You know what sucks? Not having water. Washing yourself while wondering when the pump will produce its last droplet can cause anxiety. Who knew? You, probably. I already knew that, too. Water, especially having it, is a must. I have plenty of drinking water via the bottled variety as packaged by Costco. I also have water, an undermined amount, in my Airstream’s tank. Before you ask if I have a water tank monitoring system, don’t bother. Yes I “do.” But the Airstream monitor system is a known dumb issue. Let’s skip over it for now.
I’ve been filling up my horse trailer travel water tank (which I take to endurance rides so Nisha can, instead of drinking the water, poop in it instead) via the kindness of my neighbors who have 10k gallon tanks. I then, like a mother bird to her hungry babies, dribble it into my Airstream’s tank.
Pure sophistication. That’s me!
This is how badly I wanted out of Texas. Multiple beaches not far away? Check. Running water? Meh.
“But why don’t you have a well?” you may next ask.
Yes, wells cost about $40,000 and I’m a bit, how would the manifesting gurus say… “between massive swells of cash” at the moment.
“But why didn’t you buy land with a well already on it?” Yes, another great question. I tried. The properties that already had wells that I both liked and could afford were within areas where Meth was cooked. See also Finding my California dream property after a year of searching.
I chose safety over daily showers.
Until I can summon $40k in cold hard cash, I have decided on a middle ground: a water tank to be filled via a water truck.
The math:
- Graded pad for tank: $275
- 2600 gallon tank: $2500
- 2500 gallon water delivery: $300
- Roadwork so water truck can access tank: $300
Still a lots of money, but not nearly $40k. The idea here is to buy time. Even if I did have $40k languishing in my bank account, bored and wishing to be spent, I’d still have to wait about 6 weeks for it to get done. Permitting being what it is.
Ergo, water tank.
But life right now is a series of two steps forward, one (or ten) steps back.
Today is another example.
First I needed the pad graded. That was easy. Then I had the tank delivered. That was easy. Then I had the water truck come by… not so easy. The road I had wasn’t going to work for a water tank. It hadn’t been graded for a water tank but just as an access trail. It was too high on one side, too low on the other for a 40,000 pound truck (a gallon of water weighs 8 pounds). So he had to turn back, leaving me without water once more.
Doing what I do best — spending money like it’s cropping up like weeds — I had the road graded to be all nice and level so the top heavy water truck could make it all the way too the tank without keeling over. That was yesterday. I also scheduled a water delivery for today.
Joke was on me for thinking I’d have something as extreme as water.
I got up this morning at 12:30 am to put down the awning, as a wee bit of wind came through, blowing things about. It’s best practice to always put awnings down prior to nighty-night time, but I didn’t. It had been a still night, not a flicker.
Sneaky little calmness.
By 2am, the wind was more consistently wind-ing, forcing Punkin and Sailor to demand uppies into my bed so they might shiver on my chest and pant in my face. I pretended I couldn’t feel them in my newly laundered sheets.
By 4am I decided sleep wasn’t happening, the wind was now gusting probably in the twenties. The puppies were now striking my bed with urgency for me to get up so I could be their emotional support human.
Up I got, made coffee and commenced my morning constitutional with two nervous dogs and no calming medication in the trailer. Twas a cozy morning.
The wind billowed from the north northeast, hitting my trailer near broadside as, because I have solar panels, I am facing Southeast. Yes, south would be better but I like it oriented the way it is. I get plenty of juice.
As daylight dawned, the wind sped up. The dogs were apoplectic with every gust that shook the trailer. Every little noise and flap from the outdoors foretells great danger. I took them outside, released the other dogs, took a cat out of his enclosure (good job, me), and we all headed to my car which made a lot less noise as it shook. Smaller space, fewer scary sounds.
Then came a great gust. Had to be 65 or 70mph. I am not making up these numbers. This is the price I pay for living atop a hill with a valley view. The wind has nothing to stop it as it barrels toward my tin can on wheels.
Flipping end over end right in front of me, my brand new 2600 gallon water tank. She be dry and empty. Coming to join her, the cat enclosure. In pieces. Just more money and time down the drain. It’s my new hobby.
Hours later, I had the thought “if only I’d removed the cat enclosure roof which was basically a sail, it might have been fine.” My mother, who is probably reading this, is already screaming at me to STOP DOING THAT. Last mention of it, I swear.
The water tank, at least, had the courtesy to land back on its base and not to strike any portion of the plumbing I’d attached to it to make it ready to accept and dole out water. Or so I thought.
The expression for this new situation is probably “up the creek without a paddle” or just plain fucked.
There was simply no way I could move the tank back to where it was supposed to be. Alone. It’s not about strength, it’s about physics. Further, I couldn’t heave-ho it as hurricane level winds blew dust into my eyes, nose, mouth and every hair follicle on my head.
The woman typing this needs water. Badly. She needs a full shower, not a sponge bath. Badly. She is me and I am her.
What I needed was help. What I hate doing is asking for help. These were trying times and soon to be dry times if I couldn’t slosh water into the trailer’s tank soon. Ergo I sent a message to someone I’ve hired to grade my water tank necessities. Pad and road.
I’ve been at the property a month now, surviving. Haven’t had time to do things like “make friends.” That is a plan though. Just not yet. If I had a posse of power women to help me move the tank, they would’ve been my first call. Water tank moving and mimosas.
Roy came over mid morning with his truck, rope, concrete stakes, and sledge hammers. With a rope around the base, Roy attached to his truck hitch and towed the tank back to sort of where it needed to be. I could’ve done the same but I’m not sure where I have misplaced my rope. Anyway. Then with muscle and physics (stakes under the tank so it could slide more easily in place) we shimmied the tank back to its designated area.
Then anchored it down with stakes, t-posts, straps and sealed it with “that isn’t going anywhere” binding spell.
Nothing says class like straps on a tank.
Hours later, Mike with the water truck filled my tank to overflowing, which was how my soul felt in the same moment.
Finally, water. Finally a full shower without wondering if the water would cut out mid-hair rinse. Finally a chance to feel human.
And so it was. It was good. It was lovely to live in slight abundance rather than scarcity. I even washed dishes and rinsed with reasonable reckless abandon.
All was supposedly well.
Until the next morning. When I saw the plumbing attachments (for lack of a better word) had spring a leak. Cracked PVC near the water spout as I had, in my zeal to shower, neglected to turn the shut off valve. How many gallons did I lose? Maybe just a couple or five at most. End of the world?
It felt like it.
One step forward, ten steps back. Isn’t this fun?
Thanks for reading and keeping up with my continued misadventures in California. If you found this post entertaining and would like to support a starving writer and her menagerie, consider buying me a coffee. It helps keep the bills paid.