“I got this feeling, inside my bones, it goes electric baby when I turn it on.”

Timberlake blares through my speakers and I belt alongside him. Man I miss him as a wonder teen in the Mickey Mouse Club, before he was bringin’ sexy back. Cruisin’ down the coast on the last leg of my journey south. I feel so full. Brimming with excitement and hope and the wondrous possibilities of this new life.

“Awhooooo!” I can’t help myself as I howl out the window, else the song inside swallow me whole.

A few short hours and hundreds of thousands of white lines later and I’m pulling into downtown San Diego. I don’t really know what I expected, but being on the road this long has conditioned me to stop seeing a place for what I’ve envisioned it to be, and simply immerse myself in what it is at that very moment in time.

Park Delilah and as always, start walking and get my bearings. The city streets are grid-like, the bars parallel to a couple theaters and perpendicular to other little shops and passerby go every which way. I grab a couple pints here and there and type a few notes from scribblings in my journal. I’m more than halfway through the stark white pages, spilling black and blue and purple ink between soft azure lines. Pen to paper then paws to pavement and I float listlessly up and down the streets. An outsider beginning to look the part, blending in with the city and the sun and SoCal. Amen.

Enough now, for the ocean is calling me home. Jump in the van and my phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s my best friend Taylor. I hear tears on the other end of the line. I panic, then backtrack as I realize these are happy tears and I join in the waterworks. She’s pregnant. Thank goodness I’ve not put mascara on in a month – mine isn’t waterproof. Dry my eyes and turn the van again towards the highway, filled with joy for my friend and a familiar radiance I’m becoming used to.

A friend of my Hollywood located pal Nate managed to leave his trunks in Hollywood upon his departure, so I have a sidebar mission from Nathaniel to return them. Save the guy some postage. The friend, Dave, is on business in Pacific Beach which is right on my way down the coast. Pull into PB, trunks in hand and man, parking is a bitch. There are bros in flat brims and wife beaters and two dollar bomb specials everywhere. What parallel freshman year universe did I just drive into?

Feeling twenty-one again I suppose, sunglasses and day drinks on patio rooftops. Trunks returned. Our motley little crew heads down the beach for some damn decent Mexican. Place doesn’t look like much from the outside, but inside is taco temptation like you wouldn’t believe. Too many choices and smells and background hustle and bustle to take it all in at once.

Arrive just before the lunch rush literally forms a line leading out the door. I can’t remember the names of all those dishes, but something involving a plastic cup layered with shrimp and pico de gailo and who knows what else, then crunchy shells to scoop up the Mexican and seafood succulence. Seriously though, delish. I order three different things that send my taste buds into heaven and my waistline towards an uncomfortable position against my short’s button.

Devour our taco feast in its entirety and part ways. PB is a lot like a college bar town without the college. Fun, but that will be quite enough of that. Head a little further down the coast to Ocean Beach.

As soon as I edge my van up to the curb in the residential stretch east of the ocean, I know I’ve found my Eden. It just feels, familiar and right. The beach-walk and bar stretch is just west of a little community of houses in rows that run down the hill towards the ocean. The cutest elementary school I’ve ever see has an octopi and other multitudes of sea creatures painted on the bricks of its side wall.

There are people everywhere, but without the blanketing urgency that was palpable in Venice Beach. An organized chaos maybe, but not quite the carny-freak show of wild wonders that runs shop just a few hours north of here. There’s a tranquil happiness that pervades here. Like the people have all the answers to the universe and are content to smile and keep it to themselves.

I join in on the good vibes and pull my guitar out near the main beach entrance. Begin to play. I’m really feeling it tonight and I belt out some moody Alanis Morrisette and some sassy Sara Bareilles, and a little gritty Joplin. People are digging it too, tips and earnest smiles, earning some grateful dollars. Feelin’ a bit guilty though because I posted up kiddie corner from a guy begging for spare change. When I started playing I knew the funds would drift my way versus his. Sad but true, the paradigms of human perception.

The man had been cussing people out or muttering to himself for the better part of an hour, but every once in a while I would see him tapping his foot to my melodies. He had a particularly impressive way of stringing together profanities that would put George Carlin’s “seven words” to shame.

I finish my set, walk the five or six steps across the sidewalk and hand him a couple dollars.

“Thanks for sharing your space,” I say.

He pushes my hand away gently.

“That’s okay sweetheart, you keep your money.” He says with just a little smile.

This may be the most profound experience I have had amidst a journey of truly wondrous things. I am so genuinely touched by his refusal, making me very thoughtful and ponderous, on this warm October California night.

Music is love and breeds compassion in the simplest of forms. I take this feeling of lightness and my lessons and walk down the main stretch to the hostel I’ve reserved. The folks in the little suburbs east of the beach seemed wary of me and my rape-y van. There are multiple camping style adventure vans parked in the area and the locals seem at odds with the makeshift vagabond homes on wheels. I opt for a bed this time.

Check into my room and this place is even cooler than the Adelaide in San Fran. The walls are shades of purples and turquoise. The occupants seem chill and cheerful and people come and go and prepare for the evening as the sun goes to rest to let the moon become a beacon in the darkness, at play with billions and billions of stars. Hit the pavement again and skirt around a country-ish style music fest that is beginning by a large pavilion near to the water.

Bar hop and Pokémon on my iPhone til’ my heart’s content. What a beautiful life. This might be home. Even better than the whirlwind lives lived in L.A and Venice Beach. This place seems sturdier, more visceral than my other brief glimpses of California coast life.

It’s getting late and I’ll head back soon, but I stumble upon a bottle flipping bartender that has snagged my attention through the open aired restaurant window frames. He boasts a big game and claims to be number one at his trade in the area. I didn’t know bottle tossing was a profession, but this is California. Anything can be turned into a show, I realize quickly as the bar keep whips Grey Goose and Jameson bottles behind his back. They bounce off of his elbows and flip lightly against his palms.

I tire of the show and head back towards the hostel. It is barely past midnight, but I’m exhausted and full to the brim with hopes and ideas and raw energy towards obtaining this life. For now, sleep on it, dream the wildest dreams and write on the morrow.

Rise early with the sun, turn in my keys and sheets and head towards the beach, sand just beginning to warm under the morning sun. All the clutter of the last few days has settled to thoughts in my mind and I can concentrate in full, without the distraction of constant actions and reactions and the endless tangents I take blindly into the unknown.

There’s a short jetty of slick, smoothed rocks that stretch out west across the ocean nearing the surfers paddling over small whitecaps. Waves break and the Pacific roars. Pen and notebook in hand I clamber across the mossy surfaces until I’m a ways away from the shore. Sit cross legged, water lapping below me, tiny ghost crabs scuttling between the cracks. Warm wind and salt spray against my tanned skin. Breathe, write, take it all in and give it all back in positive thoughts, progressive understanding and line after line after line of ink.

Finish up in purple scribbles, close my notes and walk back across the rocks, sand and pavement, back to Delilah. I am the happiest I have ever been and my journey is not yet finished. Climb in the cab; turn the keys in the ignition and she rumbles to life. Leave my shoes off and ease the pedal down, out of town and back east. Blessed, humbled and ready for more.

My dad’s younger brother Derek lives in Arizona and it has been a coon’s age since I’ve seen him. I love my dad, but Derek and I get along like a couple of teenagers and things are bound to get ridiculous. Next stop, Scottsdale. Goodbye California, it’s been the time of my life.