Author Archives: Erwin A. Dence Jr.

A Horrific Tragedy AND “Swamis,” Chapter 12, Part Three

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, surf fiction, surf novels, surfing Southern California in the 60s

I really can’t take too much of the coverage of the Hamas/Israel War. It seems as if a surge in violence was predictable and is reminiscent of historic struggles worldwide. The outcomes, however, have varied. Watching MSNBC at the top of any hour guarantees more tales of terror. One analyst, representing this or that organization studying and/or promoting world peace said he expects the situation “Will get worse before it gets even worse.”

The gesture humans have for wonder, whether we are defeated, shattered and questioning; or we are grateful for some hoped for, possibly undeserved, unexpected gift, some surprisingly marvelous ride on a miraculous wave, for example, is the same. The sentiments behind the gesture could not be more different. Opposites Answers and solutions are rarely forthcoming.

“SWAMIS,” CHAPTER 12, PART THREE- SATURDAY, MARCH 29, 1969

            All the surfers and non-surfers in the parking lot were in little groups, locals and non-locals, around vehicles or along the bluff. I was writing in a red notebook on the roof of the passenger side of the Falcon. Petey Blodgett and I were the only ones who looked up or over at the stripped-down and noisy red VW bug with flared fenders, primed with red oxide, going down the far side of the lot, counterclockwise, two people inside.

            Petey Blodgett turned toward me, nodded, mouthed “Dickson,” His expression had turned the name into a question. I nodded. He whistled, one sharp, three note blast, and made a sort of ‘circle the wagons’ gesture with both hands. Everyone looked at the VW. The younger kids started loading into the Mercedes. Ronny and Duncan looked at me before, in a pace that didn’t appear as casual as they may have hoped, they headed for the Morris Minor.

Julia Cole stepped into the bluff side lane and followed the VW with her camera. When it got to the far end of the lot, she put the camera into her bag. She said, “Cardiff,” to Petey and grabbed Monica’s arm. They hurried, together, Julia Cole’s bag almost bouncing on the pavement, to Ronny’s car. Duncan held the passenger side door open, allowing both girls into the back seat. 

The two detectives, Wendall and Dickson, got out of the VW. They straightened their suit pants, buttoned their coats, and walked forward, very slowly. Dickson had a portable radio in his left hand. He raised it, said something, and lowered it again.

The Mercedes, with four boys and Petey Blodgett, backed out and pulled forward. The Morris Minor backed out. Julia Cole, passenger side, back seat, looked at me as the car passed. Duncan may have. I was looking at Julia. She didn’t blink, didn’t move her head. Her eyes moved, left to right. Two seconds, maybe, watching me. Watching me not move.

            Two vehicles, almost instantly, moved from the middle row to the front row. Second tier, now first. Three more surfers headed for the stairs.

            With my own fake casualness, I lifted the Falcon’s tailgate, cranked up the back window, locked it. I walked to the driver’s door, opened it. I looked around. I heard three distinct Sirens. One was a two-syllable yelp, the other two sirens, three. A Highway Patrol motorcycle and a patrol car, and one cruiser from the Sheriff’s Office, red lights going on each, were blocking the Swamis lot at 101.

The Mercedes and the Morris Minor pulled quick u turns at the original lot and parked next to each other in the middle row, as close to 101 as the blockade allowed. I got in the Falcon, closed the door, set the tape player on the floorboards, set the red notebook on the dashboard next to my father’s oversized flashlight.

The four boys got out of the Mercedes and started running circles around the car and then around other cars. Ronny and Duncan got out of the Morris Minor. Julia Cole got out and started unstrapping boards on the rack of the Mercedes. Monica got out and loosened the straps on the one board side of Ronny’s racks. Julia placed her board on the rack and reattached the straps. Monica resecured the straps on the Mercedes.

Petey Blodgett got out of the Mercedes when the Sheriff’s Office cruiser pulled in front of his and Ronny’s cars. The Highway Patrol motorcycle pulled in behind them. The officer got off his motorcycle, removed the glove from his right hand, and shook Petey’s hand.

            Wendall and Dickson were hanging back. Wendall stopped at the edge of the bushes. He disguised taking a leak by lighting a cigarette, his back to the south wind. Dickson took several steps into the open area and raised his walkie-talkie. There was a loud squelch. Wendall took the radio from Dickson, said something into it. Squelch. Both detectives looked at me. I lowered my head.

            I pushed down the vertical knob on the front driver’s side door. As I was reaching over to lock the front passenger door, Detective Dickson opened it. He almost threw himself forward and onto the seat. He reached down and put a hand on my tape deck. With some grunting, he pulled himself and my tape deck backwards and out. He ripped out the loose, overlong, taped together wires from the back, set the player on the edge of the roof. He squatted, his eyes level with mine.

“Obviously stolen,” Dickson said before stepping back and standing up. He flicked two fingers toward the obviously stolen tape player, laughed as it fell to the asphalt. He leaned back in, reached for the red notebook. I pulled it toward me.

“Not obviously stolen, Sir. And, if you don’t have a warrant or a compelling…”

            “Suspicion? I do.” Dickson was pretty much out of breath. He, quite awkwardly, dropped to one knee, on top of the tape deck. “Bet you can quote me the law. Huh, Jody?”

            “Not verbatim, Detective… Sergeant Dickson.”

            “With so many of these tape decks getting stolen,” Dickson said, “it’s really hard to figure out who to get them back to.”

            “I would guess so.”

            “No, it’s under control,” Wendall, just outside the driver’s door, said into the walkie-talkie. He tapped the radio’s antenna on the window. Three times. I must have turned toward him too quickly, looked at him too hard. He slid the radio’s antenna across the glass. “Out.”

            Wendall moved with the door as I opened it. He remained just on the other side of it as I got out. He was looking over the Falcon. Deputy Wilson and a very tall Highway Patrol Officer, standing by between the Mercedes and the Morris Minor, were waiting for further instruction. “This isn’t a game, Jody,” Wendall said, still not looking directly at me.

 Monica and Duncan and Julia Cole and Rincon Ronny were taking a cue from Petey, looking quite casual, but they were all, definitely, looking at me.

“Kind of looks like a game, Detective Wendall… Sir.”

“You’re not helping here, Jody.”

            Dickson pushed the tape deck into the traffic lane with a series of short kicks. “So, Jody, sales receipt?”

I didn’t respond. One of the dawn patrol gremmies was hanging on the racks on the Mercedes. Duncan pulled him off, the kid’s legs pumping. Petey was laughing, chatting with the Highway Patrolman, his hand on the Officer’s shoulder. Three of the four boys were sitting or leaning on the hood of Petey’s Mercedes, looking, if anything, bored. Deputy Scott Wilson was looking at Julia Cole. Monica and Duncan and Ronny were looking at Deputy Wilson. As was I.

Julia Cole, her knees bent, was leaning over the hood of the Morris Minor. Her telephoto lens was aimed at Dickson and Wendall and me. Wendall yelled, “Hey!” He threw out both hands, more in front of his body than straight out. He waved the radio. It was a ‘this is serious’ gesture meant for the motorcycle officer and Deputy Wilson. The CHP Officer shook Petey’s hand and signaled his compatriot in the cruiser. He tapped Deputy Wilson, still watching Julia, on the shoulder. The deputy looked at Julia’s friends, all giving him the same smile. He acknowledged this with an expression I didn’t see but could imagine. Busted.

Julia Cole stood up, never taking her eyes off Wendall, Dickson, and me. She held her camera with the telephoto lens facing up and made four upward thrusts with it. An unmistakable gesture.

I chuckled. Wendall chuckled louder. Dickson wasn’t amused. “Stay away from that one, Jody,” he said. “A regular prick teaser.”

“She’s seventeen years old, Detective Dickson. Sir.”

“Yeah,” Dickson said, jabbing his right hand, in a fist, toward me. Close. I didn’t flinch. He turned toward Wendall. “That is David Cole’s daughter, isn’t it, Larry?” Dickson didn’t give Wendall a chance to answer. “David Cole’s… other, older daughter; she’s the slutty one. Right?” Dickson’s expression was more of a sneer when he turned back. “Surfer girls, huh, Jody?”

Wendall set the walkie-talkie on the roof of the Falcon. He pulled the flashlight from the dashboard, smacking the palm of his hand with it several times. “Gunny… your dad, he didn’t like the ones we were issued.” Wendall turned it on, shined it into my eyes. “Not… impressive enough.” He maneuvered the light into the car, shone it onto a light blue lunch sack in the middle of the bench seat, then turned the flashlight off, handed it to me, smiled. “Lunch, huh?”  

I stuck the flashlight back onto the dashboard, took out the light blue lunch sack, set it on the roof. “Habit,” I said. “I could get something at Mrs. Tony’s.”

“When does your shift start?”

“Not yet.”

            Dickson walked over to the tape deck. “You wanna pick this shit up, Jody?”

I stepped toward the back of the Falcon, lit up a cigarette with two matches from a book with “Fallbrook, The Friendly Village” on the cover.

Dickson kicked the tape deck as he walked around the front of my car. “So, Jody, your mother know you smoke?”

I opened the lunch sack. I pulled my father’s lighter, a small tin of lighter fluid, and a tiny cardboard box of flints. “Evidently.” I opened the top of my father’s lighter, flicked the wheel. There was a brief flame. “I’m going to add the fluid… when I get a chance.”

Wendall took out a cigarette from a pack in his coat’s lower right pocket. “I know your mom didn’t supply… those.” He pulled out a matching Zippo, held the side with the Sheriff’s Office logo toward me, and lit my cigarette before lighting his own. Camel, non-filter.

Dickson came closer to me. The Sheriff’s Office cruiser passed us, followed by the Highway Patrol motorcycle. Wendall and Dickson gave very informal salutes. “So, Jody,” Dickson said, looking at the locals, all still hanging outside the two vehicles, “You popular around here with the hippies and the… surfers?”

“Not at all. Is the… show over?”      

“Think so, Jody,” Wendall said, “just making our presence known.”

“To what end, Detectives?”

Wendall puffed up one cheek, coughed, blew out some air. The portable radio on the roof of the Falcon squawked. A woman’s voice, distorted, said, “Wendall, Vista sub, come in.”   

I slid over and grabbed it. “Betty Boop,” I said, “It’s Joey… Jody; lots of fun here at Swamis. Over.”

A man’s voice came over the radio. “Wendall. Is this a joke? Wendall.”

I almost dropped the radio. Dickson shoved me from the side and grabbed it. Wendall took it from him, stepped away. “No. Not a joke. It’s under control. Over.”

“Put the kid on. Over.”

Wendall, shaking his head, stepped toward Dickson and me. Dickson put his hand on my left shoulder and looked over me, toward the cars and the locals. “I’m going to do you a favor, Jody,” Dickson said, removing his hand and smiling as he punched me; short, straight jabs; very quickly, in the solar plexus. Just the way my father taught me. And him.

My cigarette had landed on Dickson’s shoulder with the first punch. I put a hand on his left shoulder, for balance after the third and fourth blows. After the fifth and sixth, Dickson brushed the cigarette off, removed my hand from his shoulder, took the radio from Wendall, held it up to my face and said, “Just say ‘thank you,’ Jody.” He pushed the button.

“Thank you… Sir. Over.”

“Joseph DeFreines, Junior,” the voice on the radio said, “in real life, there are no seventeen-year-old detectives. Over and… out.”

            Dickson turned moved his face close to mine. “Now the show’s over.” Between my breaths, Dickson whispered, “And… you’re welcome.”

Wendall picked the cigarette up, put it back in my mouth. Dickson turned away, yelled, “Yeah. You get that, Missy?” He flipped the bird with both hands, spun his body and his hands around. “Not very… professional, huh, Jody?” I didn’t respond. “But then, how would a hick Barney Fife like me know?”

With no answer that would please Dickson, I shook my head.

Dickson set what was left of the tape deck on the hood of the Falcon. Wendall lit a cigarette with the butt of his last one, looked around the parking lot. I flicked my father’s lighter a few times. No flame. “No flame,” I said, flicking it a few more times.

Both detectives turned away and started walking, slowly, toward Dickson’s VW. I heard the tiny engine of the Morris Minor and the diesel engine in the Mercedes start up. I heard both cars drive away. I hadn’t looked that way. I had been afraid. Now I was angry.

“I have… spoken to someone who was here… that night.” Both detectives stopped and turned toward me. They acted as if they didn’t understand, but both looked toward the compound wall. Wendall grabbed the radio from Dickson and turned it off.  “The East Indian guy. From London. Not the pretty part. The guy who got singed… in the fire.  Wasn’t taken to a doctor. Nephew of the owner of Carlsbad Liquor; the guy you two, or maybe just Langdon, questioned… downtown, for two days. That guy. Baadal Singh.”

This was a reaction caused by anger, I thought, a mistake. Still, I continued, words coming out fast, uncontrolled. “The possible suspect, definite witness… You told him to disappear. I assume you told Gingerbread Fred the same thing.” Wendall and Dickson were both, instantly, angry. I wasn’t displeased. “This must mean… indicate… that you truly believe the killers, in the black car with the loud tailpipes might… return.”

Dickson stepped toward me. Wendall stopped him with a hand, fingers spread, to the chest. “Go on. Jody.”

“Chulo. Was he your… asset; or Langdon’s?”

Dickson was very quickly in my face. “Don’t give a fuck what you truly believe, Jody.”

When Dickson moved his head back, just a bit, I moved my face close to his. “Chulo and Jumper Hayes; when they were arrested, you had to take sides. Butchie Bancroft was… had been your partner. ‘Dickie Bird and Butchie Boy,’ my father said, ‘red on their heads like dicks on dogs.’ I don’t recall whose side you took… Detective Sergeant… Dickson.”   

“I wasn’t there, Jody. I might have knee-capped Jumper fucking Hayes.” Dickson held an aggressive expression long enough to see if I would move back. “Quit your recalling,” he said, taking a step back, checking Wendall’s reaction. He moved his lips back and forth a few times before he smiled. Full teeth. “Butchie was a good cop. He… that time, he went too far.”

Wendall stuck his right arm, cigarette in his hand, between Dickson and me. He pushed Dickson back. “We’re detectives, Jody. We were on your dad’s side in that.”

“Didn’t make me and Larry popular with… anyone, really; takin’ an avocado thief’s side. Especially seeing as everyone knew about the marijuana him and Chulo were stealing from… groves. Bonus for them… and the… landowners. That shit, it got… glossed over.”

Wendall was shaking his head. Not at me. At Dickson. “Butchie wasn’t good for the… the Office. It all blew over. As always. You calm now, Danny?”

            Danny Dickson wasn’t calm. “So, you got that all wrong, huh? Jody.”

            Wendall stepped between his partner and me. “Asset,” he said, “Source.” He didn’t exactly smile. He didn’t nod. His cigarette moved up and down. “Any other theories, Jody?”

“No theories.” There was a pause. “Okay. If Chulo was your… asset… you’d have a better idea who killed him. Still, you have to know who’s involved, locally. Maybe that’s why you’ve let Langdon take over. He doesn’t live here, and… maybe he’s not telling you what he knows.”

Now Wendall seemed the angrier of the two. He broke off eye contact with me just before I would have. He smiled, pointed at me with his cigarette between his first two fingers. “Theories. I am sure you will keep them to… yourself.” I must have looked as if I agreed. “And, Jody, this is all… you’re… you should…” Such pauses were unusual for Wendall. “Your mother and I…”

Full stop. Wendall turned quickly, toward his partner. Dickson dropped his sarcastic smile. Both looked toward me. I wouldn’t allow either the pleasure of reacting.

“Let’s go, Dickie Bird,” Wendall said, walking away. “So glad we took your death trap dune buggy.”

“Undercover, Dickson said, taking a slight detour to push the tape player off the hood of my car. A family station wagon passing by, with three kids in the far back, ran over it. The car stopped. It backed up. A woman stuck her head out the window. Wendall used his badge to wave her on. “Thanks for being here,” she said, the comment aimed at the detective, though she was looking at me. Suspiciously.

“Doing our job, Ma’am.”

Dickson kicked the tape player toward the center of the parking lot, threw his hands out as if he had scored a field goal, and joined his partner, both walking slowly toward the end of the lot, toward where the Jesus Saves bus would have ordinarily been parked.

NOTE: I couldn’t help it. I went back again on previous chapters to keep the continuity, like, accurate.. I am over 100,000 words, but changes now means, hopefully, that I can cut out more later. Yes, I do realize there is a formula successful writers stick to. It’s just… no, I am trying. Thanks for trying to stick with it. “Swamis” and all its variations are protected by copyright. All rights reserved by the author, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

Peace.

This Time of Year

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, surf novels

Autumn and the opportunity for, rather the chance of multiple swell angles, leftover summer pushes, and, of particular interest on the Strait of Juan de Fuca, the possibility that some errant low might produce something. Some thing. Meanwhile, east winds work magic with what might ordinarily be closeout beachbreak. Westport, perhaps? I can’t be sure. I have heard stories.

What the shorter days do to me is, short term, while I’m busily running from here to there, catching up on leftover projects, trying to finish others, and enjoying the days that are actually perfect for exterior house painting, I’m losing out on the time I could be writing. Or drawing. And I do have projects.

Yes, I know that the shorter daytime hours will soon reduce my time outside, rain and fog and all that, and if I just realize that and concentrate on ‘making hay,’ one of my most heard comments by others who do not make metaphorical hay themselves, not that I do; if I am patient, the time to dabble and write and jump into all the deferred projects will come. This is without even mentioning all the home repair projects I have put off, some for years. That leaky spot on the roof, that… and this, and… okay, I’ll stop whining.

And, no, I’m not forgetting surf. It’s coming. But, if you look at the forecasts we all look at, studying them, searching for the right angle and tide level and wind conditions, that, it just seems tough to figure which of several options to make that one strike mission, always hoping waves might show up at a beach adjacent to a work project. Always hoping.

Now, “Swamis,” the manuscript, though I’ve fine tuned chapters ell past Chapter 12, is currently kind of caught in that space. In my endeavor to focus, novelize the overwhelming and only-partially-plot-centric little insights and stories I long to tell, I am… well, working on it. Once done, it will, or should, or must cut down the verbiage later on. I am committed to keeping the manuscript under 100,000 words. So far, after shortening the time span, successful.

I will be posting the final subchapter on Wednesday.

Meanwhile, here are a couple of sketches. Other than my decorating my Volvo and starting on several other to-be-continued projects, this is what I’ve taken the time to do.

It is probably not worth saying these are copyright protected. I will, anyway.

Good luck in finding the waves you want and the time you need. OH, Maybe I’ll post a couple of shots of my formerly stealth surf rig. Wednesday.

“Swamis” Chapter 12, Part Two- March 29, 1969

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel

Each chapter of my novel corresponds to a single day. THIS is a big day. It isn’t exactly like I’m bogged down here, it is more that I continue to tighten up the plot and the character development. So, Joey is checking out Swamis pre-dawn on a Saturday, almost four days after Chulo was burned to death along the wall of the Self Realization Fellowship compound. He h as already had a connnection with Baadal Singh, a witness to the murder, and possibly a suspect. It’s still early, and with a south wind blowing, the lot is starting to fill up. It’s Swamis… locals and non-locals, and Joey has the optimum parking spot.

                        CHAPTER TWELVE- PART TWO- SATURDAY, MARCH 29, 1969

It was morning rather than dawn, The south wind still blowing. The Swamis parking lot was filling up. I was standing in the middle of the lot, in the middle of the lane between the middle row of spaces and the single row along the grass. I wasn’t sure how long I had been there, rerunning what I had heard and seen, trying to focus on, to memorize the most important images and words.  

Too confusing. If Chulo had been a snitch, a narc, then…. Then what? An image of my father explaining why he was talking to a shady looking guy outside the Vista Foster Freeze broke into my mind. “We need sources,” he said, “Like dictionaries, encyclopedias. Assets.”

If Chulo had been a snitch, a narc, an asset, a source, he was Langdon’s. Had to be.

My fault. Of course, it was. I couldn’t help visualizing the Jesus Saves bus in my rearview mirror, front right tire in the ditch. Langdon had come onto the scene. He had found something.

Of course.

I looked past the latest car to arrive in the lot and toward the bluff. Julia Cole was behind the stack of surfboards stacked on the Mercedes, her telephoto lens between them and the roof. She was taking photos. Of me.

Maybe not. I turned toward the highway. Baadal Singh was gone. His truck was gone. I turned back toward Julia Cole. She waited a moment before pulling her camera back, but kept looking at me. Maybe not. A car was almost even with me, way too close. There were three boards on the rack, two on the driver’s side, one on the passenger side.

It was Rincon Ronny’s car, a late fifties Morris Minor, rather dinged up, the once dark blue paint faded rather unevenly. Rincon Ronny was driving, Monica in the front seat, not quite up against him. Duncan Burgess, in the back seat, flipped me off as the car passed. I nodded and walked toward the Falcon. Duncan turned his body enough to look through the car’s back window. When he saw I was watching him, he flipped me off again, bouncing his middle finger on the window until the Morris Minor parked in the last spot available on the bluff.

Duncan was definitely smiling. I probably was.

Petey Blodgett’s dawn patrol crew members, four boys and Julia Cole, were all gathered at the center of the bluff, in front of the Falcon, an empty Dodge Dart, and the Mercedes. Most of the kids were talking at the same time. The four boys were half-sitting on the hood of my car. Seeing me approaching, two kids slid fully onto my car’s hood. The other two moved to the front of the Dodge. One of them slid a bar of wax across the windshield, just once, before Julia Cole grabbed his wrist. He dropped the wax, then pushed it, hard, with his free hand, across and off the hood.  

Julia Cole shook her head, lifted her heavy gray canvas bag from the Falcon’s hood, set it on the pavement, and turned to greet her three friends walking toward her from Ronny’s car.

            The surfers from the Dodge Dart, obvious out of towners, had made the decision to go for waves the obvious locals had passed on. Other non-locals were in small groups along the bluff or hanging around their own cars in the middle rows. Second tier surfers, they couldn’t just join in with the locals, and they wouldn’t be invited to.

            Nor would I. I unlocked the rear door, rolled down the window, and dropped the tailgate. I leaned into the back of the Falcon, moved my new surfboard to one side and crawled forward over towels and trunks to the back of the front seat. I stretched my body and my arm toward a stack of folders and notebooks on the dashboard. The two boys on the Falcon’s hood moved their faces closer to the windshield. Ronny, Monica, and Duncan looked past them and at me.

If any of them looked amused, I couldn’t tell. “casual” I whispered as I pulled up a red notebook, spiral bound, a pencil in the wires. I started to pull myself back, my left hand on the steering wheel, notebook in my right hand. I heard a click from outside the driver’s side window. Click.

Julia Cole pulled back and lowered the camera. She did look somewhat amused. “Casual,” she said. I mouthed the word. She blinked. I blinked. I would remember her quick smile, quickly dropped, another expression to add to my Julia Cole file.   

            As I back crawled out of the falcon, the surfers in all the little groups resumed talking. “Fucking south wind,” one of the current members of Petey’s dawn patrol group said, holding back a bit on the ‘fucking.’ Practicing. He was probably about my brother Freddy’s age. Eighth grader. “Fucking wrecking it,” he added, emphasis on the ‘ing’ part. Better. “Fucking!”

            “Fucking,” I whispered, equal emphasis on both syllables.

            …

            Leaning over the tailgate, writing down notes from my discussion with Baadal Singh, trying not to have my thoughts interrupted by another image of Julia Cole, I became aware of comments coming from several speakers in several directions. “Chulo.” “And right here. Swamis.” “Which one was Chulo?” “Limpin’ Jesus.” “Oh, with the big cross thingy around his neck.” “Good surfer, though.” “Barbecued, I heard.” “Shut up!” “Guess he’ll get to know Jesus.” “God!” “What about his woman?” “Portia. What about her?” “Cops know who did it?”

            There was a pause in the conversations. I didn’t look around immediately.

            “You know Jumper Hayes was busted, few years ago, along with Chulo.” It was someone next to me, standing on the driver’s side of my car. It was Duncan. He was talking over rather than to me. I didn’t look up. He continued. “This asshole Deputy crippled Chulo. They sent him to some work camp in East County.”

            “And Jumper Hayes, he ditched out.” This voice came from the passenger side of the Falcon. “They’re not going to bust the son of a big-time flower grower and landowner. Not around here.” It was Rincon Ronny. He was looking at me. He looked away when I looked back.

            “No way,” some second-tier surfer said. “I heard Jumper ran off to Canada.”

“San Francisco,” another voice said. “Mexico,” yet another voice added, enough emphasis on the word to make almost anyone believe it was based on fact. “Mainland, not Baja.” More specific. More believable.

            “Back off, fucker!” It was Duncan’s voice, directed at one or all the second-tier guys. “Mexico? Really? He was in fucking Vietnam, fucker.” Practiced. Proper emphasis. Impressive,

 The “Mainland, not Baja” guy flashed a peace sign and mouthed, “Peace, Brother.”

Duncan flashed his own peace sign, flipped his hand around and lowered his pointer finger. “You don’t know shit. Brother.”

            I twisted around and sat on the tailgate. I looked at Duncan, and then Ronny. Both moved together and in front of me. I stuck the pencil back in the spiral binding and closed the red notebook. I started counting the seconds, silently, as I looked at each of the surfers. Evidently my lips moved. Both Duncan and Ronny, after I got to ‘four,’ counted with me. When I got to ten, I said, “Yeah. Marines. Fucking… Vietnam.”

            “He was here,” Duncan said, leaning down and toward me. “Jumper.”

            Rincon Ronny grabbed the top frame for the back window and pulled himself up an into a kneeling position on the tailgate to my left. “Yeah. Here. Swamis. He and Chulo. Julie got some pictures.”

            “Julia Cole?”

            Duncan half spit out something like, “Jeez,” before he answered. “Yeah, Julie. Julia Cole.” He spoke loudly, clearly, slowly. Sarcastically. “Jumper. Here, Swamis; the day before. Tuesday.” Duncan sat down to my right. He looked past me, to Ronny. “Tuesday, right?”

            “Think so,” Ronny said, pulling himself into a standing position on my tailgate “Yeah, Tuesday. He was talking with Chulo.”

            “Tuesday would be the day of,” I said, stepping off the tailgate. “Maybe it was… Monday?”

            “No, it was Tuesday,” Duncan said. “Day of.”

            “He was all bandaged up,” Ronny said; “Didn’t look too good, I guess, according to Gingerbread Fred.” Ronny pulled Duncan up and next to him and added, obviously for my benefit; “Fred. He comes here, like, every evening. For the… sunsets.”

            “Late afternoon, then? Monday.”     

Duncan and Ronny both looked toward the water. Ronny spoke without looking around. “After you and your mom left.”

I may have chuckled. More likely I giggled. “What was Jumper… how’d he get… here?”

There was no response. I was thinking, looking between Ronny and Duncan. Staring. I did see them. I didn’t see Julia Cole until she was next to me, looking at me. Not unkindly.

It must have been ten seconds before Duncan, then Ronny, turned toward me. “I told you, Julie,” Duncan said, “Useless.” Ronny jumped down, Monica moved between him and Julia. Duncan jumped down and directly in front of me. “Freak,” he said, crossing his eyes.

“You mean retard, don’t you?” I smiled. Duncan moved back and sat on the tailgate. 

Julia Cole stepped closer, put a hand on Duncan’s shoulder. “Pickup. Same one Jumper had… before.” I looked from Duncan to Julia. “I have… photos, but… why’d you ask… that?”

“Curious, Miss Cole. Or, really, no reason.”

Monica moved closer to me. “Portia told me Chulo was returning the flower van. Jumper was supposed to give him a ride back.”

“Never made it,” Julia said, “My dad said the van was over at… not Mrs. Tony’s, the market off of Vulcan. Door was open.” She put her right hand on Duncan’s shoulder. “We think…”

Duncan pushed Julia’s hand off his shoulder, pushed himself off the tailgate, moved forward, crowding Monica and Julia back. He turned toward me. “Fuck you, Junior. Yours and Jumper’s dads; old friends. You do know that; don’t you?”

            I didn’t answer.

            Duncan turned toward Ronny. “Junior and I… I’m a junior, too. We were born the same day, Balboa. Just before our fathers took off for Korea.”

            Ronny stepped off the tailgate. “Duncan. Really?”

            “Yeah, Ronny, I’m three hours older than… DeFreines.” Duncan looked from Ronny to me. “His dad came back a hero, mine came back… fucked up. Yeah. But we were all… poor.”

Duncan was looking at Ronny. I was looking at Duncan. “When Joe DeFreines got on with the County, he moved them all up to Frogbutt.” Duncan laughed. “Maybe he thought it was safer.” Duncan turned toward me. “Then some wife beater crashes into the patrol car. Joe fuckin’ shoots him. Meanwhile, Junior there, flying around in the car, gets all…”

I smiled at Duncan, then shared the same smile with Ronny, then Monica, then Julia Cole. Her expression, as blank as the other’s, revealed something close to sympathy.

“Was Jumper in… was he driving the Cadillac?”

“No,” Monica said, “Pickup.” We all looked at Monica. “Same one he always drove.”

“I have the photos,” Julia Cole said.

I visualized Jumper in this very parking lot, 1966. He was leaning on the hood of a Ford pickup from the late 1940s, black paint waxed and shining, exposed metal on the hood waxed and shining, a nine-six Hobie balanced, sideways, across the roof. Jumper was laughing, juggling three avocados, two other, older, surfers and two high school age girls, all entranced, watching him. He held one avocado out toward me as I walked past, catching one, allowing the third one to smash to the asphalt. More laughter.

“Thank you,” I said, and walked to the front of the Falcon. “Jumper wasn’t… here.”

“He didn’t know. Not until… morning.”

“You don’t know shit, Junior.” Duncan turned toward Julia. “Junior can’t help.” Julia turned away. “Anyone.”

…

            The locals had left. I walked to the bluff. There were five surfer at the peak, one dropping into a choppy peak, another dropping in on him. I walked past the Falcon, took two steps into the traffic lane. Ronny and Duncan were at the Morris Minor, talking. In the other direction, toward the stairs, Julia Cole was standing next to Monica and in front of Petey’s Mercedes. Julia had her bag on the hood and was holding the body of her camera with both hands, the telephoto lens pointed down. She was looking at me. Neutral expression. Monica was looking at her, shaking her head.

            I had edited out everything but Julia Cole.

            Duncan and then Ronny came from behind me. Duncan, on my right, his left hand in front of my face, waved Julia over. She shook her head. Duncan, stepping around and in front of me, said, “Thousand-yard stare. I’m familiar.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            There was a chuckle from Ronny, cut short, I guessed, by a quick glance from Duncan. “You. Junior,” Duncan said, close to my ear, “I don’t get you.” I shook my shoulders. I thought the gesture would be taken as ‘nothing to get.’ “You asked about… Jumper, his truck.”

Ronny and Duncan both moved in front of me, blocking my view toward Petey’s Mercedes. I looked from one to the other. Ronny spoke first. “Julie doesn’t know. Monica, she isn’t involved.”

“You’re… protecting. You love Monica?”

Ronny spun around, instantly, yelling “Monica” as he did. “I love you… Monica!”

There were, just as instantly, loud reactions from the various parking lot groups and individuals. Mostly positive. Petey Blodgett raised a fist. Monica put a hand over her face. Julia Cole put a hand on her friend’s shoulder, smiled, kept her eyes on Ronny and Duncan and me.

I exhaled, looked at Duncan for a second. He half-smiled and shook his head. “You don’t know shit, do you?” I copied his smile, reached into my windbreaker pocket for my cigarettes. Duncan put his right hand over mine and pushed, slightly. “The truck? You were talking to that Simon guy. He was there, here, did he see…?”

Duncan pulled his hand back. I pulled my hand out of the pocket and closed my eyes. “Freak!” It was a whisper, but intense, coupled with a shove backward.

“Probably,” I said, catching my balance, opening my eyes. “So, please, kindly, don’t tell me shit I don’t want to know.” Now I did pull out my cigarettes, took one out, put it in my mouth. “Don’t tell me shit, don’t ask me… shit. Why would you?” I half-turned, put my hand on my father’s lighter in my pants pocket.

“We heard you’re… brainy.”

“Closer to freak, Rincon Ronny.” I kept my hand over the Sheriff’s Office logo as I lit up. “Wait.” I stepped forward, took the cigarette out of my mouth, waved it in a big loop, and closed my eyes. “I’m imagining two guys getting out of a pickup truck. They drag Chulo…out.”

Opening my eyes, I aimed the cigarette toward the entrance to the parking lot, watched Julia and Monica move to the far side of the Mercedes. I counted to five, out loud, turned, stepped back until both Ronny and Duncan were in my field of vision. “You know more than I do.” I did a pinching maneuver with my left hand, wiping my eyes. “I shouldn’t have told you that… even.”

            “Look, Junior,” Ronny said, “cops have been coming around, talking about how maybe Chulo’s some sort of big deal drug… dealer, drug dealer. Like he deserved… you know.”

            “Marijuana,” Duncan said. “Weed. You… familiar?”

            “Not… intimately. Not… no, but that, um, diversion, yes, it seems like that is what cops would do. Langdon, maybe.”

            “It wasn’t Chulo. He wasn’t… big time,” Ronny said.

            “Langdon,” Duncan said. “You think, maybe…?”

            I shook my head before I reran the question through my mind. “No. Wouldn’t… suit his… no.” I took another few seconds, shook my head another two times, back and forth. “Thank you both, but… what if I’m a… narc?”

            Both Ronny and Duncan laughed. Ronny laughed harder, but not for as long.

            “And… I’m not a cop.”

            “Not yet.”

            “Not ever.”

            Ronny followed Duncan’s eyes. I turned around. Petey Blodgett was walking along the bluff. “Hey,” he said, quite loudly, directed to the dawn patrol boys, to Monica and Julia, to Duncan and Ronny and me, and to the second and third tier surfers: “Kids. If you are involved… if you’re into illegal drugs, you’re hangin’ with criminals, and, as a bonus, you are a criminal yourself. Now…”

            “Another fucking preacher” the guy who had insisted Jumper had been in Mexico said, instantly silenced with an elbow to the ribs from another second tier surfer.

            Petey Blodgett held his right hand up as far as he could, brought it down, licked his finger, raised it again. Everyone shut up and looked at the oldest person in the Swamis parking lot. “South wind,” he said, “not letting up.” He looked at Ronny and Duncan and me.

            “Not yet,” Ronny said.

            “Not ever,” Duncan said, chuckling after he said it.

Copyrighted material. All rights reserved by the author, Erwin A. Dence, Jr. AND, thanks for reading.

Epic-Ness and Other Subjective Subjects

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Here is a quote from the speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives Kevin McCarthy after resorting to using Democratic votes to forestall shutting down the government, kicking the next episode of this ongoing drama to a time closer to Thanksgiving: “You can always count on the American people to do the right thing after they’ve exhausted every other option.” No comment, Kev, not even “Get fucked and go back to the valley.”

Here is a quote from Trish after I bought, with her help (so adept at on-line buying), some new (zip up- a surrender move to bone spurs- like, real ones) booties after using some (pull on) not-totally-worn out models borrowed from Keith after I (you may recall) accidentally threw away a bag containing my wetsuit, vest/hood, booties, and my day-glow leash: “How are you doing with gloves?” My response: “Oh, I don’t really need gloves.”

Here is my right hand after being knuckle-dragged across the ‘rock garden’ at a northwest break:

It isn’t just the cuts. If any exposed skin (including the face) hits the rocks at almost any spot on the Strait, there will be cuts. The bruising is an option not exclusive to, but definitely more common among the thinner-skinned less-young. It may get worse among the actually-old.

Here is the scene: The window of rideable waves was closing, the tide was dropping, and I was looking for one last wave. Or another last wave. Just another wipeout, really, but Cougar Keith, who had been too early for the waves, and too late to ride them during this session, was witness to the whole awkward thing; me rolling around, trying to stand up, getting knocked down several times.

Next time, my new gloves (thanks, Trish), will be on. I will sacrifice feeling the water to not feel the rocks.

Odd to me that as hard as I try to be fluid in the water, I look so embarrassingly dorky trying to get back ashore. When I recounted the session story to Adam Wipeout, someone who “Just knew, he said,

“It wouldn’t be an Erwin session without some blood.”

I do have a photo somewhere on when I decided I didn’t need booties. Again, rocks; big crusty rocks. No one got a photo, though everyone in the lineup noticed, when, in my excitement, I bit my tongue on takeoff on a wave early in a session. Evidently a red mustache is noticeable. Cougar Keith may have been out on that occasion. Witnesses. Accounts vary.

WAIT! This is what I really wanted to write about today: An Objective Look at Subjectivity.

AS I WAS waking up this morning, I guessed that it was 6:24. I looked up at the projected time on the ceiling from the clock radio on Trisha’s side of the bed. 6:26. Wow. My brain is just so… I looked at the non-projected time on the other clock radio. 6:29. Oh. I guess I’m just alway a little ahead. OR…

BEFORE I woke up I had this dream in which I was paddling for a wave. There was a sense of urgency. It was a left, and I took off on the shoulder, had an on-the-wave view of the face and the barrel as I rode it, ending with a Hawaiian pullout on the sand. NEW SCENE- I was walking up to someone who was standing by the open trunk of an older American car. “I got a 6.75,” I said, “might have won the heat if I’d gotten another wave.” “Really?” “Yeah. Why?” “Nothing.” “Oh, you just don’t believe I would ever get a 6.75.” “6.25, maybe.”

That’s when I woke up.

We have all noticed that the best waves and the best rides are the ones we didn’t see. Someone else’s story. EPIC. Sometimes, however, the same dreamy setup gets scored… differently when reported on by multiple witnesses. “Longboardable.” “Chest-to-shoulder, bigger on the sets.” Very popular.

I’m never really sure how to respond to reports of epic-ness that I miss. I am prone to believing the person who downplays size and wonderful-ness. Perfection-ness. One surfer I have respect for says, “So, what? A kook on a perfect wave?” And then there’s the “Have you ever seen ______ breaking, with the indicators going off and big roll-throughs and…” “Yes.”

STILL, the opportunities, real or exaggerated, that we miss sometimes stick with us longer than the sessions and conditions and rides we can exaggerate or embellish into the world of EPIC.

Not that I ever have, but, this one time, surfing Upper Trestles, glassy, knee-to-waist, with no one else out… Yeah, I know, it sounds like I’m lying, even though it was 1975, and it is, objectively, true… If someone else told me this, I would be… skeptical.

Look for the next sub chapter of “Swamis” Wednesday. I am thinking about resentment as it applies to surfing. Meanwhile, may everyone, even kooks, score EPIC.

“Swamis” Edit Continues

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I already posted Chapter 12, Part One, twice. And I’ve done more work on it. I thought I was past it, but it just… keeps… pulling me back. This is possibly THE critical point in the story, and I’m trying to, as always, make it more focused, tighter, better. SO, next time.

I have been trying to take a few more photos of surf spot hipsters. Yes, I’m all about fashion. I was impressed by the Wellies/pig boots and the hat. More impressed when someone wears a boonie hat into the water. By impressed, I mean… curious. YES, this is (bad planning on the angle) a well known spot, but, in my defense, there are obviously no waves. As frequently happens, these two dudes went cruising up the beach and around the corner, as if, maybe, there might be rideable waves there. Big rocks, yes, waves… I don’t know, I haven’t made the walk in a while.

I’m heading off to the Seattle side this morning, Dru’s first post-surgery visit. Maybe I will post Chapter 12, Part 2 later. We’ll see. Hope you’re getting waves. Fall is definitely here.

Hawaiian Brian Noji- Finally

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My friend Reggie Smart, when I told him I had met the guy who won second at the latest Cape Kiwanda Longboard Classic in the men’s 40-49 category, went through a list of names. “No, Reggie, it’s Brian. I wrote it down.” “Oh, yeah; Hawaiian Brian.” “Sure.”

SO, I finally figured the best way to get a photo from my phone to the site is to do the copy-and-paste.

INCIDENTALLY, if you know Reggie, please put a little pressure on him to compete next year. Reggie catches a lot of waves, knows how to finish off a ride with a move other than a variety of bails.

OKAY, now scroll down and check out my actual Sunday post. And, if you would be so kind, check out the latest (sub) chapter of “Swamis” on Wednesday.

Slightly After the Equinox

Posted on by under Competitive surfing,, northwest surfing, oregon surfing, real surfers, writings of Erwin Dence

I spent too much time trying to get the photo I took of Brian Nijo, second place winner in the 40-49 men’s division at the recent Cape Kiwanda Longboard Event, from my new phone to this site. Maybe I can figure it out and get it posted.

MEANWHILE, P.T. Librarian and world surfer Keith ran into the guy, who he only knows as “Z,” winner of the 50-59 men’s division, who Keith described as stoked that he won, AND Z had a story about crashing into his fin on a wipeout in a preliminary heat, pushing the fin through the board (with, of course, some damage to his leg), getting it (the board) patched up before the finals, and… winning. I have never, to my knowledge, run into Z, and I did ask Keith to take a photo next time he sees him, sending it to me. THEN, maybe, if it’s okay with Z, posting it here. Like, hopefully.

This is a poem I have been working on. It seems to fit the season. I do reserve, as always, the right to make changes.

                                    OUT OF THE WIND

There’s something sublime, a soft summer breeze, But the chill gales of winter will bend you to your knees, Yes, you can resist, but you’ll never win, No matter how fierce, all storms have an end, But… I just want to get out of the wind, out of the wind, out of the wind.

While most colors fade, some colors still shine, Other colors just refuse to stay within the lines, Some colors will clash, while others will blend, Some colors take you to the clouds and back again, Still… I just want to get out of the wind… out of the wind, out of the wind.

Small change is dirty, big money’s all clean, I just need some dollars that are somewhere in between, If there’s none to save, need some cash to spend, If money’s your love, you need a new friend, And… I just want to get out of the wind… out of the wind, out of the wind.

All truth is still truth, all lies are still lies, Politicians laugh and hit you right between the eyes, The stories they spread, others will defend, The damage, they say, costs too much to mend, So… I just want to get out of the wind… out of the wind, out of the wind.

Looking for justice, it’s always on sale, You can’t change the system if you know you’re going to fail, The world isn’t fair, it never has been, The answer, my friend, is lost in the wind, Seems… I can’t seem to stay out of the wind, out of the wind, out of the wind.

Sailing for safe harbor, couldn’t outrun the squall, I’ve tried to live my life in Summer, but I’m heading for the Fall, If there’s no sanctuary, I’m happy to pretend, I’ve survived so many Winters, Winter’s coming back again,

Warm wind’s slowing, soft wind’s going, new wind’s growing, cold wind’s blowing, raining, snowing; I don’t know, I’m somewhere, hiding, somehow knowing, there’s no way to stay out of the wind, Out of the wind, out of the… wind.

Copyright Erwin A. Dence, Jr. All rights reserved

HAPPY AUTUMN!

No “Swamis” Wednesday

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I have to go (back) to Seattle today. Work. I should be enroute now, 6:33. I spent a week in Seattle the other night. Old joke. It was a day and a half. Three-quarters, more like. I dropped Trish and our daughter off there on a Wednesday. Dru had surgery on Thursday morning and was supposed to come home on Sunday. Nope. Monday. I braved the Sunday retreat from the Olympic Peninsula, the ferry traffic reduced by broken propellers and who-knows what else, the super steep, clutch ruining hills, and confusion a big city can bring on someone so long in the country, and the frustratingly difficult navigation requirements in and between the massive buildings of the Medical-Industrial Complex. We just escaped on a Monday, Dru propped and pillowed in the backseat, Trish driving, me giving navigational tips like, “Just pull a U-ey and get in the fucking ferry lane.” “No. The signs say…” “Okay, maybe there’ll be another boat, like, eventually.” “If I get a ticket…” We missed the ferry anyway. Some sort of 50 car unit pulled into service.

Dru thought it was amusing that she did the ‘double chin photo move.’ Wow, three Pepsis and an unopened container of orange juice. I, no doubt, finished off her hospital food.

With an incredible amount of shuffling and a large number of phone calls, I managed to free up the next day, hoping for a score on the Strait.

If you had to guess, you’d be correct. No score. Following my own advice to at least get a few shots of other searchers, I have these:

Notice the lack of barrelling, spitting waves. One of Dru’s nurses lives in Olympia. I wanted to ask her if she knows surfer Tom Burns. Trish talked me out of it. I was in the water with this guy for a couple of hours, hoping for a couple of waves. He’s from Olympia. “Hell, yes, I know Tom. He’s a wellspring of knowledge about all the wave conditions out here.” “Yeah, that’s Tom,” I said. “And… he remembers names.” I texted ‘Tom Morello’ to myself. The text failed.

SHIT! What also failed is a cool shot of “Hawaiian Brian” Noji, second place finisher in his age group (50-59?) at the recent Cape Kiwanda Longboard Contest in Oregon. I transferred the image from one phone to another and… I did tell him it’d be on my site, and…

…and, as usual, I don’t have time right now. Van to load, ferries to miss.

Sunday.

Strait Surfers and Cape Kiwanda and Cancer and…

Posted on by under surf contests, surf culture, surf culture events

This is a photo stolen from a group text between some (East) Olympic Peninsula surfers. I am using it totally without the permission of JOEL CARBON, dude with the jams, the shades, the exact hairdo Rob Machado had at this exact time. It was the early 2000s, and somehow (not yet fully explained) Joel, possibly still a surfer from-if-not-still-living-in Long Island, New York, was on a team at a SURFRIDER PRO-AM SURF JAM in Huntington Beach, California. Now, Joel does claim he got a score of 7.3 in a heat at the pier, but he didn’t answer when I text/asked if that was for, like, two waves. HOWEVER, he did ask if any of us recognized the calm looking young man on the left of the line. YES, he return-texted, it is, indeed THE DANE REYNOLDS. To quote Joel’s text: “Hes one of the coolest surfers tho. All those guys were freakishly talented.”

24th CAPE KIWANDA LONGBOARD CLASSIC- This is what got the convo (cooler version of conversation) going. Several surfers were on hand, informally representing the Olympic Peninsula and the Strait of Juan de Fuca. INCIDENTALLY, it’s all being live streamed as I write. IN CASE YOU MISSED IT, yesterday the waves were closing out all day. Tiny closeouts followed by bigger closeouts. NOW, I do check out Cape Kiwanda, like, daily, mostly because there’s a camera. AND I am critical. “The backoff capital of the world” is a comment I have made. Others will defend the place, and one of my friends said he actually got some almost-like-a-pointbreak waves there. I do believe him.

SO, there are some surfers from the Peninsula, and there were some comments that the judges (MAY) have a (slight) tendency to reward OREGON surfers a bit, you know, higher than, maybe, Strait surfers. AGAIN, this might just be frustration, OR it could be outright competitiveness. AND, yes, I am getting caught up in the raising fever.

I have to believe the competitiveness is exacerbated by actually seeing the heats. I just put the YouTube coverage on the big screen, like it’s the WSL or something. One can’t help but think (or say) “I could totally kick ass out there.”

NEXT YEAR, MAN… that’s the discussion. Others are excited. I’m excited. What about a crew? Several crews? Though surfing is a one person sport/activity, there’s always a sort of tribal aspect. SO, what about a crew going down, competing, showing what surfing tiny peelers can do for a performer’s skill level? Yeah. Okay, so I texted a suggestion: “Mostly Strait Surf Crew,” with t-shirts and all. No text response. “Okay, ‘Totally Strait Surf Crew.’ Even though I’m thinking about designs, no response.

In my slightly-over-amped imagination, I can visualize a contingent from the Peninsula being greeted by Oregonians with the same warmth and Aloha/sharing spirit as North Shore surfers reserve for Brazilians.

I didn’t follow the contest long enough yesterday to determine if there is a 70-and-over division, but I am currently excited enough to resolve to get my non-paddle skills up a bit (yes, this would include the oldster-feared feat of popping up).

It could just be the two day excitement bump. We’ll see. STILL, practice is as good an excuse as any to go surfing.

FUCK CANCER! Our daughter, Dru, is recovering from an eleven hour reconstruction surgery in Seattle. Trish has been over there for support. Hopefully I’ll be bringing them back home tomorrow. I have to get off the computer and get going. SUNDAY traffic/Ferries/Seattle trafffic/parking/hills/hospitals… FUN.

See you. More “Swamis” on Wednesday.

Ahead and Behind- “Swamis” Chapter 12, Part 1

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, surf fiction, surf novels

I’m doing the, hopefully, final edit of my manuscript. I am ahead of the chapters I’m posting. But, because Microsoft allows me to go to where I last left off, and because I haven’t had time to write since Wednesday, the file opened to Chapter 12, Part One and… and I just couldn’t help myself. Edit, Edit, Edit.

If you already read this, the changes are subtle. If you haven’t, it is… hopefully, better.

CHAPTER TWELVE- PART ONE- SATURDAY, MARCH 29, 1969

I couldn’t say for certain if I had slept at all. I was outside the house at five. I had my lunch, in its pastel blue paper bag, in one hand, my dad’s big flashlight in the other. The Falcon was pointed toward the road. Getaway position. My new board was inside, my nine-six pintail on the by-this-time rusted-on factory racks. I carefully closed the driver’s side door, rolled the car down the driveway, turned the ignition key, popping the clutch, in second gear, at the county road. I turned on the headlights and retrieved a half a pack of Marlboros from under several Pee-Chee folders, those stacked on top of a four-track tape player, that set in the middle of the bench seat.

Waiting for a truck to pass before I could turn left onto Mission Road, I reached into the inside pocket of my windbreaker for matches. I had considered, briefly, pulling out ahead of the truck. I grabbed the flashlight from the dashboard, shined it on my fogged-up watch. “Should have left earlier.” I passed the truck on the last straightaway before Bonsall.

The wood-sided Mom-and-Pop store in Leucadia, perilously close to the southbound side of 101, didn’t open until six. I parked in the pullout just past it at five-fifty-two. Waiting for the lights to come on inside, I reran the TV coverage from the previous nights through my mind. Images overlapped, words were garbled. I focused on faces. No, just on Langdon, on his face when he said, “Heroes. Some people are.” Langdon’s image froze for a moment. “Can’t help themselves but… to be. Heroes.”

Hostess donettes, frosted, a quart of chocolate milk, a tiny can of lighter fluid, Marlboros, box, not soft pack, and a package of flints. The mom and pop, both at the counter, appeared tired. Pop was going to ask for my ID, but a look from Mom, and he didn’t.

“You. You know how to put those in? The flints?” I didn’t. Pop, only focusing on the logo on my father’s lighter for a moment, installed a flint for me. “You don’t want to overfill,” he said, filling the lighter for me, his wife smiling, watching, making sure I knew that she knew who I was, sending some sort of sympathetic message. I had seen the look before. I responded as I had learned to respond. Thankful. No uncomfortable talking.

“The fluid,” Pop said, “if it gets on you. Your leg, maybe. It… burns.”

Burns.

I pulled into the Swamis parking lot, did a soft left, and looped into a hard right. I stopped the car, shone the headlights on the portion of the wall where Chulo had been killed. It looked the same as it always had. White, not even gray, not even yellowed by the headlights, low or high beams. I backed up and away, made a big lazy arc in the very middle of the empty lot, and pulled into a perfect spot, ten spaces over from the stairs. Optimum location. I leapt out, stood at the bluff. Not loud enough to suggest waves of any height. I exhaled the smoke from my third cigarette of the day. “South wind. Fuck!”

…      

            The Laura Nyro tape re-running the songs from side one of “Eli and the Thirteenth Confession.” It wasn’t the tape. It was the player. Side one of albums from the bargain bin, Leonard Cohen and Harry Nilsson and the Moody Blues, side one of The Doors.   

I looked at my increasingly water-logged diving watch each time another car pulled in, each time car doors slammed, each time a surfer or surfers walked out onto the bluff, peered into the darkness, and decided to go elsewhere. La Jolla shores, perhaps. It was, supposedly, offshore on a south wind.

            It was still an hour before sunrise, overcast, almost drizzly. I stuck my father’s flashlight under my left arm and walked straight across the pavement, across the grass. I followed the Self Realization Fellowship compound toward the highway, toward the forty-five-degree curve to where the compound’s original entrance had been. There were two large pillars, gold lotus topped, an arch between them, the wrought iron gates long secured with long rusted chains.

Two bushes had been replaced with full-sized plants. The soil around them, the grass next to them, were new. It would all blend in. Quickly. I touched the wall. I looked at my hand. Dry. Perfect, as if no one had been burned to death there.

Backing away from the wall. I walked across the wet grass and onto the pavement at the entrance to the Swamis parking lot. This was where the crowd had assembled, where the sawhorses and rope had been. Unlike the still almost pristine compound side, there were cigarette butts and candy wrappers and straws and smashed paper cups on the rough pavement, scattered and stepped on and run over.

Clues, I thought. Killers returning to the scene of the crime, blending in, hanging on the ropes. Missed clues. I pulled out the Marlboro box from the inside pocket of my windbreaker, stuck the third to the last cigarette in my mouth, lit it with a surprisingly oversized flame from my father’s lighter. I turned on the flashlight, held each new clue close I had picked up to the beam.

Cigarette butts. Various brands. Lipstick on two of them. A partial pack of matches. “Carlsbad Liquor. Beer, Wine, and Spirits.” I opened it. “Left-handed,” I said. I pulled out several of the remaining matches. They left a red streak when I tried to light them. “Too wet.”

I put selected cigarette butts and the pack of matches into the Marlboro box. I moved back and forth along the de facto line, established where dead center was. I crouched down to study the patch of debris in front of me. “Menthol.” I picked up a butt with a gray, slightly longer filter. I blinked, possibly from my own cigarette smoke in my eyes. “Different.”  

There was a noise. Slight. Footsteps. Pulling my flashlight out from under my arm with    my right hand, I stood up, right foot sliding back.

“Gauloises Bleaues,” a man, ten feet away, said.

I flipped the flashlight around and into my right hand. The beam hit just below his head.

“Picasso smokes these. Jim Morrison and John Lennon smoke these.” I slid my right foot up and even with my left and lowered the flashlight. The man was holding a push broom. Stiff bristles. “My uncle imports these. I smoke these.” I nodded toward the broom. “You and I spoke… before. You gave me a… sort of… newspaper.”

“I did? Okay. So, no one cleaned… here, behind the… the line.”

“So, you. You. Here. Scene of the crime, eh?”

            “Me? Here? Yeah. I don’t know… why.”

The man took two steps, closer. “Joe DeFreines, Junior. You surf. You work at a grocery store in Cardiff, on weekends.” I leaned back. “I look a bit different than… I did.” He nodded toward the west end of the wall. “Meditation garden.”

             I flashed to that time. Four seconds, at the most. “Swami,” I said.

            “No. Not nearly. Gardener. I was with a Swami.”

The gardener’s beard and hair were tucked into a dark coat. The man’s eyes were almost the only part of his face showing. He had a bandana pulled up and covering most of his face. He had on the type of felt hats older men still wore; probably brown, pulled down around his ears.

“Lost most of my eyebrows. Eyelashes just got a good curling. Singed. Still there.”

“No! Shit!” I took half a step back. “It was… you.”

 “No shit.” The man extended his hands. He had a leather glove, dirtied calfskin, on his left hand. He had a white cotton glove on his right hand. His first two fingers taped together, as were the other two, and, separately, his thumb. The bandaging wrapped around the main part of his hand and was taped at his wrist. Three of his fingers showed stains that were either, I thought, something that had seeped through, ointment or blood. I was staring. “Second degree,” the gardener said, “Flash burns. Fools.”  

I turned and looked toward the highway. There was a late step-side pickup in the spot closest to the telephone booth on the highway side of the original parking lot. There was a three-legged fruit picker’s ladder on the rack over the bed, gardening tools bundled upright against the cab, the handle of a lawn mower hanging over the tailgate.

“You must have gone to the… hospital, Mister… You know my name. Mister…?”

“Singh. Baadal Singh. Baa, like ‘baa, baa, black sheep,’ sing like… sing.” I nodded. Baadal Singh laughed. “No hospital. They keep… records.” This seemed amusing to Mr. Singh. “I was two full days… downtown. Not in a cell. Interview room. Hallway. Just… Dickson calls you Jody.” I nodded. “Your father… sorry about him, incidentally. Wendall, he calls your father Gunny.”

“They both do. Marines. Wendall and my… dad. Not Dickson. Why would they even mention… me?”  

“They didn’t. Downtown detectives. One of them said… I am under the impression he was giving Wendall some… grief. And Langdon, he said…”  

            “Langdon?”

“Langdon. Yes. Fuck him.”

“But, Mister Singh, you were a witness; not a… suspect.”

 “Witness. Yes. Suspects have rights.” Baadal Singh looked at the little pile of cigarette butts and candy wrappers he had pushed close to my feet, then at me. I squatted to look more closely. Baadal Singh lowered the bandana that had been over his nose. “’Nice sunburn’ one of the detectives told me. ‘Hard to tell,” Dickson… said.”

Mr. Singh pushed the broom handle toward me. It leaned against my chest as I turned off the flashlight and stuck it back under my left arm. “Marines, you say?” Mr. Singh pulled the glove from his left hand with his teeth. He pulled back his coat. He took a thin box of cigarettes from the coat’s breast pocket with his bandaged right hand. He laughed. The glove fell to the ground. I slid my right hand down the broom handle and picked up the glove.

Baadal Singh took a cigarette out of the pack. “Gauloisis Bleaues” he said. He showed me a book of matches from the Courthouse Bar and Grill. “Downtown. Langdon treated me to lunch on my… second day. Clientele of lawyers and bail bondsmen and cops and criminals. He told me I would, eventually, be charged with Chulo’s murder.” Though he didn’t laugh, Mr. Singh did smile. He pulled out three matches from the right-hand side with his right hand. “Right-handed,” he said, striking the three matches as one, and lighting the cigarette. “All clues that make me what Langdon called ‘completely convictable.’”

I didn’t react. I was playing back what Mr. Singh had just done. I had, evidently, forgotten to inhale. My Marlboro was down to the filter. I spit it out on the clean part of the asphalt. I stomped on it. Too much information, too quickly. I was starting to hyperventilate.  Baadal Singh put his left hand on my right shoulder. “Chulo wasn’t a Marine, though, was he?”

“Chulo? No.”

 “You’re calm. Right?” I nodded. “This is how real coppers work, Joe. Blackmail. Maybe. Information is currency. You know that.” I coughed and took in a more normal breath. “Langdon… not really the other guys, he wants everything I know in exchange for my temporary… freedom. What I know is there is too much money around. Cash. Fine for small… purchases. Someone needs to… Do you… understand? Good citizens. Businesspeople.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“You’re looking, though. Langdon was right about that. You get enough clues and you… analyze, you imagine.”

 “I don’t… imagine. I… memorize. I… remember. If you knew more about me, you’d know more about why.”

“More. Yes. Some… another day; you’ll have to tell me… more.”

“So, Mr. Singh; you told them what you know?”

Baadal laughed. “Not even close, mate.”

            …

            It was closer to sunrise. I had been talking with Baadal Singh a while. “White pickup,” he said. “Farm truck. Double wheels in the back.”

            “White pickup. Farm truck. Double wheels in the back. Duelies, I think they’re called. The other vehicle, black car, loud muffler. Straight pipes. Made a rumbling sort of sound.”

            “Right. And?”

            “And Chulo had been in the white truck with a Mexican and a tall, skinny, white guy. Chulo had already been beaten. You believe the Mexican and the skinny white guy were taking Chulo to the Jesus Saves bus. But… Mr. Singh, if they had, they would have had to face… Portia. So, they knew her?”

            “Drugs, Joe. You had to have known… that. Portia and Chulo? Marijuana?”

            “I told you, Mr. Singh. I just… didn’t pay attention.” Baadal Singh shook his head. “You weren’t a friend… of Chulo’s?” Baadal Singh shook his head. “So, again; why are you telling me all… any of this?”

            “Because, if I… disappear, I want someone to know the truth.”

            “Not me. Not a good choice.”

            “You’re my only choice, though. So… remember.”

“So, the black car pulled in. Lights off. Two guys jumped out. Also a Mexican and a white guy. There was an argument. Between the two… groups.”

Baadal Singh, with me following, stopped between the phone booth and his truck. “Simon’s Landscaping” was painted on the door.

“Not Simon,” Baadal Singh said. “Not Swami, not Simon.” I shook my head. “The two white guys…” he said, “The one from the car pushes the skinny cowboy dude over here. He says, ‘We have customers lined up. They are serious. Call someone. Now! You need change, A-hole?’ Meanwhile, the Mexican guy… from the black car, he kicks Chulo a few more times, drags him across the parking lot.”

“Where were you, Mr. Singh?”

“Call me Baadal. Please.” Baadal pointed toward the concrete shower/bathroom facility. “Cowardly. Yeah.” Baadal stood by the door to the booth. “So, the… let’s call them gangsters… White gangster is outside, cowboy’s dialing. I see him… he’s kind of ducking, looking up…” Baadal stepped away from the booth, looked across the street, past the railroad tracks, and up the hill. “Not sure if that is relevant.” Baadal turned toward me. “I’m just trying to understand this myself, Joe.”

  “Okay, Baadal. So, whatever was said on the phone, it wasn’t what the gangsters wanted to hear. Obviously. A-hole, he’s still on the phone, right?” Baadal nodded. ”You’re still thinking it was a joke?” Baadal shook his head. “No. The white gangster goes to… your truck?”

“My truck. It was on the highway. Chulo gets dragged all the way to the wall. Skinny white guy… whoever was on the line must have hung up on him. He slams the phone, chases after the white gangster, meets up with him halfway across the lot. The gangster stops, sets a petrol can which he got from my truck… He sets it down, looks way over where the bus is parked. I sneak over to… here, the phone booth. Chulo, he’s… sitting, back to the wall. He sees me. He yells… something.”

“You couldn’t hear him?”

“I could. He’s saying, ‘No! Not her!’ That’s when I, I ran past the two guys and over to the grass. I yelled out that I had called the cops.”

“Had you?”

“No. That’s when the Mexican gangster poured the petrol; my petrol, on him. Chulo.”

Two vehicles pulled into the lot and passed us. I recognized both vehicles. One from Tamarack, one from Swamis. Both had surfboards on the roofs. The second car’s exhaust was louder. “Rumble,” I said.

Baadal Singh shook his head. “Louder.” We both nodded. “I fancied myself a revolutionary back in London. I didn’t run away so much as I was… banished. Sent… here.” Baadal put his right hand over the place where his inside pocket was on his coat. He looked at me for a moment before he flattened his hand as if it was a sort of pledge. I am not a killer, Joe. Remember I told you… the truth.” He smiled. “Not all of it, of course.”

“This isn’t over, is it?”

“This? No. Here is the… a secret part, Joe. I… so stupid. I walked up to Chulo, got down on my knees.” Baadal took a deep breath. “Do you want… to know?” I closed my eyes. I envisioned something I had seen in a magazine, a black and white photo of a Buddhist monk on fire. I opened my eyes. Baadal Singh was close to me. “The white gangster was talking to the cowboy. He said, ‘You know Chulo is a narc. Right?’”

“Narc. Chulo?”

“That’s how the guys from the truck responded.” Baadal Singh didn’t move his head. “At first.” He kept his eyes on me as he half-forced the calfskin glove onto his left hand. I must have looked away for a moment. I might have been elsewhere for a moment. Seconds.

Baadal Singh was somewhere else.

“Mr. Singh. Baadal; may I ask you… why were you at Swamis… that night?”

Baadal reached for his broom, grabbed it in the middle, and moved it up and down several times. “Another time, Joe. You have a lot to… memorize.” Baadal and then I turned toward the latest car pulling into the Swamis lot, Petey Blodget’s once-fancy fifties era four door Mercedes. It had a diesel engine sound and smell. Five boards were in a single stack on a rack, a browned and battered kneeboard on the top of the pile.

My focus shifted to the girl sitting in the middle of the front seat. Julia Cole. Baadal Singh looked up at the palm fronds, swaying in the trees above us. He hit my shoulder with his left hand. “Another time.”  

“Wait. Baadal.”

I wanted more information, but I couldn’t help but follow the Mercedes as it pulled in, clockwise, and backed into a spot two spaces to the left of the Falcon. Kids too young to drive bailed from the back seat. Julia Cole was the second person out of the front door on the passenger side, just behind the guy riding shotgun; Petey’s son. My age. Nicknamed Buzz.  

While the others rushed to the bluff, Julia Cole looked at me through the space between the stack of boards on the roof. At me. Not for very long. Petey was looking at Baadal Singh and I from the driver’s seat. He slowly opened the door, slowly pulled his feet out and onto the pavement. Julia Cole pulled her big gray bag out of the floorboards of the Mercedes. Petey walked toward the bathrooms.

Baadal Singh backed up a step. I took two steps toward him. ‘Gingerbread Fred. Fred Thompson, did you see him?”

“Later. Only. I was… busy.”

“But he saw… them?”

“He did.” Baadal lit up another cigarette with three matches and handed me the empty pack. “And they saw him.”

“Did he seem to… recognize… any of them?”

“You mean, did I?” I nodded. “No one I had seen before. But… I will never forget them.” Baadal Singh moved his face very close to mine. “Since you claim you don’t… imagine. Maybe you… guessed. I am not here… legally. More to it than that. I am, in England, legally… dead.” 

There was no way to hide or disguise my confusion. “They… Langdon, he let you go.”

Baadal Singh chuckled. “Bait. Yes. It’s a game, Joey; but you were right. Langdon did ask me, as you did, why I was at Swamis… that night.” Baadal Singh shook his head as he backed away. “And… if you know more about me you’ll know more about why.” He laughed as he turned away. He turned his head slightly as he let out smoke from the Gauloisis Bleaues cigarette. “Again, Joe, it’s Langdon I lied to; not… you.”

…

Copyright Erwin A. Dence, Jr.