This was originally written with fictitious names, so it was not written in the first person. Later I put the real names in.
ISLAND TIMES
LOOSE ENDS
He came down from the California high country looking like some mountain man of old, his beard and skin the color of autumn, burnished a deep golden red by eight weeks of exposure to the high alpine sun. He found that he could converse with casual acquaintances with little chance of recognition. Two months of walking the High Sierra under a sixty-five pound pack had carved over sixty pounds from his frame. Now, after a few weeks of wandering the back roads of the southwest in a VW micro-bus, he was back in south Texas still at loose ends with himself.
The divorce had been final weeks ago. That he had made sure of before returning. Being drawn into the legal system to bicker over the remaining icons of his failed marriage was something that he would not allow. His name was Gary Osborne, he was thirty-three years old and the art galleries that he had operated for the last seven years were lost in the past along with his marriage. Even after more than sixty days and nights of solitude and introspection in the clean, crisp air of the high mountains he had no inkling of what he would do next. Now, after a few days in San Antonio, visiting with his sons and a few close friends, and soon tiring of the recognition game in the same old haunts (“say do you have a brother that comes in here?”) he drove down to the Texas gulf coast.
After the three-hour drive he caught the nine-car ferry over to Mustang Island and the historic fishing village of Port Aransas. Mustang Island is a low-lying barrier island nowhere more than two or three miles in width and about twenty miles long. The beach is about two hundred yards wide, ending abruptly in a line of sand dunes that are anywhere from five to twenty five feet high. The light tan sand is of such a consistency that it is firms enough to drive on. Starting at Port Aransas on the upper tip of the island it is possible to drive on the beach for about eighteen miles, down to a Fish Pass where you are forced to return to the Island Highway and cross over a bridge to Padre Island. Mustang Island is one of several similar islands that stretch like a fractured chain along the Texas coast, forming and protecting hundreds of miles of productive lagoons and bays.
Landing on the island for the first time in a year he drove out to the beach front motel his friend Jimmy Kirksey had built a few years previously. Renting a room for a few days and watching the ocean was his only plan. The small twenty room Beach Lodge Motel was built on pilings, as were many island homes and businesses. Climbing the stairs and walking into the bar, which ran across the back of the room a flood of memories almost overwhelmed him. Two years previously he and his family, along with a group of friends and their families, had rented most of the rooms for the New Year holidays. It had been a great time, four days of merriment, with good food and the company of good friends. The storm clouds that would portend the end of the marriage were still far over the horizon.
The room still looked much the same, tables made from cable spools and canvas deck chairs supplied most of the furnishings. He remembered the good jukebox. That along with one pool table and a couple of pinball machines provided the indoor entertainment. Large side windows offered a view of sand dunes and beach homes. The front wall was of glass with double screen doors in the middle and afforded a view of the deck area with the beach and Gulf of Mexico beyond. He walked to the combination bar and registration desk that ran along a third of the back wall. An attractive blond in her early twenties was ready with a big smile of welcome. “Hello there, can I help you?” “You can if you have a room available.” “We can fix you right up.” she replied, “Would you care for a single or double?” “A single will be fine, I’m traveling alone.” Gary filled out the registration card and Ginger, as she introduced herself, directed him out the side door and back along a wooden walkway to the third room from the front. The rooms were still as basic as he remembered a double bed, a nightstand with a low wattage lamp, a shelf with a rod under it to hang clothes on and a miniscule bathroom with a shower. One window and an air conditioner completed the room.
That evening he phoned Jimmy, who lived over in Corpus Christi to say hello and tell him that he was at the motel. He invited Jimmy over to have a few drinks when he had some spare time. Jimmy replied, “that sounds great, I’ve been needing an excuse to get away. I’ll see you sometime tomorrow afternoon.” That evening he spent at the motel bar visiting with Ginger and two or three locals that wandered in briefly. As far as he could tell he was the only guest on this warm Tuesday night.
It was the last week of September 1974, and the island residents were adjusting to the fact that they had survived another “season.” The hectic summer crowds that contribute a major slice of the island economy had returned to their homes and schools after the final mad ritual of Labor Day. Now was that special time of year, the water would be warm enough to swim in for five or six weeks yet. There would be Spanish mackerel and bluefish in the surf and flounder, speckled trout and redfish in the bays. The blue water would move in closer to shore bringing the last kingfish and dolphin of the season within reach of even the smaller boats. The first norther was still somewhere up there in the land of the midnight sun. Now there was only the vague threat of a late season hurricane with its aura of menace to quicken the tempo and add special value to these first days of fall.
The following morning, after a four mile run on the beach, Gary drove the mile and a half into town and purchased a fishing license and a newspaper. Might as well take advantage of my beach-front abode while I have it he thought as he looked through hooks and sinkers and lures of every color and size, there were many that would defeat description. Lures for fish or fisherman, he mused. After stocking the icebox in the VW he drove out on the beach and headed away from town, down beyond the city limits sign. (Pop. 1250) He drove until he came to a stretch of beach that he seemed to have to himself for at least half a mile in either direction. He wondered once again if there was anywhere else in the country where you can drive out on the sand of the open beach for miles on end except for the Texas coast. On Padre Island, the next one to the south, you can drive close to eighty miles, although a four-wheel drive is needed after about the first thirty. Coming to a stop he consulted the local newspaper for the tide tables, and finding the tide on the ebb pulled to within a few feet of the water and parked. It was something he had learned from the days of coming to the beach with his family. It kept other drivers from cutting between your car and the water’s edge where the children would likely be playing. Now, all he had to protect was his fishing pole in its holder, driven deep, into the hard packed sand.
He swam and body surfed the three and four foot waves for about an hour before he got around to baiting a hook. After rigging his surf rod with a finger mullet he waded out to the far side of the second sandbar and cast into the gut between it and the third bar. Letting the line spool off his reel he walked back to the beach and set the rod back in its holder. Next he took out his spinning rod, which he rigged with a three inch gold spoon and waded out to where he could cast onto the third bar. On his first cast he hooked onto a fish that turned out to be a sixteen-inch Spanish mackerel, an excellent fish that he would grill for lunch. He fished for another half hour or so adding two more mackerel to the lunch fare and then stuck the fishing rods in the bus and cleaned the fish. Enough action for the morning, time to stretch out in the sun and find out what the latest Tom Robbins novel had in store for him as the charcoal in the grill burned down to a bed of fine red coals. Lunch was a simple affair consisting of the mackerel, whole wheat bread and a chilled bottle of a white California wine. The remainder of the afternoon slipped by as he swam and slept and swam once again, avoiding any thoughts of what he would do in the future. The divorce court had awarded him everything in his immediate possession, that amounted to his VW bus, his cameras and his backpack, which along with the few hundred dollars in his pocket was his total net worth. No baggage to drag around when I do figure out where I’m heading, he had said to himself on the rare occasions that he had let himself think about it at all. Loose ends, loose ends, loose ends, they rattled around in his brain.
In late afternoon he stored the lounge chair and grill away and drove back to the motel. He showered and dressed in a pair of khaki shorts and a cotton Hawaiian shirt, some new clothes that he had been forced to buy after he came down from the mountains. Physically he felt better than he could remember; it had been a long time since he had been able to get into thirty-three inch pants. He went into the motel bar and bought a Dos Equis beer and carried it out to the front deck overlooking the beach and the parking area. Pulling up a comfortable chair he put his feet on the rail and watched the groups of beach goers as they one by one gathered up the blankets and chairs, ice chests, kids and dogs, and made their way back to their homes or motel rooms to prepare for the evening meal.
He was on his third beer when he saw Jimmy Kirksey pull up to the motel. He waved and walked back through the bar to meet Jimmy at the top of the stairs. Jimmy was nearing forty, medium height with just the beginnings of a spreading waistline. He was in real estate and construction and in keeping with the image of the successful businessman that he liked to project, he nursed an ulcer. “It has been a long time,” Jimmy said, as they shook hands and slapped each other on the shoulders. “You look like you’ve lost enough weight to make a small person.” “Yeah, the high country can work miracles. Going into the mountains for two months is one of the best things I’ve ever done.” They walked out onto the deck where Gary had left his beer and sat down. “Are you ready for another one?" Jimmy asked? "I need to go in and say hello to the employees anyway.” When he returned the conversation centered on old friends, family and what each had been doing over the past year. Jimmy then asked, “What are you going to do now?” “I don’t have a plan; I just haven’t been able to give it much thought.” Gary replied, “My mind has been walking around that question like a dog going around a fire hydrant.” “Well here is something that you might think about; at least it would keep you busy until you come up with something else. The guy that I had this motel leased to died a short time ago and put me back in the motel business where I don’t need to be. If you would be interested in taking this thing over for a while I’m sure that we can work out an agreeable lease. You might want to give it some thought.” “It is an interesting idea,” Gary replied, “A totally new direction might be just what I need for awhile. I’ll kick it around, but for now what do you say about getting some dinner.” “Sounds great, how about the Island Cafe and one of those three dollar and fifty cent flounder dinners. Best buy in town.” Gary agreed with that, so they hopped into Jimmy’s MG and headed up the beach.
The Island Cafe was a brightly lit chrome and Formica diner with great food and slow service. A place for locals, and tourists in the know. A place to relax and visit, read the paper, sip a beer while you waited for your food. Jimmy and Gary drank, ate and talked, and drank some more. After dinner they walked next door to the Sail Club for a cocktail and were still there three hours later. They finely ended up back out at the motel bar for a nightcap. By the end of the evening Gary was in the motel business and Jimmy was renting one of his own rooms, as he was not fit to drive back to Corpus Christi.
The next morning Gary took his hangover out into the surf in front of the motel and swam it away. “The ocean really can work wonders,” he thought. When he returned from his swim he found Jimmy sitting out on the front deck nursing a cup of coffee. Gary walked to the counter and poured himself a cup and joined Jimmy out in the warm mid morning sun. “Well how does it feel to be in the motel business?” Jimmy inquired. “Damn, I had not even thought about it this morning. Well I guess it feels just fine.” Gary replied, “Where do we go from here?” “For a start,” Jimmy said, “I guess we can go inside and introduce your employees to their new boss, and then we can come back out here and work out some figures. I’ll have my secretary type up a lease agreement. I think this will take care of some of both of our problems.” “Just like that I have a new career,” Gary laughed. They went inside and Jimmy explained Gary’s new status to Ginger and Tim. Ginger he now found to be twenty-six years old, she looked like a swimmer. A great tan and exceptional legs. Tim was a tall slender man of about twenty-four. He was good looking and wore his dark hair in a ponytail. Gary found them both pleasant and intelligent, and expressed approval of the way he had been treated as a guest and asks for their help and guidance as he learned the ropes. Jimmy and Tim then gave Gary a tour of the place and Gary moved his belongings to a larger but similar room directly behind the bar. He now had a home and a business once again.
WINTER NIGHTS
It was now December and winter had driven all tourist business from the beach. The snowbirds were settled into their aluminum and fiberglass enclaves of Air Streams and Winnebago’s. Bikinis and Frisbees had been replaced by ladies with blue hair and fishermen in rubber pants. It was the time that the locals who were now caught without a mate were frantically searching for steady companionship to help ward off the chill of the wild blue northers that would be howling across the land in the coming months.
Gary had slipped into the motel business without a hitch, though actually what business there now was consisted mainly of locals drinking at the bar and three other locals that were renting rooms by the month. From time to time a few rooms might be rented on weekends. Gary’s list of new acquaintances was growing rapidly from the surprisingly cosmopolitan cross section of the town. Shrimpers and artists, Yankees and Texans, writers, musicians, and scientists from the University of Texas Marine Lab. There were waiters, waitresses and bartenders from across the country that had come on vacation and never left. Whatever the current vocation it would as like as not have little in common with previous endeavors. New comers and lifetime residents made for a generally, friendly, interesting, and talented population. Gary felt right at home.
It was a time of low cash flow yet that winter Gary and the other residents of the motel, along with a sprinkling of other friends put together many truly memorable meals. The fulltime residents were Chris, a twenty eight year old fisherman who was originally from New York and regularly provided fresh fish and beautiful shrimp. Then there was Weldon, the head cook at one of the better island restaurants who could show up with some very interesting surprises. The other resident was a gregarious thirty two year old man from the Midwest named Tony that helped out around the motel and soon seemed to know everyone in town. Free seafood was the standard fare; if Chris didn’t provide it there were trout and redfish to be caught in the surf and flounder in the bays along with chowder clams. Flounder could even be picked up along the ship channel after a large tanker passed. The wake of the ship would pull the water into the channel for a few moments, sometimes leaving them high and dry long enough to run along the mud flats and grab them. Usually a bottle or two of good wine would find its way to the table and whenever he was able Gary would supply a bottle of fine Spanish brandy. Weldon, Gary and Chris were all fine cooks. They could put together meals for a few dollars that would cost a hundred or more in any restaurant on the coast. Island ladies took to showing up with covered dishes also, and the evenings at the Beach Lodge took on a special ambiance with a delightful extended family. The winter storms could shake the building on its pilings, rain-blown sand and ocean spray could pelt and rattle the windows and the wind could howl, it would all just add to the closeness and coziness of the night.
As Christmas approached Gary found himself flirting with bouts of depression, it would be his first away from his family. Christmas morning dawned cold and gray but as on most other days he was up at daylight. He usually liked to have the bar cleaned up and be out running on the beach with the sunrise. As he finished mopping the floor depression seemed to settle down around him thicker and darker than the clouds that were obscuring the rising sun. Thinking of what his three sons would be doing at that moment and realizing that he had no plans at all for the day ahead, he found he didn’t even have the fortitude to take his run on the beach. Instead he drew a glass of beer and sat huddled in a corner watching the cold gray sea assaulting the deserted beach. For a couple of hours the only other movements came from a few solitary gulls and an occasional car with a single occupant slowly cruising the beach. It was small consolation that there seemed to be others out this morning who’s Christmas might be as bleak has his.
About ten o’clock a rusty old pickup turned into the motel parking lot. When the driver stepped out Gary recognized Terry Larson, a fisherman that he had not seen for a few weeks. He walked over to the door and greeted Terry as he was climbing the stairs with a “Merry Christmas.” Terry replied, “Merry Christmas yourself. Our shrimp boat just pulled in a couple of hours ago and the market was only offering twenty cents a pound for our fish. I’d rather give it away than sell it to them for that price. That’s when I thought of you and the free fish BBQ you had last time I was in. I didn’t have any place else to go either.” “I’m glad you thought of me, I’m happy to have the fish, and the company. How about joining me for a beer?” Gary replied as they entered the bar and he went behind the counter and drew two glasses. “Thanks a lot, I really need this, it is my first beer in two weeks, and the weather has been rough as hell out there. I’ve got two trashcans full of fish down there in the truck, about a hundred pounds or so I guess. We still have to clean them though.” “That’s no problem; we can carry them out on the deck and do it there.” They carried the fish up the stairs and out on to the deck and started cleaning fish on one of the picnic tables. They cleaned fish and drank beer for a couple of hours, commenting on what a great way it was to spend Christmas morning, up to your elbows in fish offal.
At a little past noon, as they were cleaning up the mess and putting the filleted fish in the freezer, two more cars pulled into the parking lot. People started pilling out and Gary recognized his employees, Ginger and Julie (now of Julie’s Backyard Restaurant) and Julie’s kids, and then some of the other island girls and more kids. There must have been fifteen people in the two cars. They were hollering and laughing and unloading pots and pans and dishes from out of the trunks by the time Gary and Terry reached them. “Merry Christmas”, everyone seemed to yell in unison. Julie turned and exclaimed with a huge smile, “We decided that we are going to have Christmas dinner here with you, it’s all prepared.” Talk about rays of sunshine, the day couldn’t have been any brighter in the middle of July. They carried all the food inside and spread it out on the bar. Turkey and ham, pies and cakes and all the side dishes that make up a traditional holiday feast. Gary broke out a case of Washington State cabernet sauvignon that he had been saving and everyone sat down to a great Christmas dinner. Even the overcast sky cooperated and the gray clouds started breaking up. The emerging sun soon painted the dunes with a deep golden glow and caused the sea to flash and sparkle as if it were composed of a thousand azure mirrors.
The afternoon wore on and the wine bottles were emptied. The beer taps were also getting a good workout. More people arrived and a few left, but the party was definitely gathering steam. The room that Chris was renting developed into the gathering spot for the marijuana smokers. Most of the adults indulged to some extent. By late afternoon most of the children had been taken home or dropped off at a friend’s house. Kit and Raymond, two local musicians had shown up with guitars and a fiddle and were performing a mixture of Christmas carols, original songs, and rock and roll classics. They had a number of original songs about the island that were always favorites with the locals, and they soon had the building shaking as much as any storm ever had. They played for about three hours and there were people dancing on tables before they finished. It went on until after sunset, but as the lights were coming on in the scattered beach houses that were occupied in winter, Kit and Raymond started packing their instruments and the crowd started to thin out. Ginger and Julie and their friends were gathering up the empty pots and dishes and Gary and the few others that remained were straightening up and helping the girls load their cars.
Gary had spent most of the afternoon visiting with a dark slim girl known as Evil Eva that had came in with a parrot perched on her shoulder. They had known each other for a couple of months but this was the first time that they had spent any time together. By eight o’clock everyone else had left, Eva set the parrot on a chair with a plate of fresh jalapeno peppers within reach. They were one of its favorite treats. Gary locked up the bar and they retired to Gary’s room. “Hey, have you ever taken a steam bath in here?” Eva asked. “No, I can’t say as I have,” Gary replied. “Well come on, I’ll bet it will work, with the size of this little bathroom and your motel water heater there should be plenty of heat. Take your clothes off.” she instructed as hers fell to the floor. Gary’s also fell in a flash. “Come on in here and shut the door.” Eva said, as she adjusted the spray from the hot water faucet to splash against the shower wall. Within a few minutes the room started filling with steam and soon the heat started rolling out. Gary sat down on the closed commode lid and Eva plopped down on his lap, it was soon as hot as any steam bath that he had ever been in, and also a very erotic way to get better acquainted. Much later that night lying there with Eva curled up at his side, he reflected on the amazing speed that circumstances can turn around. A little over twelve hours ago he and Terry had been cleaning fish and wallowing in self pity, now he was stretched in the rumpled bed with a big grin on his face, completely sated from good food and drink, and hours of exciting sex. “If any of those lone people that were driving the beach this morning enjoyed themselves even half as much as I have today, they probably feel as if they stepped through the looking glass also.”
SUMMERTIME (Still working on this.)
Notes: beach seine, electric ray, Tommy’s dog Weed, Gilda & Mira Mar, Lazarus, bar room bicycle race, Deena, back to the mountains, back to sea.
HARD LABOR
Gary Osborne
I was seventeen that summer, it was 1959 and Ike was President. Clinton and I had been in the Navy since the previous October, and for some reason the adventure had paled. We had met when we were issued the same orders upon leaving boot camp in San Diego, California. Our orders told us to report to the U.S.S. Princeton, a World War II vintage aircraft carrier that was then moored up in Long Beach. We caught a Navy bus up the coast and reported aboard. Our duty assignments turned out to be in the welding and metal shop working as shipfitters. Clinton Baermann or “Sonny” as he was then called was a Texan from San Antonio and I was from the “Valley,” the town of Van Nuys, a San Fernando Valley suburb just north of Hollywood.
We soon settled into the routine of learning both our jobs, and the ways of a sailor ashore. In those days that often meant having an old timer of twenty-one or so buy us a bottle or some beer. Then as like as not we could be found sitting on the beach beneath the roller coaster of the old Long Beach Pike amusement park. There we would guzzle and talk, and chase the grunion, a small fish that comes ashore under the full summer moon to spawn in the sand during the high tide. Weekends that we had off we would hop into my old’48 Pontiac and head over to the Valley. We could sleep at my mom’s house or stay with one or another of my old friends. This routine continued throughout the summer as the ship was preparing for a Far East cruises. As the departure time loomed closer and closer, Sonny and I started having second thoughts about this Navy life. The night before we were due to sail we were driving around the Valley, drinking beer and discussing the inequities of the military way of life. Don’t you know, we decided that we would be much better off working as lumberjacks in the woods of Idaho. Before you could say anchors aweigh we had the old Pontiac pointed north up Highway 395. About the time that we figured the ship was sailing for Hawaii, we were leaving Bishop California behind and heading on into Nevada. As this was a spur of the moment thing and many years before we had credit cards, we were shoplifting food by the time we reached Winnemucca. I would buy a loaf of bread and a can of beans while Sonny was stuffing lunchmeat and cheese into his jeans.
We kept heading east and eventually stopped in Elko, Nevada. That night I cruised a residential neighborhood so Sonny could jump out and whack off a length of garden hose so we could gas up the car. We filled the tank that night and then pulled off the road to sleep. The next morning we headed north towards Mountain City, a small mining town near the Idaho border where I had gone to school and lived with my Aunt and Uncle for a couple of years. I had several friends on the nearby Indian Reservation and planned to stop and say hello. That was not to be though as the old Pontiac started having some problems on the outskirts of Elko. Parked alongside the road with our heads under the hood, we were soon accompanied by a helpful State Trooper. Just as a matter of course he ask to see my drivers license. I had recently renewed it and instead of using my mom’s address, I had used the U.S.S. Princeton. That lead to some uncomfortable questions about leave papers. Something about the tale of their having blown out the car window not ringing true, our trooper friend thought maybe we should ride back into Elko and clear the matter up. They locked us up in the Elko County Jail where we each shared a cell with men in for murder. That impressed us no end. The next day they took us into an office and introduced us to a couple of men from the FBI. We were impressed again. By then we figured the “jig was up,” and “came clean” with the story of our adventure.
Back in our cells awaiting our fate, one man was straining after-shave lotion through bread for his morning cocktail. My cell mate, an Indian from the Duck Valley Reservation, some of whose relatives I knew, was telling how he had shot some guy dead in his tracks as he was sneaking away from his house trailer after a visit with his wife. Heady stuff for a seventeen year old. One more night in our cells and then we were taken out and introduced to a pair of Shore Patrolmen from the Naval Air Station at Fallon Nevada. Fallon is a small town about fifty miles southeast of Reno. It was an all day drive and late that evening we were installed in a restriction barracks where we had to report in every hour on the hour until lights out at ten PM. They issued us Navy dungarees to wear and the next day a Chaplain gave us a couple of silver dollars to purchase toothpaste and other necessities. We stayed there a few days as the wheels of Navy bureaucracy squeaked along working out our fate.
Sonny met an acquaintance from San Antonio and found out that he was planning on driving south to the town of Hawthorne on liberty the next evening. That made us think that just maybe we had been there long enough and maybe it was time to get on with our adventure. Sonny had managed to have his toolbox brought along this entire trip and made a deal with his friend to trade it for a ride to Hawthorne. The plan called for us to go over the fence, hike the two miles or so to the highway and pile some brush in the road as a marker, and then wait in the bushes for him to stop and pick us up. That evening we dressed with our civvies underneath our dungarees made our muster on the hour and headed straight for the fence. Making it to the road we prepared the brush pile. We waited in the bushes and watched for his car. Sure enough we spotted him coming our way and coming fast. He hit that brush pile doing about sixty and continued going. Second thoughts about helping in the great escape I’ll wager. Nothing left but to start walking, stick out our thumbs and hope for the best. It worked; we were soon in a car on our way to Hawthorne not far behind our speeding friend. Once there we found ourselves again on foot. We walked south and were soon past the edge of town and back in the desert proper. As the traffic was sparse and we were beginning to worry about the big manhunt we took off into the desert and walked parallel to the highway.
The nighttime cold of the desert soon settled down around us, and when we stopped to rest the bone chilling reality of it was sobering. Levi’s and light shirts were our only protection from the elements. The only fuel available out there is sagebrush, which burns hot, but very fast. We gathered brush, lit our fire, and stretched out in its warm glow to sleep. It could not have been more than fifteen minutes later that the intense cold brought us rudely awake. That set the pattern for the rest of the night, taking turns gathering wood, thirty minutes of uninterrupted sleep was to be a blessing. The frigid darkness seemed to drag on forever. The first pale gleam of light in the east, silhouetting the distant mountains with its promise of the warming sun was a very welcome sight. Our confidence returned with the light and warmth of the rising sun, and we decided to chance the highway again.
Walking and hitching we put two or three hundred miles behind us that day, but as night fell we were once again afoot. Off in the gathering darkness we spotted a two-story structure set back about one hundred yards from the road. Making our way through the sagebrush and yucca we found it to be a large abandoned building that had possibly been a hotel or ranch headquarters sometime in the distant past. Scouting around as best we could in the failing light we located an old washtub and some blocks to sit it on. With that we had a freestanding fireplace. The lumber we scavenged provided a more substantial and slower burning fire than the sagebrush of the previous night. The smooth wood floor instead of the rocky bottom of the arroyo also helped bring the sweet oblivion of sleep. With daylight we discovered the walls of our abode to be covered with the graffiti of previous tenants. Like those who passed before, we soon added our own autographs, written with charcoal from our fire.
By now we had decided to head for Texas, as Idaho hadn’t worked out. Back on the highway we soon came to a junction with one road heading west over the mountains, back into California, and the other south towards Las Vegas, and so on to Texas. We walked about a mile south of the forks and hitch hiked all morning and into the afternoon without any luck. The junction was still in sight and we could see that most of the cars were taking the road west. By this time we had been without food or water for close to forty-eight hours. We backtracked a half-mile or so to a dirt road we had noticed earlier. It ran off to a small shack about three hundred yards down in a draw. We hiked down to it hoping to find water. There was no one about but someone did live there, prospector or desert rat. There was a water pump out front and a can full of water. Luckily we knew enough not to drink the water in the can and instead use it to prime the pump. We soon had a flow of the most valuable commodity in the desert running into the trough and over our heads. With the slacking of thirst, hunger rushed into the void. The driving hunger and an open window were more than we could overcome and we were soon inside the building looking for food. We gathered a couple of cans of beans, one of beef stew, two cans of Coors beer and a bottle for water into a scrap of blanket and tied the bundle onto a old wooden pack frame. We then took off across the desert towards some distant mountains. The mountains did not come any closer but some scrub trees in the bottom of a dry riverbed did, so we took to the meager shade they provided for our feast. Sonny put together a small fire while I opened the cans. Placing them in the fire we each sat back with a hot can of Coors only to find them completely spoiled. Well we had the bottle of water, and it was good! After eating our dinner we sat back and reflected on our predicament. We had both worn large holes completely through the soles of our navy dress shoes. It seemed that the only course open was to go back to the road junction and hitch the road that was receiving all the traffic, even if it meant backtracking into California.
Dusk once again caught us out on the road but this time a semi—tractor-trailer stopped and took us aboard. The problem here was that the driver said he could not take us through the inspection station at the California border and he let us out high up in the mountains. At that elevation it really was getting cold, fortunately soon after dark a car stopped and we gratefully hopped in, into a red convertible with the top down. Thankfully it was not long before the driver saw our plight and stopped to put up the top. He was heading back down to Southern California, not where we wanted to be, but the soft seats and the heater blowing warm air helped sleep put all of our concerns behind us. That red’55 Chevy hurtled on through the night, heading south down the tunnel formed by its headlights as we slept on. About three in the morning our benefactor awoke us to say that he was close to home and this was as far as he could take us. He said that we were in Pasadena and he wished us well. We stepped out into the deserted main street of a city asleep and walked about half a block before a police cruiser pulled up to inquire as to our presence there. To keep things simple, and as it was close by, I gave the address and phone number of my mother. Sonny did not have that option and making up an address he gave a couple of different ones during the questioning. That was enough for them to search us and take us down to the station. There we were searched once again and stuck in a cell as the wheels of justice started turning one more time. They did not have to turn very far, they called my mother and said they were holding me over in Pasadena, she said no that was impossible, I was A.W.O.L. from my ship and being held at a Naval Station in Nevada. With that information at hand we were brought back out into the office for another chat. Well the jig was up again, and we pulled out our Navy ID cards, much to the chagrin of the young officer who had searched us twice. The cards had been inside the bottom of our socks. Put back in the cell, the wheels kept rolling, and after a welcome breakfast and a nap we were turned over to the Shore Patrol one more time.
This time the Shore Patrol took us back to Long Beach where they transferred us to a navy bus that transported us back down to San Diego, where we became acquainted with the San Diego Naval Station Brig. Inside we were treated to a delightful hair cut and a much needed shower, issued more dungarees and shoes without holes. We were also issued numbers and our names were taken away and put in a box somewhere. Sonny was now prisoner #266 and I was #268. They stuck us in adjoining cells and indoctrination into the workings of the brig began. It was a red line brig. That meant that anytime a prisoner came to a red line painted on the floor he was required to come to attention and state, “Sir prisoner number 268 requests permission to cross the red line sir.” The red lines ran everywhere. All prisoners were issued a badge; this contained a photo and their number. It also had on it a prominent letter designating their status. R, regular prisoner, E/R, escape risk, R/D restricted diet, H, homosexual, S/R suicide risk, and S/D, special duty. For a week or so Sonny and I were kept in the cell block awaiting court martial, the guards would take us out for exercise, showers and meals. Brig regulations and the bible our only reading matter, I read them both cover to cover. As the wheels of justice continued to turn my court martial came up first.
I went before a Special Court and was awarded ninety days at hard labor, reduction in rank to recruit, and loss of all pay. Our Great Escape seemed to have been especially annoying to the court, but even so I was designated R for regular prisoner and moved into a barracks type birthing arrangement.
Sonny’s court came three days later and he was awarded the same sentence and joined us in the barracks. It was a high ceiling room sleeping two hundred or more men on rows of metal bunk beds. Communal showers and toilets at one end, and the door leading out onto the prison yard at the other. The yard was maybe one hundred feet by one hundred and fifty and surrounded by a twenty-foot wall topped with guard towers and floored in smooth concrete, which we waxed everyday by hand. That was where we did our exercises and smoked our four cigarettes allotted each day. They were smoked standing at attention and puffing on command, at times there was little puffing and mostly standing at attention as the cigarettes burned down in our hands. From here also the working parties were formed, then you would be taken under armed guard out of the brig where you might end up in the bottom of a ship cleaning bilges or inside a ships boiler scrapping soot and rust. Another time you might end up over at the commissary warehouse unloading truckloads of canned goods all day. Almost anything was preferable to staying in the brig under the marine’s control. The most interesting assignment was the salvaging of equipment from an old aircraft carrier that had reportedly been sold to Gillette for razor blades. We would be turned loose to rummage through her depths, pulling out brass valves and searching for other treasures.
Back in the brig the exercises were long and hard, and our normal bedtime might find us standing at attention for many hours into the night. Rarely were the nights sleep not interrupted by fire drills or inspections. Many more hours were spent marching back and forth in the yard, we were marched to work, marched to eat, marched to sick call, and everywhere, and the march was a half-step, two steps where one would do. I turned eighteen in there, but looking around I felt more mature than many of the others. I was there because I had chosen to go off on an adventure, many others who had never before been away from home were there because they flipped out and were simply trying to return to their families. In my ninety plus days I saw six or seven young men severely slash their wrists and a couple try to hang themselves. This was out of the regular group; the suicide risks did not have razor blades or belts. One bit of brig humor was when a group of regulars were passing down the S/R cell block you would often hear a, “Pssst, I’ll trade you a razor blade for a cigarette.” It used to make some of the poor bastards even crazier.
Sonny who is now a professional artist started a little business on the side; he was trading nude pencil sketches of women for cigarettes. That enterprise earned him a stint on the R/D cell row. Restricted diet could mean bread and water or simply a tray of overcooked veggies with no salt. I believe Sonny was on the veggie routine.
There was one marine guard that I recognized from high school, but as his group of friends and mine had experienced some difficulties I was not looking for recognition. Finally, one day he did recognize me, but only as a schoolmate without the other connection. After talking he offered to have me moved to the S/D group. Special Duty would best be described as a trustee program. My S/D turned out to be in the mess hall, and part of my duties included waiting tables for the marine guards. My third day on the job one of the guards told me he wanted some ice cream, but as I started on my errand he said no, he had changed his mind. I started about my business and he then said yes he did want some, as I started to go he again said no, and then he said yes, and then no. I finally turned around and asked him, “do you want any God damn ice cream or not.” That brought the entire table to their feet and put an end to my S/D also. I was really glad to get back out in the yard; I just could not handle the waiter part of that job. The best part of my S/D was the chance to smuggle salt pills to the prisoners on restricted diet.
There were a couple of near riots during our stay but thankfully they were resolved through negotiation. I could do a hundred pushups and sit-ups by the score by the time I was released in November. I was sent to a transfer barracks to await orders. I thought I had come through the ordeal pretty much unscathed until I was checking into the barracks. The Chief in charge politely ask wither I preferred something or another, I do not even remember what. I do remember the unexpected politeness made me come apart and start crying on the spot. It brought home the fact that this adventure had affected me more than I knew. I was issued new uniforms and allowed to go into town on liberty. Lemonade, I had dreamt of it while standing at attention for long hours in the sun, I must have drunk a gallon that first day.
Every morning in the transfer barracks a list would be posted designating the new duty stations. I was still there waiting for my name to come up, when three days later, Sonny was released and moved into the barracks also. A couple of days passed and when we checked the list we found that we had both been assigned to duty on the U.S.S. Yorktown. We could not believe it, was it serendipity that kept us together? I never will understand them not splitting up the team.
We went on to spend three years on the Yorktown and were discharged within a few months of each other. Sonny married a Valley girl, the sister of a friend of mine. I married a girl from Hawaii that had moved in across the street from Sonny’s girl. Nine years later, Sonny, or Clinton, as he is now called and I opened an art gallery and picture frame business in San Antonio Texas. The wives and the gallery are now in our past, but our friendship continues still, over thirty years later.
(Now in 2002, it is forty-four years later)
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