Chapter Six

Harbor

It was still hard to believe I actually did it. I went and bought a beat-up old minivan and did some DIY conversions to make it my home. And then, a little over a month ago, I packed everything I owned inside of it and drove away from my apartment and the city that had been my home.

Driving around the country, working in random state parks, national parks, and even parking lots was a far easier adjustment than I thought it would be. My unicorn took to the life easily and, since I still had my job, there wasn’t the stress of money.

On super-fancy days, I stayed at truck stops, and I enjoyed it. There were hot showers, good food, and lots of company. This new life? It was working.

I hadn’t realized how tied down my beast had felt being in the city, how much he longed for this freedom. We’d never been part of a herd, and I never felt the loss of being away from our kind, or shifters in general. Sure, there were shifters in the city, but there had been none at my company nor in my apartment building, and those were the people I interacted with on a regular basis.

It was funny, but in a way, this new adventure showed me that there was something missing in my life, and that my beast had just been compensating for it, helping me keep things in line. I wasn’t altogether clear on what that missing component was, but every day, I felt like I was getting closer to finding it.

My boss hadn’t been too excited when I told him I was going fully remote. He said he was worried I wouldn’t be as available and possibly wouldn’t get as much work done. Neither of those had been a concern of mine, and I’d proved myself many times over already.

I ended up getting exactly the same amount of work done, only in less time—not that I let my boss in on the less-time part. I was on salary and didn’t want him to find an excuse to put more on my plate just because he could.

Looking back, I hadn’t realized how many hours were lost each week to people stopping by my desk on their way to grab a cup of coffee or to get something off the printer. But now that I didn’t have any of that distraction, I was getting a ton done quickly. And as long as I kept my phone and computer on, I was available during the times they needed, even if I wasn’t strictly working.

The first couple of weeks were a big learning curve—figuring out the best places to park, the best spots for a more camping-type environment, and how to keep the temperature inside the van where I wanted it, along with making sure I had the cell service I needed. I managed, but it took a great deal out of me to do so.

But after that adjustment period, it was easy peasy, and, better than that, it was fun. I loved that my unicorn was able to run and run and run multiple times a week, instead of once, maybe twice a month. I loved that I was constantly encountering new people without the pressure of forming intentional bonds with them. I wasn’t meeting a neighbor whom I had to be cautious around because I might be living near them for the next two, three, or five years. I could shoot the breeze with someone camping near where I parked and call it good. There was a certain freedom in that, which I enjoyed.

There was also an undercurrent of sadness though. And that sucked. Loneliness was always right there, close to the surface. Because at the end of the day, when I shut the van doors and covered the windows, it was just me. There was no one else.

I tried not to think about that too much as I wandered the country. I had no real plan as far as where I would end up. The only guide I used was the cellular service map, knowing that if I was without reception during the workweek, my boss could take back my remote status, and I’d be right where I was a few months earlier, looking at an expensive rent and depleting savings.

A few months in, I ended up on the West Coast. It hadn’t been a goal, just how it worked out. I pulled into San Diego and went straight toward the beach. I’d never been to this side of the country or seen the Pacific Ocean. I assumed it would be the equivalent of the Atlantic only on the other side of the country. And in a way, it was, but it was also a 1,000 percent different.

When I opened the door after parking at the beach, the scent of the salty air tickled my nose, and I knew I’d be staying here longer than I had at the last few places. There was so much to do, so much to explore, so much to soak in.

My unicorn instantly liked it here. He was calm, although he did show me his desire to run along the sandy beaches—not that I saw how that would be possible. He hardly blended in, and the beaches were far from vacant. I promised him I’d try and I would. But not today.

As I sat on a rock and used my phone to try to figure out the best place to park for the night, I realized how much this journey had changed me already. Would San Diego change me too? Only time would tell. And now that my home was on wheels, I had all the time in the world.