News - Local

Published: Sunday, Jun. 07, 2009

Roandoak of God near Morro Bay: Group home under fire

Neighbors say ranch off Hwy. 1 is a health threat and an eyesore; they want action by the county, which says the facility is nearly up to code and not comparable to Dan De Vaul’s Sunny Acres

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As the county attempts to bring Dan De Vaul and his errant ranch in line, a second front has sprung up in the code enforcement wars, this one also involving an old structure housing down-on-their-luck people.

Roandoak of God near Morro Bay — also known as the Chorro Creek Ranch — is a nonprofit group that houses 26 people in an old, asbestos-shingled, 8.000-square-foot house brought to the two-acre property from Vandenberg Air Force Base in the early 1970s.

Neighbor Carrie Burton and others who live nearby say the ranch contains polluted wells, failed septic tanks, exposed asbestos and too many people. It is also an eyesore, she says.

She adds that the man who operates the ranch, Joseph Goodwin, and his adult son, Levi, have frightened her and her children.

“They stand there and stare” and take pictures of her children from the other side of the fence that separates the properties, she says. She won’t let the kids play outside alone now.

Burton wants to know why Roandoak of God is, in her view, getting a pass.

The county says it isn’t.

Nonetheless, at a recent Board of Supervisors meeting, Burton accused county code enforcement officers of selective prosecution and alleged that the county has come down much harder on De Vaul than on Goodwin.

Code enforcement officer Art Trinidade denies it. “We have investigated each and every complaint,” he wrote in an e-mail to The Tribune.

He says Roandoak of God, which has operated for decades without a completed building permit, is “very close” to completing the requirements of its current permit and becoming completely legal. Goodwin is down to getting “a couple of heaters” approved, Trinidade said.

Board of Supervisors Chairman Bruce Gibson, who met with Burton and her neighbors Wednesday, said the county issued a one-year permit in March to Roandoak of God, telling Goodwin some of the things he would have to fix. A building inspector will evaluate the property soon, probably within a month, Gibson added.

“What he is required to do will require some analysis,” Gibson said.

Goodwin won’t talk to the press: “It’s never gone well with the ranch and the newspaper.”

He did say that “the difference with Dan is that he’s not cooperating, and I am.”

Many similarities

There are similarities in the Goodwin and De Vaul cases.

In both instances, the operation is run by a charismatic head man. In both cases, there have been code enforcement violations, and in both cases the chief complainants have been neighbors — Christine Mulholland and fellow residents of Diablo Drive have made sure the county aggressively pursues De Vaul.

Similarly, Burton’s neighbors share her worries about Roandoak of God. “She isn’t the only one (who is concerned),” Julie Loving said.

Both De Vaul and Goodwin accept people who are troubled, and that has alarmed neighbors in both places.

Roandoak of God has 26 residents living in the house, while De Vaul has roughly 40 in tents and a house on his property.

Finally, neighbors of both accuse the county of dumping vagrants at the ranches because the county, the charge goes, has neglected to provide housing for low- and no-income people.

The county denies this, too.

However, there are key differences.

Distinctions seen

For one thing, De Vaul’s 72-acre ranch is on Los Osos Valley Road just outside San Luis Obispo’s city limits, and its ranch equipment and abandoned vehicles are clearly visible to motorists headed to Los Osos and Montaña de Oro State Park. That makes it an inviting target for critics.

Roandoak of God is tucked discreetly near the end of a crumbling, dead-end road off Highway 1 just before Morro Bay.

De Vaul’s chief critics live in a subdivision on Diablo Drive, and they include the former San Luis Obispo city councilwoman, Mulholland, among them. Burton does not travel in the corridors of local political power.

Perhaps the most significant — alleged — difference is what Burton calls selective enforcement. The county and De Vaul became confrontational at some point in their years-long standoff and have been unable to move past that, although each side blames the other.

As a result, the county has brought criminal charges of code violations against De Vaul and has begun nuisance abatement proceedings against him.

Goodwin, on the other hand, plays ball. “He’s not one of those people who thumbs his nose at authority,” said Chanel Channing of West Coast Housing, who has helped Goodwin run his operation and sends clients there. West Coast Housing describes itself as providing emergency aid to the homeless and nearly homeless.

“Mr. Goodwin is very cooperative and responds immediately to each and every complaint,” Trinidade wrote. Gibson concurs.

Donations or rent?

There is one other similarity, but with a difference. Both men ask their tenants to pay.

Mulholland and other De Vaul detractors have accused him of exploiting the people who come there for help. But he, his tenants and others who have lived or worked with De Vaul say he allows them to work off the rent by doing chores.

De Vaul charges $300 a month, but many people can’t pay, said Becky Jorgensen, a supporter who handles media relations. She said he brings in roughly $3,600 monthly total, and “we do not kick someone out if they don’t have the money.”

Goodwin also charges rent, but he makes his renters sign a sheet calling it a “donation,” according to Owen Kelly, who lived there in 2004.

If he hadn’t paid, “he wouldn’t let me stay there,” Kelly says today.

While Goodwin has a sliding scale, and some tenants work off the rent, most are receive disability benefits and pay that way, Kelly said.

Channing corroborated that Goodwin charges $300 to $600 a month, the higher fee “if it’s really complicated and you have to keep an eye on them.”

If Goodwin were to collect $300 a month — the lower end of his scale — from 26 people, that would bring in more than $90,000 a year.

Kelly gives credit to Goodwin for helping people out. However, he says, “it depends on how you look at it. He does take some people off the street, but he makes bank on them.”

Nathan Smith, a Cal Poly graduate who lived in what is now Carrie Burton’s house when he was in college, agrees.

“If it is going to be a place for the homeless,” he said, “it shouldn’t be run by someone who profits from them.”

Kelly adds that Goodwin receives food and other items from stores and churches as charitable donations.

Channing denies that Goodwin exploits his tenants, and the county tells the story differently than Smith and Kelly.

Trinidade said Goodwin told him the arrangement is like a kibbutz, with some tenants paying more, some less, some none and all pooling their money.

What is it?

Some things remain unclear about Roandoak of God.

For example, what is it?

A single-family home? A ranch? A hotel? A halfway house?

Roandoak of God has had a long, controversial and convoluted history. The property has been an old-fashioned hippie commune and a home for so-called “Jesus Freaks,” according to articles in The Tribune database.

Goodwin took charge in 2003.

Today, Trinidade calls it “more a commune, which is not defined by (county) code. Thus, the Planning and Building Department does not and cannot license or regulate who can live at the house.”

The definition matters because it gives the county entree to bring the property up to whatever code it is supposed to meet.

Along those lines, Trinidade and Goodwin have discussed the number of residents in relation to the size of the home and county codes. Trinidade says Goodwin “is currently commissioning plans for a completely new home at the site.”

This may or may not come as good news to Burton, who says she is so spooked by Goodwin that she is thinking of moving back to town.

Burton has gone to the county’s civil grand jury with her grievances and allegations of selective code enforcement. The civil grand jury looks into complaints from citizens, submitting a report on each investigation. It will not reveal what it is working on.

Problems and questions still surround Roandoak of God, she and other neighbors say — asbestos, for example. Trinidade, however, says asbestos is not a hazard unless it crumbles readily. He says the Air Pollution Control District knows about it.

There is still a “really serious” problem with the septic system, said Babak Naficy, an environmental attorney who is helping Burton.

Naficy added that there are too many unknowns about Roandoak of God, its 26 tenants, their effect on the land, water, and surrounding neighborhoods, and the history of its interactions with the county. “Where are they doing their cooking, taking their showers, washing their clothes?”

For now, Burton continues to amass documents and pressure the county’s code enforcement officers. She is hoping, she said, that her efforts will ensure that her neighbor’s property is “run by responsible people.”