Where I come from on the east coast of the US, a view was the reward for a vigorous hike. At the top of the ridge, perhaps through an opening in the trees or a rocky outcrop, you could stop and admire the view into the surrounding valleys. You stood on the outcrop and enjoyed feeling like some kind of large, predatory bird. Below, the patchwork of farms, you’d notice the rivers and highways you’d seen on a map. It was a chance to experience the actual earth the way we experience a map — comprehensively, seeing and understanding everything at once, as a god sees.
Here in California, one need not climb a mountain to enjoy such a view. Views are common enough to be a major driver of real estate value. We now enjoy a view from our living room window that would have been sufficient reward for quite a long hike back east. Of course, the state’s rugged topography and sparser vegetation make this possible.
But there’s a different kind of high and low, a different kind of relief and a different kind of view in California, one caused by the extreme differences in wealth among its 35 million citizens. Back east, I was generally conscious of how many people had so much less than we have. Out here, you notice signs of uber-wealth almost as often as those of wretched poverty. Often, they’re in very close proximity. In a marina nearby, the bright red and white furled head sail and hulls and back stay of a 50+ foot trimaran stands out against the forest of gray masts. I walked past this marina hundreds of times and have never seen this boat under way. A friend keeping his boat at the marina told me why, or at least his explanation.
The enormous trimaran had belonged to a young and very successful Silicon valley exec who bought it to sail across the Pacific on what I imagine was his dream voyage. It is surmised that he slipped and fell overboard while unconnected to his safety line. As sometimes happens when sailboats become separated from their owners, his trimaran was recovered in fairly good condition. The owner’s body was not recovered at all.
Presumably, the yacht is now for sale, waiting for a buyer not spooked by its awful story. Or, perhaps, it has found a buyer, someone who heard the story, shrugged, and began hiring out the necessary maintenance. Or, perhaps the new owner is waiting, waiting for a break in his or her impossible work schedule — who knows? Not far from the trimaran is another luxury yacht, a power boat, the kind of creamy, multi-layered boat that suggests an enormous floating birthday cake. I’ve also never seen this boat in use. The rumor at the marina is that it’s owned by former president George W. Bush.
In our old neighborhood, many of our retired neighbors seemed to have second homes in other places, whereas we had to change our only home for a 2-bedroom condominium so I could afford to retire. (Poor, poor pitiful us!) Our new condo is built on a steep hillside that used to be the site of a brick quarry. Of the five buildings in our complex, ours is built on the highest part of the hill, so our views are the best. In California, it’s easy to feel one-up or one-down on someone else.
Exiting the freeway recently, I happened to see a homeless man breaking off the limb of a Crepe Myrtle—a tree planted and maintained by the city. I felt a flash of anger, and at that moment, we made eye contact, the man and I. He looked angry too. Beside the amputated Crepe Myrtle, I could make out a blue tarp roped to the branch of another small tree and a sleeping bag. Of course, the broken branch was to be his privacy barrier. As I continued gliding around the exit cloverleaf, headed to my warm, dry home, I felt a cool shiver of something—perhaps, you could call it vertigo.
You don’t have to look to the homeless for a sense of social/economic “topography.” Earlier this year, I sailed with a young man who works full-time in a high-end bike shop in Berkeley. Rather than to attempt to find an affordable apartment near work, he sleeps in his van, which he keeps in the parking lot of the business where he works. His employer lets him use a set of showers in the same building. A story appeared in the local TV news about a young mother and college student who returns from class every night with her baby to sleep in her car. In fact, a significant number of students at this university sleep in their cars. But, not to worry — the journalist who covered this was considerate enough to end this story on a note of uplift: the university is installing lockable bathrooms with showers in the parking garage to accommodate these students.
This extreme social topography, like the mountains that seem to tumble straight into the sea, is part of the landscape of the state where we now live. Silicon Valley execs unable to enjoy their mega yachts, multiple home-owning neighbors, the fully employed on the lower end of the wage scale living in their vehicles, and the abject homeless camped along the freeway— they’re all part of the mix. As usual, we’re somewhere between the top and bottom, but it’s a long, long way to the top and perhaps not quite so far to the bottom.
