since we’d wanted to check out the statuary at The Pot Stop along the way, we figured we’d go with them.

We didn’t realize it until we arrived at the restaurant, but we’d been there before. Well, kind of. A couple of years ago when we’d been to Monterey for one of Roni’s business conferences, we’d stopped by Phil’s on our way home, thinking we’d grab some clam chowder before the long drive. But it had been the weekend and there was a line out the parking lot, not to mention nowhere to park. So we’d passed on eating there that day.

This time there was still nowhere to park, but at least we could see the entrance as we drove by. Roni eventually settled for the nearest parking spot she could find, a stall at the public beach a couple of blocks away. We took the hike back to the restaurant in stride, joking that we were working off our calories before the meal.

We found the restaurant still fairly popular this Thursday afternoon, but the line moved swiftly and we were soon at the front counter to order our meals. Monterey County had recently reinstated its indoor dining ban because of the latest surge in COVID cases, so we had to wear our masks until we were seated outdoors on the patio beneath a shade structure made from fiberglass panels. Shade they may have offered, but they also trapped the heat on this particularly hot day, making it too warm to be wearing the sweatshirts we’d brought with us.

Mom and Dad treated us, and the various fish dishes we all ordered mostly lived up to expectations. We had a hungry crew back at the condo, so our folks offered to bring back some clam chowder to share for lunch. Of course we didn’t expect to be out for so long, so by the time we’d finished eating at Phil’s and had spent half an hour or so at The Pot Stop on the way back to Pajaro Dunes, it was almost dinner time. At least Sean was making pizza for dinner, so everyone had plenty of room for it.

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F

RIDAY WAS OUR last full day in Pajaro Dunes, and Jenny had come up with an itinerary. The plan was to finish off as many of the leftovers as possible so that we wouldn’t have to lug them back home the following day. There would also be games, darnit, because she’d brought along Arkansas Bluff and some other long-ago titles that had yet to be opened, not to mention a few bottles of booze that had also been set aside for the occasion. Afterward, there would be a bonfire on the beach for the said purpose of roasting marshmallows and making s’mores.

We had thought she was kidding when the itinerary noted an early lunch and no dinner. Not that the idea of s’mores for dinner didn’t sound appealing, but it wasn’t the same as, say, a salad and some protein. We had to forage a bit, but it did give us the opportunity to polish off some of our own leftovers — the strawberries and cherries we’d brought with us had passed their prime. A frozen lasagna we’d thought to bring would be coming home to Oakley. 

The resort was kind enough to provide a fire pit at the house, so Tom hauled it down to the beach and set up a spot where we could gather our folding chairs after dark and enjoy the cookout. It was nice to have the fire going on what was otherwise a chilly evening, and although the graham crackers and chocolate squares had mostly been depleted an evening or two earlier at another cookout, we still had enough to share, and there were plenty of marshmallows to toast in the embers.

The next morning found most of us up early, including late-risers like Glenn. Norm had to hit the road earlier than the rest of us because he wanted to get an early start back to Hemet, where he continues to care for his mom who is rapidly approaching 103. But for the rest of us, there was time for breakfast and some more conversation before a last-minute roundup of luggage and another long trek along those steep ramps down to the parking lot.

Check-out time was before noon on Saturday, which seemed odd considering that we were wrapping up our vacation while most of the other folks at Pajaro Dunes were just beginning theirs. We paused for one last set of group photos among the branches of the huge eucalyptus trees lining the path. Then it was time to pile into our individual cars and head for home.

Because it was still early in the day and looking like another scorcher inland, our plan had been to head down to Monterey to check out Fisherman’s Wharf and grab some clam chowder for lunch before the return trip. But no sooner did we hit Highway 1 outside of Watsonville than traffic slowed to a crawl and a quick check of Google Maps convinced us that it wasn’t about to let up soon. Apparently everyone else had the same idea that it would be better along the coast than sweating it out in the interior valleys. We were disappointed, but there will always be another time for Monterey, and we had to admit that the idea of getting back home before nightfall had a certain appeal.

Roni made an illegal U-turn over the freeway median (shhhhhh!) and we eventually connected with Highway 129 in Watsonville to take us east to Highway 101 outside of Gilroy, where we eventually stopped to grab Togo’s sandwiches that we ate in a sweltering gas station parking lot. So much more fun than dining on chowder while watching boats in the Monterey harbor!

Our cats were still alive when we arrived home a couple of hours later, and they almost seemed bored by our return. Looks like they found a new friend in Aaron during our absence, but cats will eventually befriend anyone who feeds them regularly, so we didn’t take it personally. We had them deprogrammed within a couple of days.

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T

HERE'S NOT A lot new in the investing world to report, so this month’s recap will be a bit shorter than others. Suffice it to say that August was only slightly less horrible than July. If success is measured by cash flow, then we did okay, bringing in around $3,400. If it is measured by the trades that are closed and removed from the books, then it was a dismal failure.

With high-volatility, small-cap growth stocks — the sort we trade options around — continuing to take a beating, most of our open positions had to be rolled to later dates, several into 2022. That limits the capital available to take on other trades, so consequently we don’t want to be over extended as the markets enter September and October, which historically have been terrible months for equities.

Two new purchases of note: We were assigned 100 shares of Grocery Outlet (GO) in our taxable account on Aug. 12, which might make Ben proud given he works for them, but it cost us $3,500 for shares that are presently worth about $2,500. Yeah, it hurts, but we hope it will eventually recover. The other buy was 100 shares of something called NextGen Acquisition Corp. II (NGCA), which is the company that will take Richard Branson’s satellite-launching venture Virgin Orbit public sometime later this year. It was a bit of a lark, but if the SPAC process is good enough for Sir Richard then it’s good enough for us too — as long as the price is right and we know where we want to get out!

That’s about it for this month. Hard as it is to believe, Labor Day is upon us and the end of summer is just around the corner. Hopefully we’ll get some cooler, less smoky weather soon.

 

Glenn, Roni and Ben