I am driving North up Pacific Coast Highway toward Ventura, beneath the rocky cliffs that give way to massive water front dunes and the blue desert of ocean beyond. It is nearly Seven in the A.M. and I am racing to a store to purchase food supplies to make up for those stolen by Squirrels and racoons as I slept last night. I stretched outside my tent this morning beneathe a costal oak grove and found my food supplies scattered and nibbled to shreds in corners close to the hill that climbs into the Santa Monica mountain range behind my campsite. Driving along I see the first of a series of coastal hobos, the aged leather shoes and heavy maritime coat brings to mind the ingenious seaside bums of Steinbeck’s design from the pages of Cannery Row- the sight warms my heart. This is the country I dream of; a blue tapestry of sky and ocean sewn together at the horizon. Hiking into the hills of coastal sage and flowing yellow baked fields of grass. I watch the sunset behind the incoming tide while swimming and In the late evening I walk along the Coastal bluffs watching waves thunder on to the massive rocks; in and out of the caverns it has carved beneathe the moon and the sun for aeons. I cook canned soup over the fire and drink cold beers from pint cans. I fall alseep reading, listening to the cars hum by on route one and the waves crashing a few hundred yards from my tent.