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Pirate King of river island near Santee
And a man who lost lower legs now smokes Fentanyl
Trash Island: an ersatz pirate paradise, complete with palm tree.
Nota Bene: This tale is one way of coping with a seemingly insurmountable problem. It does not contain a shred of disrespect for the unhoused.
I was piloting my drone near my home in Santee, where the San Diego River runs through it. There, near the end of the trolley line, sits a vast swamp and wetlands, where the rainfall from El Cajon Mountain filters down. And when you have the crossroads of a trolley termination, a riverbed, and nearby big box stores with the open public restrooms, a population will begin to grow.
When I was young, I was fascinated by documentaries about World War II. To this day, I can recall the horror I felt at a scene of an old man scavenging through a garbage can in a war-ravaged city, searching for scraps of food. I remember thinking that eating from a garbage can was unimaginable. Today, I see any number of young men, older women, and homeless vets digging through trash cans, looking for discarded food. My somewhat cynical imagination conjures a reality show in which the contestants have 15 minutes to gather scraps from the bin and concoct something edible. Then the homeless cooks are judged by celebrities with gleaming teeth.
There, between the Walmart and the Food For Less, close to the pedestrian wood bridge, I spotted a tall palm tree on a genuine island. As my drone flew overhead, I saw what appeared to be machinery scattered across a clearing at the island’s center, but as I got closer, I realized I was looking at the “most perfect homeless camp ever.” It was surrounded on all sides by at least twenty feet of water. There were multiple tents and lounge chairs. I spotted solar panels, batteries, and a dresser. It was like a little pirate kingdom but one in which all the treasure was trash.
When I was young, I heard the expression, “There but for the grace of God go I.” I didn’t understand it, but it stuck, because the words felt solemn. I remember when I did start to understand it: when I first encountered an unhoused person. Sometimes, you turn a corner on a city street and find your senses shocked by a sprawling urban camp. The scene can be appalling.
I landed my drone and went to fetch my dog. I thought it was time I had a word with the inhabitants of this filthy paradise. After all, this is my neighborhood. My kids walk these trails, and will sometimes mention that a person stares at them as they pass by. It’s a problem. Across the bridge was the first of the shopping carts, acting as a sort of boundary marker. I felt my resolve weaken. To the left was a flat area where a young couple had made camp. They looked sort of clean and out of place on the stained mattress. The girl had weeds in her hair and pretended not to see me.
Tents, tables, even a solar panel.
One thing I learned through volunteering in Africa is that you cannot help everybody. You have a certain amount of time and resources. The reality is, somewhere along the line, there is an unofficial and unspoken elimination process through which some people get helped and others do not. I have a small business, and during the lean years of The Great Recession, it was hard to keep myself busy full-time, let alone hire good people. So I would turn to the young men standing on street corners and holding signs that said “Will work for food.” I’d roll up, holding both a dollar bill and a business card, and ask: “Which is more valuable, this dollar bill or a day’s work tomorrow?” Using this method, I was able to give some people a genuine hand up for a while. But I learned some valuable lessons along the way. It’s hard when you are trying to help someone and it ends up hurting and becoming a toxic trap. After a few years, I found myself coping with the seemingly hopeless nature of these tragic people by resorting to gallows humor and my active imagination.
When I arrived at the sidewalk, I saw a woman: sleeping or dead, I couldn’t tell which. I had spent the previous evening shivering under thick blankets. She was wearing a light jacket. I shuddered. Then a voice to my left asked if I had a light. I guessed the man was in his early thirties. At first glance, he appeared to be on his knees on the sidewalk, next to a wheelchair. As I walked closer, I saw that he was actually on bare stumps.
I happened to have a lighter, so I handed it to him, expecting to see him light a cigarette. Instead, he began to unroll some tinfoil and set up his lab. If I was going to stand here, I was going to watch this guy smoke or shoot up.
Maybe it was because this guy had somehow made me a part of his self-destruction, but I found myself both annoyed and heartbroken. The annoyed part of me asked, “What are you doing?” in a stern voice, like I was talking to a puppy who has just messed the carpet again.
He looked at me, and his response was perfectly articulate: “I smoke fentanyl every day.” As if he was telling me what time it was, or giving directions.
The part of me that was heartbroken said to him, “You know, I don’t think this is working out too good for you. Somewhere, somebody cares about you.”
“I lost my legs in Iraq,” he replied. I got whacked on meds. Nobody gives a fuck about me. This is my life.” The man’s name was Ben. He assured me that he was not in danger of overdosing. He said that happened when people bought other drugs, and those other drugs were laced with fentanyl. “Me, I’m an expert with fentanyl. I smoke it because it’s very economical. It’s like buying a case of beer for the price of one bottle of premium microbrew. I’m a chemist.”
I asked him if he knew about the island. “Yeah. Dave lorded over that place. He made a boat, bro. He died. The cops won’t clean that place up! The sheriffs don’t have a boat. Someday, fire will sweep it clean.“
I told him to keep the lighter and walked home with my dog, imagining that tragic, probably doomed young man somehow getting on Dave’s boat and taking over the island, now that Dave was dead. He would fashion a set of peg legs and find a fake parrot amid the detritus. I hoped he would become the new Pirate King of Trash Island, because he didn’t want my help, and I knew the twenty bucks I gave him wouldn’t go far. I hoped it would bring him some measure of comfort.
As I walked away, I felt stupid for thinking I might confront the inhabitants of the island. My life is so good in comparison. Nearing home, I began to imagine the ghosts of pirate island. Dave is dead and his plastic forts decay in the sun.
I think I’m coping well.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Pirate King of river island near Santee
And a man who lost lower legs now smokes Fentanyl
Pirate King of river island near Santee
And a man who lost lower legs now smokes Fentanyl
Trash Island: an ersatz pirate paradise, complete with palm tree.
Nota Bene: This tale is one way of coping with a seemingly insurmountable problem. It does not contain a shred of disrespect for the unhoused.
I was piloting my drone near my home in Santee, where the San Diego River runs through it. There, near the end of the trolley line, sits a vast swamp and wetlands, where the rainfall from El Cajon Mountain filters down. And when you have the crossroads of a trolley termination, a riverbed, and nearby big box stores with the open public restrooms, a population will begin to grow.
When I was young, I was fascinated by documentaries about World War II. To this day, I can recall the horror I felt at a scene of an old man scavenging through a garbage can in a war-ravaged city, searching for scraps of food. I remember thinking that eating from a garbage can was unimaginable. Today, I see any number of young men, older women, and homeless vets digging through trash cans, looking for discarded food. My somewhat cynical imagination conjures a reality show in which the contestants have 15 minutes to gather scraps from the bin and concoct something edible. Then the homeless cooks are judged by celebrities with gleaming teeth.
There, between the Walmart and the Food For Less, close to the pedestrian wood bridge, I spotted a tall palm tree on a genuine island. As my drone flew overhead, I saw what appeared to be machinery scattered across a clearing at the island’s center, but as I got closer, I realized I was looking at the “most perfect homeless camp ever.” It was surrounded on all sides by at least twenty feet of water. There were multiple tents and lounge chairs. I spotted solar panels, batteries, and a dresser. It was like a little pirate kingdom but one in which all the treasure was trash.
When I was young, I heard the expression, “There but for the grace of God go I.” I didn’t understand it, but it stuck, because the words felt solemn. I remember when I did start to understand it: when I first encountered an unhoused person. Sometimes, you turn a corner on a city street and find your senses shocked by a sprawling urban camp. The scene can be appalling.
I landed my drone and went to fetch my dog. I thought it was time I had a word with the inhabitants of this filthy paradise. After all, this is my neighborhood. My kids walk these trails, and will sometimes mention that a person stares at them as they pass by. It’s a problem. Across the bridge was the first of the shopping carts, acting as a sort of boundary marker. I felt my resolve weaken. To the left was a flat area where a young couple had made camp. They looked sort of clean and out of place on the stained mattress. The girl had weeds in her hair and pretended not to see me.
Tents, tables, even a solar panel.
One thing I learned through volunteering in Africa is that you cannot help everybody. You have a certain amount of time and resources. The reality is, somewhere along the line, there is an unofficial and unspoken elimination process through which some people get helped and others do not. I have a small business, and during the lean years of The Great Recession, it was hard to keep myself busy full-time, let alone hire good people. So I would turn to the young men standing on street corners and holding signs that said “Will work for food.” I’d roll up, holding both a dollar bill and a business card, and ask: “Which is more valuable, this dollar bill or a day’s work tomorrow?” Using this method, I was able to give some people a genuine hand up for a while. But I learned some valuable lessons along the way. It’s hard when you are trying to help someone and it ends up hurting and becoming a toxic trap. After a few years, I found myself coping with the seemingly hopeless nature of these tragic people by resorting to gallows humor and my active imagination.
When I arrived at the sidewalk, I saw a woman: sleeping or dead, I couldn’t tell which. I had spent the previous evening shivering under thick blankets. She was wearing a light jacket. I shuddered. Then a voice to my left asked if I had a light. I guessed the man was in his early thirties. At first glance, he appeared to be on his knees on the sidewalk, next to a wheelchair. As I walked closer, I saw that he was actually on bare stumps.
I happened to have a lighter, so I handed it to him, expecting to see him light a cigarette. Instead, he began to unroll some tinfoil and set up his lab. If I was going to stand here, I was going to watch this guy smoke or shoot up.
Maybe it was because this guy had somehow made me a part of his self-destruction, but I found myself both annoyed and heartbroken. The annoyed part of me asked, “What are you doing?” in a stern voice, like I was talking to a puppy who has just messed the carpet again.
He looked at me, and his response was perfectly articulate: “I smoke fentanyl every day.” As if he was telling me what time it was, or giving directions.
The part of me that was heartbroken said to him, “You know, I don’t think this is working out too good for you. Somewhere, somebody cares about you.”
“I lost my legs in Iraq,” he replied. I got whacked on meds. Nobody gives a fuck about me. This is my life.” The man’s name was Ben. He assured me that he was not in danger of overdosing. He said that happened when people bought other drugs, and those other drugs were laced with fentanyl. “Me, I’m an expert with fentanyl. I smoke it because it’s very economical. It’s like buying a case of beer for the price of one bottle of premium microbrew. I’m a chemist.”
I asked him if he knew about the island. “Yeah. Dave lorded over that place. He made a boat, bro. He died. The cops won’t clean that place up! The sheriffs don’t have a boat. Someday, fire will sweep it clean.“
I told him to keep the lighter and walked home with my dog, imagining that tragic, probably doomed young man somehow getting on Dave’s boat and taking over the island, now that Dave was dead. He would fashion a set of peg legs and find a fake parrot amid the detritus. I hoped he would become the new Pirate King of Trash Island, because he didn’t want my help, and I knew the twenty bucks I gave him wouldn’t go far. I hoped it would bring him some measure of comfort.
As I walked away, I felt stupid for thinking I might confront the inhabitants of the island. My life is so good in comparison. Nearing home, I began to imagine the ghosts of pirate island. Dave is dead and his plastic forts decay in the sun.
I think I’m coping well.
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