We slipped serendipitously into a week of manual labor at the height of Sonoma County’s greenest bounty, answering to a skinny 19-year-old Salvadoran man we knew mostly as jefe (boss), while mingling with Oaxacan migrants whose border-crossing stories send chills up your spine. This time, north of the border, we stealth camped on quiet streets in Carpinteria, Cayucos and Santa Cruz, snagging some glassy sunset sessions in chilly seas as the seasons changed. Van life felt cruisy, just how we had left it in April after our month-long surf trip up through Central America and mainland Mex. We cleaned out the van and some closets in need of airing – both literal and figurative – and journeyed up the coast. In early October, California welcomed us with swollen seas and open doors, as coincidental configurations of family members gathered in familiar homes, among faces and places that lurk among my earliest memories.
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