Earlier in the day the weather had been so very Southern California that I hadn’t noticed it, as I ran around arranging everything I would need for the mission. However, when I was ‘installing’ the Bronco, once again, in between the giant beach cleaning machines at the lifeguard headquarters, I noticed that the wind was rising, and pretty dramatically. There was no precipitation, however, and the wind coming in out of the southwest meant that it swept in,  then up and over the mountains, stringing along the entire southern California coast. It was no threat to me or the mission, not that I could see.

When Gularte and I headed north on the Pacific Coast Highway, however, the fact that we were riding in a flat-bottomed little car weighing in at little more than 1600 lbs. made the trip itself something of an adventure. The rising wind beat across the top of the ocean waves to strike the vertical face of the cliffs that lined the eastern side of the PCH. The trapped wind roiled about invisibly, of course, and then played hell when it tried to lift the front of the Volks off the surface of the road if we moved at more than forty miles per hour.

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