If you’ve spent much time on the Evergreen campus, whether as a student, faculty member, or casual visitor, chances are that you have noticed a particular sociological “type”—what is known locally as the trustafarian. My closest and most sustained encounter with a person of this type has got to be with my good friend Trip Smith. Perhaps the best way to convey an understanding of Trip’s appearance and behavior is to describe one particularly vivid day in the life of this sterling example of trustafarianism.

It was one of those crisp, sunny February days in Olympia when you could see the fresh snow on the Olympics—every detail of the mountains stood out in sharp contrast to the cloudless blue sky. I remember that the mud puddles in the parking lot were frozen. There was a quarter inch of ice on everything, and underneath the ice were large air bubbles that formed swirling patterns. I remember loving to stomp on those ice drawings when I was walking to school as a kid.

That morning, I was at my sign painting shop around in back of the Water Street building. I was working on a set of signs for a west side housing development. I remember getting to my shop early that day, so I must have been up against a deadline for finishing the job. It was really cold in the shop, so I would have had the forced-air heater cranked up.

I was just getting set up for some focused work with the One Shot sign paint, my paper pattern, and my brushes, all laid out on my workbench. Without warning, there was a series of taps on the shop door. It was not an aggressive banging like you would use to wake the occupants of a house on fire. It was more like the friendly beeping that Northwesterners use to greet friends while driving down the street. It was a “shave and a haircut” rhythm. I put down my brush and went to the door to see what was going on. It was my friend Trip, a happy-go-lucky guy who was a frequent visitor on that bustling section of 4th Avenue.

“Hey dude,” I said. “What are you doing up and around on this chilly winter day?”

Trip said something like, “I’m on my way to get some coffee at the Rainbow, and then I’m thinking I’ll take this opportunity to go for a sail. It’s a glorious sunny day, and there’s a nice steady wind out of the east. I’ve got room on board for a first mate or a cabin boy. Take your pick. You should come along!”

“Sorry man,” I said. “I’ve got to go balls-to-the-walls to get these signs done.”

“Oh shit,” he said. “You obviously have your priorities all fucked up. Listen bro, this is a once-in-a-lifetime event—a meteorological trifecta. The tide is just right for sailing out to Hope Island, going out in the morning and coming back in the afternoon. Wind speed and direction are perfect, and this sunshine, my god! . . .”  

“OK, OK, I get the picture. Tell you what, give me 10 minutes to get things buttoned up here and I will join you.”

“Perfect. That gives me time to grab the coffee, and we can meet up at the dock. You know the One Tree Marina?” 

“Yah, I paint a lot of boat names there,” I said.

“OK. See you there in 10.”

When I got to the dock, I saw that Trip had braced the gate open with a cooler. His boat was tied up about halfway down the dock, and he was busy removing the canvas cover. I don’t know very much about wooden boats, but this one was just gorgeous. 

Trip saw that I was checking out the boat. He said, “This is what is called a six meter—we just call it a six.” 

“So,” I said, “a meter is about three feet, right? So six meters would be, like 18 or 20 feet, right? Well this doesn’t look like 20 feet to me. What’s that about?”

Trip seemed happy to give me a detailed explanation of what was clearly a treasured possession. “Well, this is what’s called a formula racing boat, built to a very specific and complex set of proportions. She’s perfect for me. She’s very easy to handle, very fast for her size. She’s seen better days, but she’s still a real beauty, and she can still kick butt when there’s a stiff breeze!”

“Like today, right?” 

“Ah, now you’re catching on. I could sail her by myself, but it’s more fun to have a first mate.”

“And safer to have another pair of eyes to watch out for floating logs and other hazards,” I said.

“Right.”

I moved around to the stern where I could see the name spelled out in gold letters: Atocha. “Nice lettering,” I said. “If you ever need to have it redone, I’ll give you a good price.”

“Thanks,” he said with a smile. “I’ll remember that. She’s got an oddly ironic name. Atocha was the name of a Spanish treasure ship that sank in the 1600s with millions in gold and silver. Good luck and bad luck, I guess. Well, shall we sail?”

I was just getting ready to step onto the deck when Trip literally shouted at me. “Stop! What are you doing? You are not getting on my boat wearing those clodhoppers. Sorry for blowing up like that but Johnny and I spent most of last summer refinishing the deck and brightwork, so let’s not fuck it up.”

He was reacting to my paint-splattered vibram-sole work boots. He opened a small locker on the dock and asked, “What size do you wear?” There were several pairs of shoes stacked neatly in the locker. “You look like a 10 and a half. Here, you get a choice: the Sperry Top-Siders or these old Weejuns. And here’s a pair of socks in case they’re too loose.” I chose the topsiders. They were very comfortable. “Now,” he said, “you may ask permission to board.”

“Permission to board, sir!”

When we were both on the boat, he said, “Now let’s have a look at you. You don’t look like much of a sailor. That hat has got to go. I bet your grandmother knitted that for you, complete with the pom-pom on the top? Nice. You have another choice to make,” he said, reaching back into the locker. “Here’s a Greek fisherman’s cap made from real Greek fishermen, and this one is a standard issue Canadian Navy watch cap. Sturdy, warm, and very manly. See the nice maple leaf here.” I chose the Greek one. “I’ll take this Harris tweed snap brim—very cozy, and engineered like a Stradivarius. Now, about that jacket.”

He was looking at my paint-splattered denim work coat. I said, “I know it looks horrible.”

“No, I have no aesthetic objections to the paint,” Trip said. “Look at what I’m wearing. It’s got big splotches of blue bottom paint all over it. My objection is purely utilitarian. I don’t want you to get soaked and chilled from the bow spray. My jacket is a Barbour, well known as a workhorse among outdoor outfitters. Here, try this one on.” He pulled an identical one out of the locker. “You’ll feel the difference right away. Even with the paint speckles, it will really keep you warm and dry, and also show your good taste. I’ve also got a nice Irish sweater in there if you need to add another layer, but I think that with this sun, you’ll probably be taking off a layer pretty soon. The pants . . . I think your 501s with the matching paint splashes will be OK for today, but next time we go out, remind me to get you into a pair of Filson tin pants. OK, stand right there. Now, turn around. Well, so much for the fashion show. Now you look ready for some serious sailing. And right on time, here comes Johnny with the rest of the provisions.”

I had met Trip’s housemate, Johnny, a couple of times, mainly at parties at Trip’s house. He was usually helping Trip in one way or another—putting out drinks or rolling joints. On that morning, he seemed to be taking the role of caterer. He was coming down the float with a sturdy duffel bag which he began unloading into the cooler. In addition, there was a wicker basket with a couple of thermoses and other bottles of assorted drinks. “I think I got everything, boss,” he said.

Trip said, “Let’s have something hot before we shove off. Coffee or hot chocolate?” Johnny chose hot chocolate and reached for one of the thermoses. “And a little nudge?” Trip asked, fishing around in the basket and coming up with a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He poured a splash into Johnny’s cup.

I held out my mug and said, “I’ll take some coffee, but hold the splash. It’s a little early for me.”  

“Yah, me too,” Trip said, pouring himself a cup of coffee, steaming in the mug. Then he brought out a small jar of cream from the cooler. He held it out to me, and I poured some into my coffee.

“Don’t mind if I do,” I said to no one in particular.

“We can have a nip when we get where we’re going,” Trip said. We sat there for a few minutes warming our hands on the mugs. Johnny did a little rearranging of the stuff in the cooler and the basket. He pulled out a couple of pairs of nice leather driving gloves from under the seat and handed a pair to each of us. 

“Well, I’ll be taking off now,” Johnny said. “I’ve got a seminar at 1:00, and I think I should read some of the book. Oh, and Trip, keep an eye on the tide. It turns at about noon.” 

Trip turned to me and said, “Johnny is my walking tide table.” Johnny was already untying the mooring lines. Pulling in the bumpers, Trip handed me a long boat hook. “Just keep us away from those million-dollar motorboats. Let’s get this show on the road.” 

I did my best to hold the boat steady while Trip hoisted the sail and shoved the boat away from the dock. I was impressed with his skill in getting us underway. I could feel the power of the wind as the sail bellied out. Within a couple of minutes, we were racing along, slicing through the waves, leaving the marina behind. We whizzed past the log loading dock where a giant orange cargo ship was almost ready to head out to sea. Trip turned to me with a big smile. “See what I mean?” I knew exactly what he meant.

After a while, I felt ready for some conversation. “So, what brought you to Olympia?” I asked.

“Partly it was Evergreen. I needed to find a place where I could get a BA and still have time for the more important things in life.”

“Such as . . .?” Trip patted the tiller. 

“I’m kind of hooked on boats. I had an internship in Newport Beach, learning a lot, but not for credit. I crewed one summer out of Martha’s Vineyard. And that was really cool. There were such amazing boats there, and I could hang out with real sailors. I’ve had a gap year—well, actually a couple of them—but now, according to my financial advisor, I need to be ‘making progress toward graduation.’ Otherwise, the money stops flowing.” 

“And Evergreen? How does that fit in with your grand plan?”

“Well, I guess it was kind of random, but it has turned out great. There was this teacher at my prep school who had taken an interest in what he called my ‘adventures.’ By chance, I found out that he was also a sailor. He had this beautiful 40-footer. He helped me get set up with an internship, and to smooth things over with my parents. This guy had heard about Evergreen and it sounded perfect. It’s on the water—as you see. And there are a bunch of classes and programs about marine science, including celestial navigation. I even heard there’s a group of students building a boat. And then there’s the whole design-your-own-curriculum thing. It’s really not as loosey-goosey as it sounds, but it’s pretty loosey-goosey, which really fits my strategy. I’m pretty good at dealing with bureaucratic systems, so I’ve got my situation all lined out. Like today. Our little ‘field trip’ answers the age-old question: Why did the Greener sail out to Hope Island?  Answer: For credit!” He laughed. 

“Anyway, at Evergreen I can enroll in any program I like,” Trip said, “and then do contracts and internships and independent research projects, all in preparation for that glorious day I grab that BA and sail off into the sunset. And what a perfect place to do all this. Compared to California or the East Coast, moorage here is cheap and abundant. Puget Sound is full of day-sailing destinations, and when it’s time for the real adventure to begin, it’s a straight shot to Alaska and Tahiti. This is my idea of higher education!”

We sailed along for a while in silence. A harbor seal poked its head up for a look at us. Trip made occasional remarks about his boat, about the well-kept waterfront houses, the weather, and the scenery. Not surprisingly, he was a font of information about all things nautical. It turned out that he was also an excellent teacher within his chosen field. I learned about the essential ropes—I mean lines. I learned which one you needed to hang onto if you had to piss over the side (the shroud) and which side you needed to piss over to avoid spattering the deck (the leeward). He showed me exactly what I needed to do as my part in the all-important maneuver: coming about. I have to admit, it was really fun.

Soon we had arrived at a small cove on a densely wooded island, fronting on a gravelly beach. “Well, here we are,” said Trip. “Hope Island. And we’re in luck. The dinghy is tied up to the buoy and just needs a little bailing. There’s a couple of caretakers who stay in that little cabin. They’re actually building a boat in that shed there. I have a plan with them to meet up in Fiji in a couple of years. When they are not around, they usually leave the dinghy tied up for deep-keeled boats like mine that don’t like being dragged up on the beach. So it seems we have the place to ourselves. Lunch time?”

We carried the cooler and basket down the beach a little way and set up on a big driftwood log. He said, “Let’s see what goodies Johnny has for us this time. The usual picnic stuff. Apples, oranges, some dark chocolate. A couple of granola bars. Ak Mak crackers. Now, this looks like sandwiches. Ah, yes, one egg salad and one tuna. Take your pick. Here’s some Gruyere and a cutting board for slicing the cheese—and a lime, in remembrance of our limey precursors. That Johnny. Thinks of everything. You want to pass me that fresh-squeezed apple juice and a cup. Thanks. And of course, what’s a picnic on the beach without oysters?” 

Trip fetched out an oyster knife and a leather glove from the basket, plus a small bottle of hot sauce from the cooler, and showed me how to pry an oyster from the rock. He expertly opened it, squeezed a bit of lime juice and a few drops of sriracha, and slurped it right down. 

“You know,” he said, “In Japan, it is considered very rude if you don’t slurp your food.” I’ve had a few oysters in my day, but that had to be the freshest ever. I slurped with pleasure. We finished off the coffee, still hot from the thermos, to make improvised Irish coffee—prepared with cream and a splash of Jack Daniel’s. “I bet you didn’t know that Jack Daniel was Irish,” he said with a wink. “I usually make it with Jameson’s, but I had this lying around.”

After packing away the food and drink, we took a walk along the beach. Trip showed me how you could tell which direction the tide was going. It had turned by now and would soon be ready to help us head back to Olympia. He also explained how the currents around Hope Island could be tricky, so it was important for us to catch the tide at the right moment. 

Eventually, our conversation turned to his name. I asked him whether “Trip” was some kind of drug reference. “You would think that, wouldn’t you. No, I was using Trip before I ever heard of Haight-Ashbury and Timothy Leary,” he said. He looked at me intently, then gazed out at the rippling waves. It seemed that he was considering whether I was worthy to learn some deep secret. “Well, the name on my passport is Carter Winthrop Smith the Third.”

“Whoa, that sounds like a name that came over on the Mayflower,” I said.

“No, actually, it came over on the Juneflower. That’s the boat that came next after the Mayflower.”

“Har har har. I could have guessed.” I said.

“So you can imagine the hell that name triggered in middle school. There was Carter’s Little Liver Pills and Winnie for Winthrop. And now we have this president with all the peanut jokes. So I tried several names. For a while, I tried to go by Spike. Of course, the teachers at my other schools were no help. They all just went by name at birth. Except that one teacher, who was happy to call me Spike when we were on his boat. So I’ve been stuck with being The Third.” He said the way he thought about it now was being a triplet, and therefore Trip for short.

“That’s another thing I love about Evergreen,” he said. “You can call yourself anything you want, and everyone just goes along with it. There’s a guy here called Spider and another one that goes by the Midnight Sponge. There’s a Wyoming, a Bing, a Birdie, and a Crow. There’s a Bear, a Mingo, an Off White, a Blue, a Hoorenga, and his brother Wajuba. It’s kind of a normal thing here at Evergreen, so the people in the registration office have been very chill about the whole name thing. They are happy to use AKA  and to explain about it in the narrative evaluations we write.”

It was just then that I noticed a thin little braid poking out from under his tweed cap. “I like your dreadlock,” I said. 

“Oh, thanks. I guess that’s kind of my freak flag. I usually keep it tucked in under my collar, but it must have escaped this morning.”

We made it back to the marina just as the sun was going down and a bank of clouds was rolling in. Johnny was waiting on the dock in Trip’s Range Rover. I saw the book he was reading—Moby Dick. “How was the seminar?” I asked. Johnny said it was not what he expected. It was all about boats. Pretty interesting. But he had to keep reading.

“Well, don’t let me interrupt that. By the way, that lunch was great.” Turning to Trip, I said, “This was a great day. And you were right about how it could have been a waste of a perfect day. Oh, and I’ll be sending you a bill for my deckhand services.”

“That’s fine,” he said. “I’ll mail you a check on a coconut from Bora Bora.”

NOTE: Incidents and characters in this story may be composites.