My Luck With Pants

The Coastal Cleanup weekend was a riot. Well, as riotous as camping and picking up other peoples’ garbage can really get.

I tell you, there is nothing more humbling than digging someone’s discarded baby diapers out of a muddy creek bottom. Or better yet, finding someone’s outdoor “toilet” as you’re tromping through seagrass looking for recyclables. And thank you, California, for deciding that beaches, bushes, and forests are the best place possible for storing your dirty and disintegrating shoes, socks, and underwear (ladies: an extra thank-you for leaving your “mark” on the latter).

I had to fight hard to remember that not everyone on this planet is a disgusting piece of shit. I’m better now, but at the time, being covered in my own dripping sweat and several unidentified substances that had leaked out of various bottles/cans/boots/plastic bags, it was difficult to maintain perspective. One positive…I got to watch a group of young’uns from the CA Conservation Corps dig out a car at Blues Beach. Just in time for some kind redneck gentleman with no shoes to hook his tow chain to it and haul it out and around the beach like some big rusted trophy. Followed by a grunt session not unlike Tim Allen’s Home Improvement “I am man, hear me roar” noises.

The absolute highlight of the entire weekend was the rapid depletion of wearable pants in my already-limited wardrobe. I started the weekend out wearing one of my favorite pairs of board shorts because it was hot as all get-out when we left here on Friday. Getting ready to leave my parents’ house, I was tasked with keeping Glen from escaping while mom closed the front door. That wily little bastard slipped out anyway and I made a desperate, deep lunge to grab him. At which point I heard a distinct RRRRRIIIIIP! and found myself with a sudden and unexpected ventilation system in my trousers. (Caught the damn cat, though) The hole wasn’t so big that it was in need of immediate changing, so I decided to just stick with it and toss them when we got to the campground. I had two pairs of jeans packed, so it was all good.

The next morning I threw on the older of the two pairs of jeans and headed off to clean those beaches. I squatted down to pick cigarette butts out of a pile of rocks at the base of a cliff, and heard that distinct and now familiar RRRRIIIIIIP! Ah, there’s that ventilation again. It wasn’t so bad that I couldn’t stick it out for the rest of the morning, but now I was definitely down to just one pair of jeans.

That night, mom and I decided to throw my now unusable jeans and a pair of her old ripped underwear in the campfire. I changed into my last unmarred pair of jeans, chucked my old ones on the fire, and joked about how well they burned and it’s good fortune that I never stood too close to an open flame in them. I poured myself a glass of tempranillo, sat down in one of the canvas camp chairs, and propped my glass in the cupholder while I attempted to light a cigar for mom and I to share.

That’s when I felt something wet and cold hit my leg, run down through my crotch, and soak straight into my jeans.

Did I mention that I’d just filled my glass? It was a pretty big glass too. And it was pretty full. And yeah, I”m aware that the cupholders in those chairs aren’t made for wine glasses, but I thought I had it propped up pretty good. SHUT UP, lemme finish my story.

I stood up to halt the absorption process (the canvas chairs are waterproof, so all that wine just pooled on the seat and wicked its way into my denim. Mom got out her flashlight to survey the damage.

My ass was thirsty.No, it's OK. I'll just go pantless.

No, it's OK. I'll just go pantless.

Yeah. Denim is really really absorbent. Really.

It’s a good thing that it was 9pm and we weren’t going anywhere for the rest of the night, because I don’t know that I can rock the flannel-pajama-bottoms-in-public look as well as most folks. That was all I had left for bottoms. So a desperate attempt was made to dry my jeans in front of the campfire. We even stoked it up and threw a bunch of extra logs on it right before we crawled into the tent, hoping that maybe…just maybe…the Dry Jeans Fairy would pay me a visit and cure all my pants woes.

Because yeah, it makes sense that jeans would end up bone dry after sitting out all night on the Northern California coast. I’m betting it comes as no surprise to you that my jeans weren’t dry the next morning. On a positive note, the sun was shining when we got up, so into the one patch of sunlight in our campsite the jeans went. Within an hour, they were dry enough to wear, and the wine stain barely showed. I would have my dignity yet!

Apparently karma decided that I’d had enough, because I stayed dry, clean, and all in one piece for the remainder of the trip. As soon as I got home, I pulled out every pair of pants I own and inspected them inside and out. I think I’m safe. And I won’t be packing less than six pairs of any pants type next time I travel. By god, I’ll never be without proper pants again!

Did I mention that those wine glasses were large?