There are some twenty-seven types of whales and dolphins in the waters around the Channels, and I'd already scored a trifecta on the way out: From the catamaran, we'd seen a rare blue whale, the largest mammal in earth's history, a pair of tail-waving humpbacks, and then a gray whale migrating slowly to Alaska with her calf. Now, over the course of a couple of hours of afternoon exploration, the magic of the coastline played out like a drama with crashing surf for a sound track. I spotted dolphins and, continuing my paddling counterclockwise along the shore, passed blowholes and sea caves and poked my bow into the deep natural harbor of Prisoner's Bay. Sea lions and seals were sunning themselves on the beach in true California style, but the surf (and the advice against disturbing the wildlife) prevented me from approaching too close. Then, like the final curtain, a bank of fog appeared on the horizon. This was no place to get caught in zero visibility, so I beat a hasty retreat to Scorpion Harbor and spent the night beneath the oak trees. Families, a troop of Boy Scouts, and a rowdy camp of kayak guides were scattered under distant trees, and in the dark I could see each group cooking over the blue flames of camp stoves, rehearsing the day's adventures, waving their hands in the air as they described the motions of a whale fluke disappearing deep into the sea, or of wind blowing through the tall grass of a sweeping California meadow, something the Boy Scouts were hard-pressed to find in greater Los Angeles.

The only downside was the food: Left to my own disorganized devices, I produced a hybrid, deeply unsatisfying three-course meal of sweaty cheese on crumbled crackers, disastrously rehydrated lasagna, and shards of Oreos. To some degree, the surroundings and company make the meal, but even an oak tree and a sky full of stars can't compensate for powdered pasta in plastic. I knew there had to be a better way.

The city of Santa Barbara is in every sense the abundant opposite of its thirsty namesake island. The town is so oversupplied with the luxuries of the good life that it induces fits of jealousy, lust, and scorn in equal measure. The rap sheet against this most precious and privileged of American enclaves is simple: Detractors, including many of its own residents, love to depict Santa Barbara as a batty enclave of vulgarians, inane celebrities, and overtanned plutocratic idlers. It is true that the majestic slope of State Street, the main thoroughfare, sees more than its share of underdressed flaneurs, scions of inherited money, and skateboarding millionaires, as well as honeymooning Russians, gawkers in search of celebrity tragedies, and some of the smartest panhandlers in America. It is certainly true that stars are scattered on the ground so thick (Michael Palin in the coffee shop! George Clooney at the Granada Theatre!) that it debases the coin of fame, and that Michael Jackson's Neverland Ranch is just over the hills, setting a certain low standard of depressing unreality.