Robert went to get real coffee and food in the morning, while I read about Kathleen Hanna and listened to the loud cries of the seagulls. When you camp there are bird alarm clocks, the crows at Wheeler Gorge and Freemont, the Blue Jays at Samuel P. Taylor, but at Borg’s it is the gulls. The morning was wet and misty, our first coastal morning, and we were excited to stop at Watsonville or San Francisco to go to Kaiser and take the 1 up through Santa Cruz and Half Moon Bay and then camp in the redwoods at Samuel P. We had a lovely send off from Joe and Dominique, and then we were on or way, sort of. As I mentioned before our mutual sense of direction seemed to fail in Pacific Grove, so we were somewhere near the 17-mile drive, a meandering drive to nowhere but golf courses, when something happened.

                  Robert was trying to turn us around on the 17-mile drive, to get headed back to Highway 1 and points north, when the Bus made a weird chattering noise. “Shit,” Robert said. “It’s the pressure plate!” I knew what the pressure plate went, for I was there for Busted Flat in Big Sur, losing the plate on the Big Sur coast, driving to San Luis Obispo in 2^nd gear to get it sort of fixed, all that stress and strain, but then on the last days of the trip, but now? Just as we were getting off? With deadlines?

                  Panic, fear, anxiety, dread blossomed as we found a place to park at a Safeway. “What’s going on? Just talk to me?” I said to Robert, and he said, “I can feel the engine when I shift, just like before. “ Even I had heard the shuddering of the engine, but what to do? It was Sunday, no mechanic was open, and we were miles from home or our destination. I remembered that Robert had taken pictures of a VW mechanic in Pacific Grove before, we had actually walked near there on the previous night’s death walk, so now Robert looked the guy up, called, left a message, and said “He opens Monday at 10,” so then we were calling Borg’s, reclaiming our recently vacated room, and heading back to the parking lot we had just left.

Thus began the saga of the mechanics, trapped at Borg’s, freaking out and stuck in a fucked up holding pattern. The unplanned second day at Borg’s was so weird. We talked to Joe and Dominique as we sadly re-parked, and Joe freaked me out by talking about a valve issue, and then we were on the industrial bedspread, waiting to hear from a mechanic by phone, an odd link back to our first trip in the Bus when we were waiting to hear from Larry. Soon enough, Jim called, saying he was booked Monday, but giving Robert some names of guys who might be able to help, Kelly and Bob.

                  Thus began the saga of the mechanics anew, leaving messages for (Bob) or talking to (Kelly), and then there was the waiting. Kelly said he could get the part by Tuesday, but Robert said maybe Jim would have a clutch kit, and then we heard nothing from Kelly.  We decided to go for a walk—such a picturesque place—but we were trudging along, almost oblivious to the sea and the sky, worrying about the Bus and the trip—would we even make it to Ashland?

We made our way walking to a Lighthouse, a cemetery, got lost in the little streets of Pacific Grove, learning from the Lighthouse lady docent that it was the oldest in continual operation in California, for the sister lighthouse at Alcatraz had been interrupted in the 1970’s AIM occupation. There were crows, and I thought about death in the cemeteries, and then we were making our way back to Borg’s when the cell phone rang. I only heard Robert’s side of the conversation, but it was Bob, the other mechanic, and he said he might stop by in the late afternoon to “diagnose.”

                  Thus began the saga of the crafts, for I had been making prayer flags and fans for Dad’s memorial, and this particular afternoon seemed a fine time to sew them and cut them and craft them. And so, we crafted, waiting for a call, and the seagulls outside were having a party at Borg’s, so their loud cries punctuated our demands for scissors, more thread, and the crafting of all the things for the memorial. We were waiting for a call from anyone, any mechanic who might help, but we were also sewing, cutting the fans and little boxes for Dad’s memorial.

Jim called and said we could pick up the clutch kit at 10 am, so that was positive, and then around 5 I went out for much needed smoke, and Dominique joined me, and sitting there in front of the Bus’s snout, looking at his sad face, for he seemed sad then, seagulls caterwauling all around, I heard a voice. “Is this your van?” a grey man asked, slumped and small in a sweatshirt. “I’m Bob,” he said, like I should have known that, and then I scurried to get my Bob to help him. I went back to the sewing in the room, wondering what was happening, hearing Robert and this new Bob drive away in the Bus.

                  Soon Robert returned to tell me the story of Bob, a guy who didn’t like all the stuff on the Bus’s dash, who was certain it was the clutch cable, who thought there was no valve issue. We were just digesting this when Kelly the other mechanic returned the call—he’d been taking a nap—and said if we could pick up the clutch kit from Jim in the morning, we could meet him at his place in Seaside and be on the way in a couple of hours.

                  Kelly also shared some thoughts about Bob and Jim: “Jim’s a great guy, Bob’s wiring is off” and then I decided that another walk was in order, so we tried to order food from the restaurant nearby, but they said to call back at 8:15, and when we called at 8:14 they said they weren’t taking any orders, so we finished up the crafty stuff, and I convinced Robert to draw some watercolors of the Bus as thank you gifts to Dominique and Joe, Jim, and Kelly, (annoying, I know, but better than him trying to look up Bus info on Borg’s wireless), and then we ate a truly terrible dinner from the last place open and delivering, Panda Express, and then fell asleep, the gulls now silent, the only sound our breathing and the distant calm slap of the Monterey Bay.