I’ve hitchhiked just once in the last 28 years, when my car broke down in Big Sur. Well, actually, my car was fine but I lost my keys in the sand. I had to hitch to Nepenthe and wait for help.

Somewhere on this beach the key to my 4-Runner is buried, still.

Between 1973 and 1984 I did a lot of hitchhiking. I called it “reality surfing,” – your reality shifts unpredictably every time you get into a car. High highs, terrible lows.

I figured owning a car was too expensive, so I didn’t bother to get my license until I was almost 24. I rode a bike everywhere. It was good for saving travel money – not so good for dating.

I finally bought my first car when I was 26, a baby-shit-green Ford Maverick, for $50. The ugliest car I ever saw. Melon-sized rust holes on every surface. Other cars on the road hung way back, figuring I had no insurance and nothing to lose. It gave me 5000 miles over three months, took me over Tioga Pass, then died. A bargain.

One summer, two buddies and I hitched clear across the USA and Canada (and back), 12,000 miles. Three adult guys with three huge backpacks, together… poor planning. We had some long damned waits. Three days, once, in Moosomin, Saskatchewan. Failure meant an expensive bus ride.

Later I hitched the length of Europe, from Sweden to Gibraltar on my own. I have a clear memory of the anxiety I felt, sticking my thumb out in France for the first time, without knowing any French.

I had a few pretty terrible moments along the way. One 400-lb psycho-killer in Vermont, one bank robber that nearly got me shot in Yosemite, several dangerous drunks in Canada, and one sleepy hippy nodding off and weaving on the German autobahn as BMWs passed us at 160 mph.

Most of the rides were fine, though. Most people are kind and helpful. I got several rides of 1000 miles or more. Lots of people offered a meal, a bed, and a shower in their homes.

I still pick up hitchhikers, though I try to be sensible. I have some hazy ideas of karma. Young couples and solo women are okay. I’ll pick up a solo man if he looks safe, and not too big. A traveler’s backpack is a good sign. I won’t pick up two men, or anyone who looks like I did when I was hitching – scruffy and shifty.

You get a good mix of hitchers here on the island. Young Christians studying for missionary work at the local YWAM campus. A beautiful young Brazilian couple, traveling around the world. A hardy young couple heading from Costco to the harbor, restocking to continue their long sailboat voyage.

And several woofers. “WOOF” stands for “work on organic farms.” Farm labor in exchange for room and board, and a lot of free time. There are a lot of organic farms on the island, and the woofers never have cars. It’s a cheap way to visit Hawaii, but you have to hitch to the beach on your off-days.

And the occasional dud, like one woman who turned out to be a pinched-looking meth addict, smelling strongly of piss, complaining about being stuck on a rock in the middle of the ocean.

Once in a while, a miracle, like the gorgeous redhead in a big Caddy who pulled over in Pennsylvania. We opened the rear door to get in, only to find that the back seat was on fire. She was smoking, the windows were open, and she hadn’t realized the situation. She cursed and poured her open beer onto the flames, then made us sit on the wet exposed springs all the way to Philly. We didn’t care – it was a free ride.

Reality surfing.