…got married. Without a place to stay, we went to the Hotel Del Coronado for our one night honeymoon. Room 222. “Probably,” she said, “because we’re kids.” The next morning, we picked up “The San Diego Union,” went to Balboa Park, and looked for places to rent. I was twenty years and almost three months old, Trish was nineteen years and eleven days old. [NOTE: “Room 222” was a high school-centered TV show at this time.]

Here’s Trish, shortly before we got married. Wish I still had that Morris Minor; but Trish, she still has that same ‘take no shit’ attitude, the same passionate approach to life, the same willingness to defend things she loves (again) passionately, but backed-up with unshakeable, inarguable wisdom.

What the years have given Trish; three children, modest ups and a stream of setbacks and problems (mostly the type others face), is an incredible inner strength. Really, it’s a quality she’s always had; and, almost sadly, it’s one she’s needed through a house burning down, all the fear and drama of child-raising, husband-raising.  And she’s always had an inner wisdom I’ve relied on. If my line has always been, “It’ll be all right,” it was frequently more on faith than reality. She (her being willing to stand by) has been a major part of my faith.

With a few additions (the children, friends, the Seahawks), I still love the same things I did forty-five years ago. Doing good work, music/writing/drawing, surfing, Trish. The list is in reverse order. Despite whatever she might tell you about surfing being the other woman, Trish has always been my greatest love.

The above was just supposed to be the caption. Got carried away.

Back to November of 1971. We found a place in Pacific Beach, $150 the first month, $125 after that. The back window looked, across an alley, at the back of a pizza/sandwich shop that fronted on Garnet Avenue, a block and a half from Crystal Pier. One bedroom. Perfect.

It rained most of last night, and it’s probably going to be raining most of the day. We have some plans. Oh, gotta go.

Incidentally, Archie’s doing better, though slowly. He’s still in the hospital in Bangkok; won’t be able to get in the water for about a year. He’s been writing, says he has a girlfriend in Thailand, is in, weirdly, a Christian hospital, believes God has some plans for him, and, he couldn’t help but mention, the nurses seem to be in competition over his “Pee pee.” Not sure what that means, but Trish and I, and many in the local surfing community, and his other friends, are looking forward to his return.