Camping out in a heatwave

September 19, 2026

Dell Franklin walking his dog on the beach

By DELL FRANKLIN

Editor’s Note: The following series, “Life in Radically Gentrifying Cayucos by the Sea,” to be posted biweekly includes the notes, thoughts, and opinions of an original American voice: author Dell Franklin. 

Franklin’s latest book – “Hitchhiking, A Destiny” – is currently on Amazon.

I knew it was going to be hot. I follow weather reports. I am an old man with time on my hands and therefore possibly spend too much time consulting the weather. But I dread heat, and especially heatwaves.

Living in Cayucos, however, has been relatively cool and a godsend during an El Nino attack on the West Coast that has people scurrying around trying to avoid stultifying heat. Cayucos and Morro Bay are overrun by people from the Central Valley trying to escape temperatures not only rising to over 100 degrees, but roiling them in sapping humidity and refusing to go down at night.

I knew a particular day in Cayucos, according to several predictions on the weather station on TV, on a  forecaster on the internet, and in a newspaper, that I was in for it and dreading what always happened in an old stand alone one-bedroom cottage that I have rented for nearly two decades: It is a heat-seeking furnace.

There is no insulation. A big window facing the ocean radiates heat off a deck and has the interior broiling by noon. Blinds do no good. A large black towel used as a blackout curtain does little to help. My little place becomes a sweltering hell-hole, and the only consolation is that the temperature will go down at night and I can at least find some sleep when the room settles down to around 80 degrees.

So I was watching the U.S. Open tennis matches in the morning and early afternoon. I had all doors closed to keep the heat out. I checked the weather on TV—86 in Morro Bay. That meant it was around 92 in Cayucos. I was in for it.

By 3:30 in the afternoon I was guzzling water and sweating profusely and feeling my body overheat. I could hardly concentrate on the tennis match. Nor, at this point, did I care. I stood and staggered about. I could hardly swallow my throat was so dry. I couldn’t think straight.

My thermometer was at 93! I was in a fucking sauna. I staggered out of the house and got in my car, which was parked in shade. The temperature was 101 on the dash! I drove down to the 24th street parking lot on the beach and it was a little cooler. With both windows down, I guzzled water and ate peanuts. I could not read. The lot was fairly crowded and people were in the water or walking their dogs.

An hour later I drove home and entered the furnace. Thermometer read 95! I made a peanut butter sandwich and returned to 24th street.

I was trying to figure things out. As an 83 year old, this shit could kill me! Old people in places like Phoenix and Las Vegas who lost their AC perished, were found dead in their residences.

I had to do something. I considered my options. I could come down here and sleep in my car—a 2002 Toyota Camry—and possibly be suspected as homeless and bothered by cops or park rangers.

I was missing the football game and the tennis as I lay back in the recliner position, savoring 86 degree weather. I had to make a decision and survive. I returned to the furnace. It was now 88 out and 93 inside.

I opened both doors and windows. Had the fan on continuously. I got back on my recliner and took an ice pack from the fridge and placed it behind my neck and guzzled ice water. In a fog I watched the games, switching back and forth. I rotated ice packs. I checked my thermometer. 92. It was already 9 o’clock!

I went to work. Found three old comforters from the local thrift store, folded them in half, and made a pallet on my deck. While doing so I conferred with a lady walking her dog below me and she said it was 107 in her driveway at mid noon!

I found a flashlight in case I needed to read. Plumped two pillows. By ten o’clock the games were over. It was 89 inside. I went to my car to read the temperature outside—80. I poured myself a glass of chilled vodka and retired to my pallet. Called a friend down south who was reading in an air conditioned room. I informed him I had no AC and was camping out.

I was roughing it. I patted myself on the back for adjusting. I was a man for all seasons. It was pleasant outside. The stars were bright. I had a sheet for a blanket. I’d taken a shower and was somewhat refreshed. I had a giant glass of water beside me, accompanying the vodka. I was feeling totally recovered from a day of rare miserableness and thankful the next day would be cooler.

At 8 in the morning I was scheduled to play tennis in Morro Bay.

I fell asleep and woke sometime later and visited the john and returned to fall back asleep and awoke again and looked at my flip phone—4:48. The only discomfort was trying to get up from the floor of the deck.

I had to get down on all fours like a dog and push up on badly damaged, painful shoulders and then go careening about, potentially banging into rickety patio furniture with sharp ends. But I succeeded, unbloodied.

Inside, the furnace was down to 80. I returned to my pallet. It felt like home. I was quite proud of myself. If EL Nino produced another long siege of a heatwave, I was prepared. Like the Boy Scout motto—be prepared!