IT'S A LONG WAY TO TIPPERARY

This story describes how I felt about living in northern California. 02/29/2016

IT’S A LONG WAY FROM TIPPERARY

Northern California is no bed of roses, although nearby Portland, Oregon is famous for them. Its coastline is very rugged, more bleak than beautiful. The temperature of the Pacific Ocean water north of San Francisco is very low, often below 50 degrees Fahrenheit, which when combined with its rough surf make it very swimmer-unfriendly. Most of my weekend trips took me north to Oregon or south to Santa Rosa. The views of the beaches in either direction were always the same: uninviting.

Narrow roads filled with logging trucks made driving inland difficult. Mighty redwoods and enormous stands of Douglas fir populate the region, making the forests both scenic and imposing. However, when lumberjacks harvest the trees, the forests lose their picturesque appearances. It is far too noisy there to contemplate nature. The woods rang out with a cacophony of ear-splitting sounds coming from chain saws and logging trucks driven by daredevils at frightening speeds hauling logs to the mills located along the coast. The ground  seemed always to be damp and the air smelled dank. Angie would have detested the place, which made our decision to defer marriage seem wise.

Soon after my arrival in Arcata the company hired a structural design engineer, William Cauley, a bachelor like me. We often ate dinner together at a small family restaurant. He lived frugally in a one-room furnished apartment that had no kitchen.

On a few occasions, he would join me for a beer after eating, but neither of us enjoyed the company of the roughnecks who populated the local bars. These gents were loggers, truckers or mill workers who appeared to be a fearsome lot. I preferred to imbibe at the Eureka Inn’s lounge as it catered to vacationers, traveling sales representatives and a few local businesspersons, most of whom did not wear Levis and other Western attire. The bar crowd wore professional attire and spoke in a civil manner.

One late evening, while sipping a cocktail in the motel’s nearly deserted lounge, a rough looking bewhiskered older man joined me at the bar. He guzzled down a beer in one swig. We had a brief conversation before he left as abruptly as he had arrived. When he had gone, the bartender informed me that this character owned a huge spread of redwoods, and had the distinction of being one of the wealthiest men in the area. It confirmed the adage: Don’t judge a beer guzzler by his beard.

In late June, our staff completed the new tower design. In August, the company closed its Arcata office and transferred us to their new office in San Mateo where we joined forces with a few other NYC Cooling Tower Department employees who had chosen to relocate. It had not come soon enough to satisfy me. Residing in the fog-shrouded area of Eureka Bay depressed me. The San Francisco Bay area had much more to offer in the way of cultural and social activities, on a par with New York City. San Mateo even had sunshine!

Let me assure you, the cities of Eureka/Arcata are a long way from everywhere, not just Tipperary.

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