MIDNIGHT MAGIC AT ESALEN INSTITUTE, BIG SUR, CALIFORNIA
As a young adult attending UC Santa Cruz in the eighties, we were only 2 hours north of the most beautiful stretch of raw, natural, rugged coastline in the world. When the weekends would roll around, we would buy an eighth of an ounce of some of the best marijuana available in the country. Around 11 pm we would leave to drive down the windy, always densely fogged Highway 101 as it twisted and cut its way down the steep, dark green cliffs meeting the deep blue and white-capped, foamy waves crashing against the shore. The many otter couples that floated lazily on their backs in the foamy surf had long since retired, sleeping soundly in their various neighborhoods of kelp beds and watery caves. We would snake down the challenging, narrow, two lane road toward a hidden paradise known by very few.
Isolated by an hour's drive on either side, Esalen Institute sat cradled in a thick nest of rugged redwoods, elegant Douglas Firs and Incense-cedars, all clearly thriving in their deep, emerald greens and proud, strong, deep, brown bark. This magical land, still flourishing today, is a private community that was founded in the sixties by the creator of human encounter group therapy, Michael Murphy. This unique place grew into an international destination for those wishing to take a break from the high stress and fast pace of modern society in order to star gaze while strolling along the cliff's edges or watch the lazy sea otters crack open abalone shells on their chests while floating through thick kelp beds.
While not in awe of the natural setting, guests of Esalen would take various classes on human existence, awareness, relationships and self discovery. While expensive to be an "official" guest there, Esalen, at the time that I was attending UC Santa Cruz , allowed the public access to the magical sulfur tubs that formed off the steep cliffs for late night soaks between the hours of 1 am and 4 am. While this lasted only a short while, once at Esalen, my group of friends and I discovered the back entrance and even after Esalen closed their jewels to the public completely, we continued to go, sneaking in the back gate and winding our way down deep-black paths, a feat only attainable by the very courageous.
After driving the precarious Highway 101 for two hours, we would arrive at the back gate. Once we were able to actually find the very well hidden back entrance down into Esalon, we would smoke our dense, heady, fat joints and head down the blackened, rocky path that led into the heart of a most magical land, anticipating the moment that we would sink deep and warm into the steaming, sulfur infused tubs that hung precariously off the cliffs, located above ancient Indian burial grounds. Only then would we be transformed into an existence not like anything human: a spiritual transformation that could only be compared with having an intimate dance with the stars themselves.
And the stars! They did not just sprinkle the deep, black canvas above us with their scattered twinkles, they saturated the sky like a white, light infused, rich cream. The sky alone towering over this remote, rugged landscape was enough to make me often pause with my face tilted upward, wide open in fascination, soaking in the regular light shows of multiple shooting stars that scooted across the vast, velvet blue sky hourly. We had no cell phones or IPads, just a connection to the electricity of nature's power and beauty beyond anything a man made item could ever hope to achieve. At Esalon clothing was optional, and it was not uncommon to see naked individuals, couples or groups roaming or stretched out over the grassy knolls that grew out to meet the crashing waves below the high, glossy cliffs.
There was a redwood constructed pool glistening off to the left of the property where it met the cliffs and people would often float slowly through the glistening, silky water to cool down after an extended soak in the 100 degree Fahrenheit, sulfur waters that poured generously out of the jagged cliff faces. The entire landscape was heavily laden with full, boasting flowers in deep, dramatic purples, soft, ethereal pinks, rich, blood reds and impossible, tropical oranges. It was if the paradise we all imagine in the skies had flitted down to this one, precious stretch of land upon earth.
Stoned, sleepy and slightly chilled from the cool, summer midnight air, we navigated through the property and headed down the sandy trail that led to the baths. Sinking into the warm, soothing, pungent waters, my eyes again focused upward toward the expansive, pure white stars, more alive and full of mystery and magic than they'd ever appeared. One particular night that I'll never forget, as I gazed upward at the intricate star-play, in an instant, a much more brilliant ball of light appeared, traveling horizontally, paralleling the distant horizon, pushing across the wide expanse of the huge, black sea.
Memorized, my eyes remained affixed to this strange sight until it centered upon the horizon and with a brilliant burst of fire, exploded, releasing a smaller ball of fire that slowly descended to the ocean face before suddenly disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. "What WAS that?" I asked breathlessly, to anyone who might have seen the event as well. A quiet, deep voice answered me from within the shadows and dancing lights thrown off by the hundreds of candles surrounding the sulfur pools. "That was a rocket releasing the daughter ship into the ocean." "WOW!" I breathed, as my eyes caught sight of yet another shooting star completing the light show.
I felt like the world was putting on a grand performance just for me and I realized just how lucky I was to be in the moment. The following summer I was drawn back to Esalen, this time for an extended stay. I did an internship there working in the children's camp for one month. There were certain rules we had to abide by. We were not allowed to pick the children up off the ground, not even to hug them. If we wanted to show them affection, the correct way was to get down on their level and hug them there. The reason was that we didn't want to disconnect them from the earth.
So every morning I started my day at 6 am, drinking my coffee, standing cliffside watching the sea otters crack open their morning abalone shells on their bellies as they effortlessly floated amist the foaming sea and thick kelp they called home. I would then hike down one of the many intricate paths that wound through the camp until I reached the children's gazebo, a fenced off, sprawling playground filled with trees, rich plant life and various toys and jungle gyms laid out for the golden 3-5 year old children, the hippies-in-training, of Esalen.
For four hours I would play with these little people and watch the various techniques used to teach them everything from math to manners, all within the parameters of the latest and greatest new age philosophies. Twenty five years later, I would be remiss in saying that some of these techniques haven't trickled down into my own parenting, although I do pick my cihldren up to hug them and cart them around.
Immediately after work I would go for a hike and soon I discovered a small structure filled with candles and a few yoga mats and a perfect, little porch deep within the thick, wild forest that surrounded Esalen. There was nothing else like it, for it sat atop a waterfall that tumbled energetically over glistening, colorful rocks until it reached the crashing waves far below it. I spent at least an hour there each day writing in my journal and learning how to be quiet and still in my own company, an accomplishment for an overthinking 18 year old who had already experienced a healthy dose of tragedy and complication in her life.
Once my head felt as if it had been washed clean by the waterfall I sat in lotus position above, I moved down the steep, rocky path back toward the main buildings. Lunch was a gourmet treat composed primarily of the organic produce grown on site. Feeling full, healthy and full of life, I would stroll over to the redwood pool, strip off my loose, casual clothing, and sink into the cool water of the glistening pool, swimming lazy laps under a wide, electric blue sky until I felt the chill of the water settling in. Then it was once again time for the sulfur tubs as evening approached. I would make my way again down the rocky, steep path and choose my tub, usually without ever having to share with another. Sinking into the hot, steamy, stinky waters eased my young bones and somehow soothed my befuddled soul. It was there that I would meet people from around the world: an artist from Paris, a war photographer from New Jersey, a housewife from Milan.
I returned to UC Santa Cruz later that summer, back to my classes, back to my boyfriend, and although I was still me, Esalen had somehow changed me. I was deeper, better, more tolerant and at the same time more inquisitive, and even more demanding of those in my life. I no longer tolerated the shallow chatter that often accompanied a group of young adults. If I was to make any kind of ongoing conversation with anyone, I wanted it to have some meaning. I wanted to learn. I wanted to expand.
Two years later, my boyfriend whom I had grown to love more than I could have ever anticipated, was suddenly killed in a horrific car accident one night on his way up that very Highway 101, only this night on his way north of Santa Cruz, headed to San Francisco. Shortly thereafter, I could no longer tolerate living in Santa Cruz, as everything I saw there reminded me of him. I ended up moving to San Diego and starting a new life for myself there.
Southern California was like a different planet from Northern California. It was all about the car you drove and how pretty you were. I fell right into that lifestyle as well, and soon my memories of Santa Cruz seemed like a world away. I met a naval officer and ended up moving with him to Minnesota, following his career, and Santa Cruz at that point was barely a part of me anymore, or so I thought.
On one trip back to Southern California, I talked my mom into taking a long road trip with me up the coast. After carefully navigating the curvy, two lane highway for two days, we finally came upon Esalen. Against my mom's pleadings, I insisted on stopping there, at that infamous back gate. She agreed to give me a couple of hours, choosing to stay in the car and read rather than going on my trespassing adventure of sneaking into Esalen for a nostalgic visit.
Although I have no sense of direction and am known for not paying attention at all when someone else is leading the way, I somehow managed to find the back gate and make my way down the densely thicketed path toward the magical land I hadn't seen in over a decade. There, sparkling like a diamond, lie Esalen, just exactly as I had left it so many years before. People strolled lazily over the deep-green grounds, gazing down at the sea otters still playing in the surf below the cliffs. The little meditation hut I had spent so much time at still sat precariously above the waterfall as it poured down over huge rocks, leading to the ocean below. I made my way passed the expansive main building, which flourished with the sweet scents of home baked breads and natural, healthy, gourmet fare. The redwood pool sat undisturbed, glistening in the afternoon sun.
I carefully navigated the steep cliff leading down to the tubs, amazed at how little had changed in over a decade. I finally reached the magical pools and slipped out of my sweats, slowly lowering myself into the sparsely populated pools that still wreaked of sulfur and nature. There, as the healing waters soaked into my bones, I reflected on my life, wondering what had led me to the point I was at then, living with a man whom I loved in such a far away land as Minnesota, and pining away at the simple times I had enjoyed in college. I compared my life as it was at that moment to the many glorioius dreams I had for myself when I was merely 18, first in college. Since then, I had come to the conclusion that I was not cut out for medical school and woud never be a psychiatrist. I was a writer, and only then barely coming to terms with this fact, something that would take me most of my adult life to realize.
What I did realize at that very moment was just how much I missed my native California and how very special the northern half of the state really was. I've never felt so at home as I did in Northern California, wearing Birkenstocks, eating organic before organic was popular, considering an outing into nature an event to highlight my entire week, soaking in sulfur tubs or swimming naked amongst the redwoods. The life I had formed in my later years, which would eventually get me stuck in Southern California, seemed centered around how nice a car I could afford in order to sit in traffic with a million others on the 405. Somehow I'd gotten far away from the magic that only those who have experienced Northern California could understand.
My boyfriend who died that year in that tragic car accident visited me for almost two decades after his death through my dreams. Often, I would find myself winding down the steep paths through the dense fog, holding his hand, finding our way back to those magical tubs that hung off the jagged cliffs of Highway 101. This part of my native state will forever be calling me home. Someday I will listen, and find myself back at Esalen, soaking in those amazing, magical tubs, reflecting on my life and what it all means once again.
