A headline in yesterday’s paper caught my eye: “Pelosi vows to block offshore drilling.” We, as in you and me and everyone, need to think about this; the energy problem, and what we will not do to fend it off, as well as what we will do.

Prior to commencing, I want to insert a prefatory notion. The only reason there are US forces in Iraq, the only reason any bled and perished, is because the region is suffuse with oil. So, whoever bled and died there, whether a member of the American military or an innocent Iraqi, was because of oil. Thus, the energy issue is a deadly serious issue.

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I grew up in a suburb of Detroit; an urban realm with much ugliness about it, and precious little that might be esteemed to approach lovely. (Ever seen orange snow? I have. What about black snow? I’ve seen that too.)

One area, however, stands out as a genuine gem: the H.C.M.A. (Huron-Clinton Metropolitan Authority. http://www.metroparks.com) collection of public parks, all built around the Huron and Clinton Rivers that course through some of Southeast Michigan’s last rolling, wooded terrain. There are asphalt walking paths that meander through sylvan glens that seem to call back to a time that predates Henry Ford and Horace Dodge and the nearly complete desecration of a godly handiwork. It’s a spiritual thing, one you cannot get sitting on any pew, no matter how hard you try or how long you sit. 

As the state has done with almost all its inland lakes, I can imagine that some would prefer to see Kensington or Lower Huron metro-parks privatized; gated communities complete with towering office buildings and sprawling malls and perhaps a Hooters or two . . . for the jocks guzzling down beer after beer through football-studded Sunday afternoons. Of course, they can’t do that now. There’s no money. The state is an economic dead zone. But if it weren’t . . .

I can imagine there are those who wouldn’t give a damn, one way or the other if HCMA were converted to what they’d claim was a higher use of the land. Their blindness wouldn’t blink if the bottom of the Grand Canyon got overrun with oil drilling equipment and structures. They have no soul, or at least a sense of one. For, unless it’s some form of mind-numbing entertainment on television or at one of the local mega-plexes, it doesn’t move them. Nothing really human does. Such are the “hollow men” that T. S. Elliott waxed tragic about.

I have taken no survey. But I’d be willing to wager that few folks in Cleveland, or Chicago, or St. Louis, or in Houston, or in any urbanized population center appreciate the land on any level that approaches how a Wyoming rancher, or an Iowa farmer feels about it. What I mean by “land” is the pungently fragranced grit that you can scoop into the palm of your hand and that veritably runs through the arteries of your being. It’s not just something, like paper clips and Pepsi cans, that you use for the moment, then thoughtlessly cast away. It’s you. It’s your very soul, without which you do not even exist.

The California Coast is like that. It’s not just a part of our soul, it IS our soul. I’ve not driven the full length of Highway 1, from San Diego to Eureka. But, more than just once, and never just to get from one point to the next, I have driven it from LA to Fort Bragg. I’ve walked the sandy beaches north of Santa Barbara, and at Cambria and Big Sur and Carmel, and Santa Cruz and Mendocino. I’ve lain on a blanket, listening, breathing deep every bit of it in. The quite literal majesty of it has humbled me and filled me up. I’ve jumped from one rocky crag to the next, trying to avoid being swept by the crushing, pounding surge of the constantly roiling Pacific, just because. I’ve watched dolphins leap from the surf. I’ve watched the California grey pass in front of me, as they make their way north, spouting great plumes that mark their paths. I’ve seen seals, sea lions, elephant seals, otters, and great whites. And I have watched with some melancholy and awe as the warm orange glow slowly, slowly, slowly sank below the cloudless, pastel horizon en route to warming Hawaii. It’s like being in the presence of and touching something that is infinitely greater than you, larger than you, something that is truly holy, completely sacred.

I don’t know whether there is a god. I don’t really care whether there is a god. I don’t think it matters. All I know is that my spirit overflows with the deepest love and admiration and need for what a god or something so magnificently created. The California coast is my identity. It is all that is human about me, that makes me who I am. And I am not alone. Much of the population of the most important state in the country feels every bit as connected, and dedicated to its preservation. As with the Montana rancher, tracking down a stray calf or cow, and the Kansas farmer gazing at a furrowed field, dampened as much by his sweat as with any morning’s dew . . . thou shalt not deign to rip my soul from my sinews. Thou shalt not throw up derricks off this coast . . . At least not without one god-awful fight, and certainly not without shouldering a goodly burden of deep and abiding pain as exchange.

First a fact: The very first drop of oil, refined into gasoline, would not get pumped into anyone’s tank for 10 years, after the first bit bit into the ocean’s rock bottom.

Now, if the situation truly is deemed so dire that we’re willing to piss down God’s throat, which despoiling His Pacific coastline surely amounts to, then be prepared to accept that equally drastic measures will also be demanded. A return to a maximum 55 mile-per-hour speed limit will be one. That step would provide more relief the first day than drilling will in all the decades that follow. The oil companies now sitting on already permitted for drilling 80 million acres of federal land better be ready to drill, or return the leases. No land banking nonsense while prices and profits soar. We should seriously weigh the option of a federal surtax on gas-guzzling vehicles of all makes and uses. Air conditioning below 80-degrees in our homes, offices, stores, and cars should be made illegal; perhaps heavy fines and/or jail time for flagrant offenders. We could impose a surtax on incomes beyond a certain gross that would fund research and development of alternative energy sources.

There are many, many more things we could do, and should be prepared to accept . . . if the situation really is as dire as those proposing offshore drilling insist. But, if all these measures and more are not honestly on the table, if everyone’s not willing to pay the price, I guess it’s just some blowing hot air . . . which I bet we could also find a way to harness.

— Ed Tubbs        

     Thousand Oaks, CA