The Sea of Cortez

Humpback whales sighted off the shore of Hopkins today...

Week three continues to deliver the rigor! On monday, Susan and Gilly coaxed us into the philosophically inviting waters of The Log from the Sea of Cortez, a collection of journalistic musings kept by John Steinbeck and his comrade-in-arms, Edward F. Ricketts (Doc from Cannery Row) that narrated, to a certain extent, their epic six-week marine animal collecting expedition down the Baja peninsula and into the Sea of Cortez. In the originally published format (The Sea of Cortez: A Leisurely Journal of Travel and Research), Steinbeck's Log was followed by Ricketts' extensively annotated catalog of marine specimens. For our purposes, the narrative content provided more than enough material for debate, discussion, and dissection. The format of The Sea of Cortez can be daunting; from chapter to chapter, shifts in voice, perspective, and content occur, which (to put it plainly) can drive many readers absolutely crazy. It should be noted that Steinbeck goes so far as to alert his readers to the narrative differences of this work:

"The design of a book is the pattern of a reality controlled and shaped by the mind of the writer. This is completely understood about poetry or fiction, but it is too seldom realized about books of fact. And yet the impulse which drives a man to poetry will send another man into the tide pools and force him to try to report what he finds there...We have a book to write about the Gulf of California. We could do one of several things about its design. But we have decided to let it form itself: its boundaries a boat and sea; its duration a six weeks' charter time; its subject everything we could see and think and even imagine; its limits--our own without reservation" (Sea of Cortez, page 1).

There you have it... he warned you--life will "form itself...."

In 1945, Steinbeck would publish Cannery Row, and with it an invocation that resonates with the above passage:

"How can the poem and the stink and the grating noise--the quality of light, the tone, the habit and the dream--be set down alive? When you collect marine animals there are certain flat worms so delicate that they are almost impossible to capture whole, for they break and tatter under the touch. You must let them ooze and crawl of their own will onto a knife blade and then lift them gently into your bottle of sea water. And perhaps that might be the way to write this book--to open the page and to let the stories crawl in by themselves" (Cannery Row, pages 3-4). 

Again, life will form/fix itself organically...

What Sea of Cortez lacks in traditional structural integrity it more than makes up for with its engaging philosophical content. Throughout the book, little "nuggets" of epistemological goodness pop up and force some seriously deep thoughts (by Jack Handey!) to the surface:

"The safety-valve of all speculation is: 'it might be so'. And so long as that remains, a variable deeply understood, then speculation does not easily become dogma, but remains the fluid creative thing it might be. Thus, a valid painter, letting color and one, observe, sift into his eyes, up the nerve trunks, and mix well with his experience before it flows down his hand to the canvas, has made his painting say, 'it might be so'... Perhaps his critic, being not so honest and not so wise, will say, 'it is NOT so. The picture is damned.' If this critic could say, 'it is not so with ME,' but that might be because my mind and experience are not identical with those of the painter,' that critic would be the better critic for it, just as that painter is a better painter for knowing he himself is in the pigment" (Sea of Cortez, page 219). 

I read this as an interesting Steinbeck-Ricketts discussion that might very well be some degree of a prototype for future intellectual explorations into what Steinbeck's East of Eden calls "timshel"--thou mayest. It might be so... 

As a work of creative non-fiction, memoir, philosophy, marine biology, or whatever else you want to call it, Sea of Cortez offers an incredible abundance of personal anecdotes and insights into who Steinbeck and Ricketts were (and perhaps more importantly) as men and to what extent they played supporting roles in each others' creative growth. The loneliness, alienation, and melancholia imbedded in many of Steinbeck's books might be best articulated through his description of Ricketts from About Ed Ricketts, a biographical essay on his friend that would be included in the editions of The Sea of Cortez after Ricketts' tragic death:

But for all of Ed's pleasures and honesties there was a transcendent sadness in his love--something he missed or wanted, a searching that sometimes approached panic. I don't know what it was he wanted that was not there, but I know he always looked for it and never found it. He sought for it and listened for it and looked for it and smelled for it ad listened for it in love. I think he found some of it in music. It was like a deep and endless nostalgia--a thirst and passion for "going home" (from About Ed Ricketts). 

This desperate grasping for something beyond comprehension seems to be an identifiably universal human theme, but Steinbeck's consistent visitation of it (nostalgia for the home) throughout his works establishes it as a touchstone of his, and obviously Ricketts', personal experience. It makes me happy to imagine, as existentially isolated as they must have felt at times, Steinbeck and Ricketts together, musing, writing, exploring, and sharing their philosophical truths with one another over a cold can of Acme beer. Even misfit toys have an island to share!

As our time here in Monterey winds down, I find myself revisiting a certain quote (that many others (Bill!) have already pointed out) that seems to be one of the more powerful observations within the text. Jim, my roommate, mentioned that it would "really be unfortunate to forget this place..."

Ephemeral as it may be on one level, I'm certain I (we!) will remember this experience--through shared memories and our own records, it will persist, and it will be passed down through future generations of Steinbeck aficionados, teachers, and students.

Leave-taking (parting is such sweet sorrow!) may very well be the fixative agent needed to properly preserve what we have experienced here:

The moment or hour of leave-taking is one of the pleasantest times in human experience, for it has in it a warm sadness without loss. People who don't ordinarily like you very well are overcome with affection at leave-taking. We said good-by again and again and still could not bring ourselves to cast off the lines and start the engines. It would be good to live in a perpetual state of leave-taking, never to go nor to stay, but to remain suspended in that golden emotion of love and longing; to be missed without being gone; to be loved without satiety. How beautiful one is and how desirable; for in a few moments one will have ceased to exist..." (Sea of Cortez, page 25). 

A fortune found on the grounds of the Naval Post Grad facility today...

Sunday at the Hamilton Ranch, Wine Tasting, and The Sardine Factory!

Arriving at the Hamilton Ranch, immortalized by John Steinbeck in East of Eden

One of the more fascinating concepts I studied in the wine industry was the French notion of terroir. In France (and most "old world" wine producing countries), wines are not named or labeled for their varietal (Chardonnay, Cabernet Sauvignon, Petit Verdot, etc.) but rather by their appellation, or place of origin. The French have a very rigorous wine, cheese, butter, and agricultural classification system designed and controlled by a government body (the AOC) that has, in some form, existed since the 15th century (insofar as wine is concerned). Per French law, all products within the purview of the AOC must be labeled in a way that identifies the region and commune of production. Beyond simple quality control, the AOC's mandate brought the notion of terroir into being. Terroir, simply put, is a "sense of place."

Over time, I learned how to differentiate between wines of certain soil typographies. The Sancerre and Pouilly-Fume wines of the Loire valley have a distinctly flinty, lemon-lime-citrus quality; the minerality and fruit character of this region's grapes are a direct link to the calcareous kimmeridgian limestone deposits of the valley floor. In other parts of the world, the same varietal (sauvignon blanc) exhibits tremendously different characteristics (different terroir). In New Zealand, the sauvignon blanc grape boasts aromas of freshly cut grass, grapefruit, and sometimes even cat pee (seriously!). In spite of being built from the same fundamental architecture, sauvignon blancs from South Africa, Chile, California, France, and New Zealand have surprisingly little in common. Acidity, flavor, aroma, appearance, viscosity, and alcohol content all vary tremendously. While a winemaker in the southern hemisphere might employ viticultural practices (pruning, harvesting, irrigation, trellising) identical to his favorite winemaker in the northern hemisphere, the terroir, the wines' expressive identity, will be noticeably different. In the same way, one might study the work of two literary contemporaries (Hemingway and Fitzgerald come to mind) and explore how terroir influenced their craft. For the past three weeks, we have been examining John Steinbeck's life in this way... 

Each time I have visited estates and learned about soil typography and topography, I have felt more genuinely connected to the wines, their winemaker, and the vineyards. In the same vein, the more time I spend "in the land" of Steinbeck, the greater my love and appreciation for his work seems to become. There is a powerful sense of place here, and every location we visit sends out distinct "vibes;" warmth, love, uncertainty, loneliness, nostalgia, despair, and violence all contribute to establishing Steinbeck's central coast as a mosaic of human emotion. 

Here we have a topographical map of the Hamilton homestead: 

Our visit to the East of Eden ranch (Samuel Hamilton's) lent me a newfound (and downright visceral) appreciation for Steinbeck and his forebears. The relatively untouched quality of the ranch, especially the natural environment surrounding the homestead, screamed "Sam Hamilton." In fact, the windmill still bears the Hamilton moniker (look closely at the shot-up blade!):

Robert, the son of the current owner of the Hamilton ranch, showed us around the beautiful property (and sang us a personalized and heart-wrenching rendition of "Take Me Home, Country Roads" by John Denver). Clearly, the man loves his home, in spite of its obvious barrenness.

I cannot stress enough the authenticity of this experience... Robert's mother served us coffee and zucchini bread (which was beyond tasty) while he guided us through the remnants of the original Hamilton homestead (outlined in great detail in East of Eden):

The Hamilton homestead...

Robert took us behind the scenes to see Samuel's actual anvil. Used extensively throughout East of Eden, the device embodies the industry, intelligence, and influence Sam held over the King City community. Absolutely amazing to see....

Samuel Hamilton's anvil

On our way home from the ranch, Robert (his mother, really...) allowed us to stop and collect marine fossils (for the low, low price of $1.00) as souvenirs of our journey... literally thousands of fossils litter the outskirts of the settlement in fields that appear to be relatively untouched since the days of Steinbeck's youth.

Fossils!

The road back to King City

After leaving the East of Eden ranch, we stopped for a brief tour of the Santa Lucia Highlands' grape growing industry... picturesque and delicious!

Sunday night, Jim and I played a gig at The Sardine Factory, a piano bar on Cannery Row. Photo props to Mark (I totally thieved this picture off his blog: Mark's Blog ).

It was a genuinely fun night!

Jim and Dan live in the Can! (Photo props to Mark M.) 

Running behind - a review of Pacific Biological Laboratories and our discussion of Cannery Row

Phew!

Friday was a full day...

I managed to peel myself out of bed at a reasonable hour in the interest of running by Steinbeck's Pacific Grove home (a residence built by John's father in 1903 as a "vacation home" away from Salinas) at the intersection of 11th street and Rickett's Row before class began. The home, small and unassuming, was where John and his first wife Carol (who was very involved, it would seem, with John's writing, editing, and revision processes) lived from 1930-1936 before moving to their Greenwood Lane home in Los Gatos. The house (pictured above) in Pacific Grove is where John wrote parts of The Red Pony (his time was split between Pacific Grove and Salinas for a while after his mother suffered a stroke), The Pastures of Heaven, Tortilla Flat, In Dubious Battle, and the first manuscript of Of Mice and Men, which his dog tore to shreds...

After my morning constitutional, I met up with the group at the Hopkins Marine Station for our next set of lectures with Susan and Gilly. Cannery Row was the topic of discussion on the agenda and we wasted no time delving into what has become one of my favorite novels.

For those unfamiliar with Cannery Row, it does lack a traditional plot structure--the typically linear (exposition-inciting action-rising action-climax-falling action-catharsis-resolution) diagram we (or I) have a tendency to teach in high school does not necessarily apply here. Personally, I have never found modernist (or even most of the more "out-there" postmodernist) structural experimentation irksome (I think it is pretty cool, actually...) but it does pose a problem in a lower-level high school classroom when trying to deconstruct or analyze a book with students who have been trained to write, analyze, and think formulaically. Cannery Row radiates a keenness of sight, a palpable warmth, and a bittersweet melancholia that is both difficult to explain and challenging to dissect as a cohesive and "meaningful" (as in moralistic) unit. Try explaining the "meaning of life" to a group of 9th graders... good luck! Steinbeck weaves a collection of seemingly disconnected vignettes together in an effort to demonstrate the holistic and organic nature of our human ecology, as said in The Log from the Sea of Cortez: "from the tide pool to the stars..."

After our intertidal zone experience collecting marine animals and moving ourselves from the "macro" to the "micro" (stay low and go slow!), I feel much better equipped to talk about Cannery Row as a (props to Jim Quinlan for this image) work of impressionist art with my classes... each individual vignette (or sea creature!) contributes a microscopic inflection or "color" to the greater work of art, tide pool, or human experience... and while humans will continue to codify, explain, and and reduce life to a series of predictable and linear patterns, the reality is that life (in a non-teleological sense) is not that simple... the fact is, life just "happens," without respect to plot diagrams. Steinbeck goes so far as to invite us to participate in a "low tide" examination and close reading of his own experience, but not without first explaining the complexity of doing so:

How can the poem and the stink and the grating noise--the quality of light, the tone, the habit and the dream--be set down alive? When you collect marine animals there are certain flat worms so delicate that they are almost impossible to capture whole, for they break and tatter under the touch. You must let them ooze and crawl of their own will onto a knife blade and then lift them gently into your bottle of sea water. And perhaps that might be the way to write this book--to open the page and to let the stories crawl in by themselves. (From the preface of Cannery Row)

Much as the tide will reveal a unique landscape from day to day, Steinbeck acknowledges the variability, volatility, and inexplicable nature of life. This invocation to the text seems to trumpet Steinbeck's intention to  merely open up the collecting dish and let the tide flow in with stories, creatures, and characters from his own life, perhaps affected by nostalgia, but certainly portrayed with the loving admiration I imagine a marine biologist must have for cataloguing the flora and fauna of their favorite collecting pool.

A picture of Ed Ricketts (Doc from Cannery Row) pinned up inside Pacific Biological Laboratories

After our lecture, we met up at Pacific Biological Laboratories, Ed Ricketts' old home/lab on Cannery Row, across the street from Lee Chong's grocery and where Dora Flood's Bear Flag Restaurant once stood. After Ricketts passed away (a tragic car accident - he was hit by a train), ownership of the property fell to private hands -- a sort of fraternity was erected ("Doc's Lab") and weekly social meetings were held. The Monterey Jazz Festival owes its existence to this club, who originally organized the event and made it a reality. Susan made arrangements for a walk-through of the property and we listened to a recorded version of The Snake (from The Long Valley) read by John Steinbeck in the living room... The Snake recounted an event that actually happened on the property, and to hear Steinbeck read the story (while sitting in the room!) added an absolutely inspiring vibe to the whole outing... while the majority of the artifacts within the home never belonged to Ricketts, most of the fixtures and woodwork are in their original format (shelves where Ed kept his turntable and speakers, etc.). The backyard of the lab, which overlooks the bay, led to the basement where Ricketts stored the majority of his specimens.

Susan talking about The Snake and Ed Ricketts inside the lab.

View of the "backyard"

A seat for Steinbeck, Ricketts, and Mac?

Class at Pacific Biological Laboratories... with the man himself (stage right)

After our meeting at Ricketts', we adjourned to Hopkins for a fantastic bbq and two lectures related to teaching Cannery Row to high school students -- great stuff!