The Human Experience Is Universal

I place both hands on the bar, resting my right foot on the brass rail, and order a cold beer. I stayed at the Mark Hopkins hotel overnight, having flown in from Mexico after delivering a yacht into Carbo San Lucas. A bald, heavily bearded barman, busy drying glasses, throws a damp towel over his shoulder and sets a beermat in front of me.

I chug down a beer, its coldness chilling my throat. Pulling a ten-dollar bill from my wallet, setting it on the bar, I nod my acknowledgment to the barman and step into the streets around Nob Hill, in San Francisco.

It is 4:00 P.M.

Ten minutes later, driving over the Golden Gate Bridge on Highway 101, heading to Jenner, a small bohemian community on the Pacific Coast Highway, with all its unrivaled, spectacular beauty. I have time to think about my phone call with Laura King, the Realtor.

“You’re sure you want it, Harry? Reassure me you’re not buying this house just for a place to escape. Are you? It’s over-priced. I know your heart, spirit, and soul are in the property, but it’s prudent and professional to tell you to wait. High priced homes are sticking on the market,” is how I recall the conversation going.

What the realtor didn’t know, what I had kept secret, was how important it was to leave the island and still call somewhere home. “I’m all for it, Laura, this works for me. This is a new start. That part of island life is finished.”

Laura said nothing more.

A month later, I owned the property.

My wife and child had been dead for two years. There was nothing left on the island to entice me to make a life there anymore. I needed a study overlooking the Pacific Ocean, enough room to stable horses, direct entry to the shore, and neighbors far enough away not to be bothered by them. That was the natural list of requirements I put to Laura a year earlier. During the year following, I made four flights from the UK to look at different properties that failed to fit my needs. I was frustrated with Laura’s efforts until she found this property, which does align with my wants.

I did not explain the other requirements. It would have troubled Laura beyond her natural Realtor ability. How was I going to tell her that I require somewhere I can test out the truths of spiritual and psychological belief? That there is a spiritual world in parallel with the physical; the ultimate goal of buying this particular property is to prove a physical existence can connect with the spiritual world.

Within seven months, I put the property up for sale.

“Laura, sell it. This doesn’t work for me.”

“Oh, God. You’ll lose a fortune, Harry.”

I did.

I set about looking for a home myself. It took two years.

“Laura, I found a home in Mendocino. Can you take a look? I’d like to make an offer.”

Seven months later, I moved in. It had a study overlooking the ocean, room for horses, direct access to the shore, and distant neighbors.

Anyone who follows me on Medium knows how much my writing concentrates on grief. The home in Mendocino has to provide an awakening, the first step in the necessary journey away from the physical resistance of despair to the spiritual truth associated with being human. The moment I was ensconced in the home, it felt like a progression toward that enlightenment — living inside the spirit’s world.

One other thing I couldn’t explain to Laura was the kind of need for ocean waves coming against the shore. Jenner didn’t provide me those waves. Mendocino definitely has the possibility. Tides are the inspiration for my writing, while tragedy is essentially the main narrative, anchored in pain and fear. I wanted a home set in the wild, somewhere I could care a lot less.

I wandered the streets of Paris And flew from there to Rome, Bought bagels in New York Then travelled on alone

I crossed the Rockies twice Headed on through Indiana I stayed a month or two On the prairies of Montana

I continued on my way On dirty Amtrak trains That took me to Chicago Out across those plains

To banana belts and Redwood trees Along the rocky shore Closer to California Where surf and seagulls soar

Where the one who stays beside me Sings her ocean melody Don’t you whisper, Tobermory, Please come home to me.

The house, set amid Redwood trees, sits on a bluff under which several hundred seals gather on the shore. It is close to 9:00 P.M. when I drive my car up the gravel drive. The moon sliding its way through a universe of faraway stars, heading for the California treetops, and shining a path on the ocean.

I pulled the car to a gentle stop, stopped the engine, and got out. The first time I’d stood here, looking out between the ocean and the moon, and cried with joy.

I cannot stray far from the ocean. I feel ill at ease if the coast is not within easy reach. My home now is in Mendocino, edging the Pacific Ocean with all its masculine beauty and ruggedness. My home is very beautiful, perched as it is a hundred and fifty feet above the beach and within a good stone throw of the waves. I am not malcontent and do not miss my native Scotland enough to consider moving away from the home I have now settled in. On the contrary, when I’m required to leave the home for whatever reason, I miss my dogs and the warmth and serenity of the Mendocino coastline.

Returning to old childhood haunts on the island is like a feeling from beyond the grave. The noise is different, the air, the sun itself does not feel the same, yet the feeling of belonging is deep. There is a history of treasures in the bustling touristy invasion of the Isle of Mull. A history that falls into harmony with the ruins and the stories that abound, but for me, well it’s the fishermen that see me returning to Tobermory three or four times a year. The few who remain, the few who knew my father, those who can tell a story, lift a pint jug by the handle, and sing a ditty for the sake of it will be a reason to return, until they, too, are gone.

Walk with me in Mendocino And pretty soon you’ll see The rugged California shorelines And the majestic Redwood trees

The Magnificent of scenery The ocean’s edge of surf The billowing petticoat waves Are beyond all money’s worth

Contrast then the Highlands For Scotland is my home The crags and the highland heather And the mystical Scottish thrones

But tragedy prevents me returning To the Isle of Mull my home I wandered through the world Rather than live in that home alone

Ben More no longer protects me With its shadows and the snow But I’ll always think of the mountain Wherever in the world I go

I’ve taken so many chances Played a mean hard selfish game Hated friends who tried to help me Which will long add to my shame

Today the lick of happiness That blossoms upon my face Confirms to my heart and soul Mendocino is no longer just a place

Lost too much love in my life Battered by untimely death Like the rocky shores against the waves No chance to take a breath

Every minute spent in Mendocino No longer with grief’s despair And no longer do I cry my tears When I know that she’s not there

Today I breathe so easily Where Nereid and Neptune live I’m at home in my healing heart With a new love my heart to give

I wake with the dawn, and hear her breathing by my side. She is my lover, my wife, my friend, and I thought that I was dreaming of the way I feel and what she means mean to me. I slip out of bed, go downstairs, knowing I’ll be safe against the shoreline.

I’m mystified to know how the narrative of this tragic adventure should read. It is the farthest thing imaginable from a hero’s journey. l was unaware that the quest would result in the discovery of another unique person. I think, maybe, it proves that the human experience is universal.