• Surf & Turf

    Set sail: A classic camper with nautical roots.

    *featured in the October Issue of Wildsam Magazine

    Renowned boat manufacturer Jensen Marine of Costa Mesa, California, decided to get into the booming RV scene. Their designers imagined a rig tough enough for seafaring, but made for the road. The Balboa Motorhome debuted as the first B+ van of its kind, promising not to ‘squeak, leak, rattle, or rust’. The manufacturer installed a solid piece of fiberglass, as on a sailboat, atop Chevy, Ford, and Dodge chassis, creating a stylish family van that fit into a parking spot, just like a station wagon.

    The boxy open floor plan highlighted ample storage, a wet bath, a kitchenette, a classic rear entry, and expansive windows that brought the outdoors inside. About 14 dealers —mainly on the West Coast — sold the Balboa. Though a relative success, the camper ultimately fell victim to the energy crisis of the early 70s. Only about 1,000 campers ever reached the market.

    Nowadays, these rigs are uncommon in the wild — unless you’re in the tight-knit coastal town of Cardiff-by-the-Sea, California.

    On any given beach day, several head-turning Balboas join the lineup of Sprinters, Westfalias, and creeper-vans-turned-surf-mobiles at the intimate Cardiff State Beach lot. Back doors open to reveal a sea-green playground where long and short boarders wax poetic from sunrise to sunset. Salty kids draped in towels crunch on Doritos while seagulls lurk around the edges in envy. 

    The Balboa phenomenon here in Cardiff is powered by Paul Tralka, who started the one-man, backyard van restoration shop known as Freedom Vessel. Paul bought his first Balboa from a ninety-year-old former pilot over a landline, and it checked every box. “It worked all the time, had power, space, and big windows so I didn’t feel trapped or guilty if I was inside of it while camping,” says Tralka. 

    From there, curious gull-like bystanders and friends inquired about where to get one, so he started restoring and selling them one by one, saving these relics from junkyards and “Grandpa’s backyard” around the country. The demand for Balboas runs year-round in this sweet spot home base, where the van complements the town’s nostalgic hippie culture and amplifies the outdoor lifestyle. 

    Paul has since renovated over 40 Balboas, including the first one ever made, named the Surveyor after a lunar vehicle of that era. Each van has a story and distinct personality, costing a quarter of the price of a new van, but with a 50-year-old caveat: it may or may not make it to Alaska. 

    “Our Balboa’s name is Loretta,” says local owner Agatha Borrelli, “and she is absolutely a Loretta.” More than a recreational vehicle, their van serves as a spotlight in brand photo shoots for Borrelli’s production company and a post-surf therapy lounge for her husband’s clients. 

    From the wisdom of the sea came a short-lived but longstanding van, a pioneer for Chinook and others in its class. Now transforming a beach town, the Balboa community and Freedom Vessel are making good on Jensen Marine’s original adage: getting there is all the fun.

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  • Just Jeff

    “I’m going to charge you for making photos of my restaurant,” smirks a Dutchman as he pushes the service door open and walks onto the sidewalk. A waft of coffee beans and the sound of clanking dishes escape narrowly with him. He is outfitted in all black except for the colorful sleeve tattoo running up his left arm. 

    My sister, Michelle (Meesh), and I stand in front of this dubious man after our now embarrassing photo shoot under this cafe sign, a bit stunned by his blunt demeanor. She has just returned from a run, beautifully dewy faced and then down-right sweaty in other parts from the humid summer heat. And I am returning from a walk; jet lagged with curly hair abandoning all structure against the moisture in the air. We had planned to meet in the middle of town, and this cafe stopped us both in our tracks. 

    Just Jeff read the sign in tall black lettering. 

    “Jeff was our dad’s name,” I blurt out, diving into a desperate attempt at overexplaining myself, the American-ness also dripping off both of us.  Bikes whir past us in an organized blur. Even after 6 years, it still stings using my dad’s name in past tense. 

    He lights a cigarette and brings it discreetly up to his pursed lips, like I’m sure he’d done thousands of times before. He brushes his other hand through loose strands of sandy-colored hair that had missed his ponytail and exhales the smoke away from our direction.  

    “Are you Jeff?” Meesh asks, even though we already know the answer.  He nods, taking another drag from his cigarette as my eyes traveled to the tiny sterling silver knife studs in his ears. 

    Forested stretches of land and wild dunes surround Soest, outside the province of Utrecht in the Netherlands. Pronounced “soost,” not “soast”, like toast, as I had been saying. A charming street of shops and restaurants runs through its center. 

    Meesh had come to join my husband and our three kids for a brief portion of our European family vacation. She is the youngest out of my three sisters and I am the upper middle. While traveling together as sisters is familiar and nostalgic, it is strange to be on a trip without having first excitedly run through every detail of the itinerary with my dad’s travel-loving curiosity and interest.

    In our young adult years, my dad took Meesh and I to Prague on a business incentive trip, where we ate dinners in caves and my dad had to stop us from inappropriate laughter in a museum like we were kids again (he was laughing with us on the inside). I am thoroughly enjoying this moment of the three of us traveling “together” again. 

    “It’s just Jeff, you know? Humble and not showy,” he explains. “We open in an hour.” Meesh and I glance at each other and smile. 

    At my dad’s funeral, the priest made a comment that my dad “lived life out loud”. He wasn’t a life of the party guy and certainly not one for extra attention. But when the priest looked out into the absolute packed church (joking that he wished he could draw this kind of crowd for mass), my dad’s impact over his 60 years of life radiated. 

    “The font of my logo is inspired by Led Zeppelin,” Jeff divulges without prompting. Meesh and I laugh in unison—remembering the British band rocking intermittently on the car radio as kids. My dad would reminisce about high school dances and how he prayed to not get stuck dancing with someone he didn’t like through all eight minutes of “Stairway to Heaven”.  

    We leave to change at our Airbnb and then arrive back around 10 am, walking up to the register. “We’re back!” We smile brightly as he greets us. “I can see that,” he laughs with an air of endearing sarcasm. 

    Inside, there are green seating nooks near the window with golden light fixtures and floral wallpaper.  Jeff makes me a golden milk with half a cup of cloud-like cream, and Meesh a frothy cappuccino. He later delivers us homemade bread on the house.  

    We leave on a high with a sign from dad, followed by the subsequent sadness that it implies. 

    “Thank you, Jeff,” I say aloud. Thank you, Dad.  

  • Girl in the Water

    I tiptoe through the shallow waters, 
    clench my arms to my chest, 
    and squeal as whitewater crashes into my bare stomach. 
    I wait for an unbroken wave to arrive and then— 
    sink under like a desperate prayer. 
    Saltwater rushes around my ears, into my nose, down the back of my throat. 
    It soaks my day-old hair into submission, sweeps
    my body into a break from the weight of land. 
    Under again, my arms float up following the curl of the wave. 
    From the sea, I can wrap my arms around the width of an hour, 
    the shape of my daughter’s emotions, 
    the length of my task list. 
    Another wave arrives like a gift, and I submerge again,
    now saturated with the sea. 
    After three baptisms, I lie back and stretch out—a cross 
    facing the sky. There I am 
    no one other than a girl in the water. 
    Remember me, I plead to the ocean. To God. To my kids. 
    I stand up and scatter the water with my hands 
    leaving everything I don’t need behind. 
    Holy water drips down the nape of my neck and
    I look back in quiet thanks.
    Remember me, she echoes back.

  • “Easter Island” Returns to Two Harbors

    Featured in the 4/25 Issue of The Catalina Islander

    Two Harbors, nestled on Catalina’s remote west end, transformed into “Easter Island” this past weekend. The small town sits on a narrow strip of land, clothespinned between the larger island landmasses and offering scenic harbors on either side. 

    Early morning sunshine and a light, salty chill created idyllic conditions for an egg hunt tradition, hosted by the Corsair Yacht Club, which dates back over 70 years. Emerging from dinghies, tents, homes and lodges, the town swelled with joyful participants. 

    The Easter Bunny made a grand appearance at 8 a.m., rolling up in a roaring fire truck and instantly amplifying the anticipation. On the count of three, a mob of 6-12-year-olds surged up the hill with bags and baskets to scour the grass and playground at Buffalo Park—everyone with the coveted golden egg on their minds. The five and under crowd scuttled around Harbor Sands at island pace searching for colorful eggs beneath picnic tables and at the base of palm trees. 

    This year’s egg hunt wasn’t without a bit of drama. About 5 minutes in, someone reported finding a golden egg; however, the hunt leader deemed it “not the real golden egg.”  Hope surged again as the hunt continued. Hidden in plain sight beneath the grass, the true golden egg was discovered. All kids huddled around the lucky winner, who had arrived late to the hunt because her family’s dinghy had broken down—it all paid off!

    In the end, all participants left with full hands and proud hearts.  

    “I opened it and I eat it!” exclaimed a two-year-old boy with sticky fingers and a sly smile. 

    Another girl shouted, “I got lots of coins and dollars!” Her bag dragging the ground with the weight of island treasure.

    The event is a gem for kids and grown-ups alike, many of whom have been sharing in this tradition for years, if not decades. Event supporter and senior member of the Corsair Yacht Club, Roger Civalleri, has been coming to the Isthmus since he was a kid. “I still got excited sailing over on my boat this weekend,” he shared. “This place is in my blood.”

    The egg hunt is part of an entire weekend of activities, including the Punch Bowl the night before, with a live band and a communal BBQ. The yacht club is a small group of highly active members, now welcoming the next generation of boaters.

    “To me,” said Roger, his arm gesturing to the understated magnificence of nature and community around him, “this here is as good as it gets.”

    Link to Article