Day Twenty-Eight (Saturday, July 24 ,1971)

I was pleased with my image the next time I looked. The red of my sclera was condensing. The blackness of the skin was ebbing. I decided to try it without sunglasses. I brushed my beard and stroked my hair and scratched wax out of my ears.

“No, I’m not from California.” I stretched my cheek muscles into a smile, showing evenly-placed pearly whites. “But admit it, Winans. The longer you’re here, it’s growing on you. Isn’t it? You like ‘Fornia.’ You do.”

I asked Otto if we could go to Huntington Beach. That resort was my original inspiration for wanting to visit California. Back in 1967 a TV special on surfing was broadcast, using Huntington Beach as its backdrop. I recalled a clean, wide beach, high waves, a long pier, and the type of atmosphere that drove to the heart of what this California phenomena was all about (read: girls in bikinis, girls in short shorts, girls in halter tops, girls in Levis, girls in strapless dresses, girls in party gowns, girls in no makeup, girls in nothing, etc).

“The only thing I wanna say,” Otto swallowed a bite of his strawberry pancake from Howard’s restaurant, “and don’t get mad—is that once we get to Huntington Beach, I wanna stay there at least three days, and not go nowhere else.”

“. . . Sure. That’s what I was going to suggest anyway.”

“I don’t need to be runnin’ all over the place, Roger. You got me wore down to the nub, sons. Let’s just get to this one town and throw down the anchor.”

“That sounds perfect.”

“We got hitchin’ back to worry about, too.”

“Indeedy. Forty days and forty nights.” I sipped my sweet light coffee.

“So let’s take it easy while we can. Hit the beach, enjoy three days of fun and sun, then bolt outta here.”

Sparkling ocean and glimmering sand whetted my senses as we got out of a tiny sports convertible, the second of two short rides. This was exactly what I envisioned: unlimited sun, blue sky, roaring surf, salty breeze, and a broad, stirring sea—of bikinis. They blanketed the beach with color, laughter, and derring-do. Already I could smell coconut from the female posse sending wafts of lotion swirling off Coppertone bodies.

Highway One, by now feeling like a compadre, paralleled the beachfront, still continuing its trek southward. The swaying palm trees made shadows on the ground. An advertising plane zoomed overhead: ‘Make Yours Sweet ‘N Low.’

To think, I walked on without paying a cent. There was no filching here—California beaches were gratis. Free!

“What’s taking you so long? C’mon man, let’s hit the water!”

I jogged across the sand with my bags and heaved them next to three blonds who were suntanning on their stomachs with their tops undone. My shirt was peeled and my towel spread by the time Otto caught up.

“See you later, Otto-izer!” I sprinted toward the water. I hurdled over sand castles and sidestepped waders. I leaped over a breaking wave. A big one splashed a coat of Pacific water on my front and I dove in. I surfaced and dipped like a jack in the box. I kept both eyes shut so not to abuse the bad one.
Here came Otto through the crowd, using a slow trot. “Thataway, George!”

You would expect Mr. Otto-miser to hesitate at the waterline, even backstep to dry sand. But no, he continued gingerly, meeting the foam with delicacy. He tiptoed through the shallow water, bearing the temperature with a grimace. He eventually swam out as far as me.

“How you doing, my brother?” I drifted to and fro.

“Fine.”

“Hey man, this is it! Now I can say it—we’re here.”

“I got you.”

I slung water from my scalp with the most grandiose gesture I could summon. “This is not the Atlantic Ocean. It’s the Pacific Ocean!”

“Hey O.J. Simpson, you shouldn’t have been such a wildman back there. You kicked sand in everyone’s face. Those girls next to where you put your stuff? You got their hackles up.”

“Plenty of girls to go around. Two girls for every boy!” I dove through a wave and used vigorous butterfly strokes to go deeper, making a couple of deep-sea explorations. Otto dove a few times but then retreated to shore.

“Otto the Ostrich won’t get his feathers ruffled!”

I bobbed up and down, flopping around like a porpoise. I rode in waves—challenging them to thrash me. The waves weren’t pacific; they crashed with rapture. Salt water is good for what ails you, my mother always told me. So is salt air. I remembered my dad forcing me out of the water as a kid, “before you drown yourself,” he used to say. My eyes would be bloodshot and my fingers wrinkled. I would be waterlogged, teetering and tottering, smelling like an oyster.

I was like that now. Except it was my choice to stay in.

West Coast lifeguards didn’t blow their whistle at you all the time, either, like New Jersey beaches.

I loved my positioning on the Earth. It was like having the whole United States in front of me. I lifted my arms as if cradling the nation in my arms. This great body of water carried no subordinate names, like bay, cove, inlet, sound, or kill. It was ocean, the biggest in the world. Hawaii slanted out past that horizon somewhere to the southwest, an unbelievable three thousand miles away. It was as many miles west to Hawaii over the water as it was the other way over land east to New Jersey.

I rested my head on the foam and dreamed.

In due time Otto returned for a second dip. We enjoyed an extensive session riding in waves and floating around.

“Hey Otto, we’re on the other side of the nation. You can’t go any further.”

“Natch.”

“Don’t you think that’s incredible? It’s like sitting at the end of the rainbow.”

Otto slicked back his hair. “So what you preachin’ to me now, Winans? The rest of my life will just be a sad epilogue?”

It was funny to be in a bona fide ocean, yet facing the opposite direction. I was definitely facing west. The afternoon sun hit my eyes from over the water, not land. It made California good to the last drop.

I bought bottled water (imagine such a thing!) at a straw hut. Radios played acoustic rock by classic bands like the Byrds, and new bands like the Eagles. Lifeguard stands looked like spaceships, but there weren’t ridiculous numbers of them, like on New Jersey beaches. Nor were there all those obtrusive umbrellas, shading gross tubby landlubbers. Sun was king here. The beach, free of litter and waste, got manicured by machines. The pier stood to the north, its dozens of wooden pilings withstanding a hard slap from the sea. The sand scorched. The grains were noticeably larger—brown pebbles. A New Jersey-style boardwalk was missing; instead, a blacktop squibbed along, beautified, of course, by well-nourished beds of plants and scrubs.

It was so pleasurable not having any big “NO” signs telling you what you couldn’t do. That was standard fare from Sandy Hook to Cape May. Everything on Jersey beaches was prohibited—alcohol, firearms, pets, bicycles, off-road vehicles, disrobing, fires, glass containers, kites, ball playing, etc. Even fishing in most places.

Here volleyball nets were set up, encouraging people to play. Throwing a football or frisbee was perfectly all right. Outside showers and restroom pavilions were provided at no cost. Large concrete tubs were installed for cookouts. There were no fences, no beach badges, no stickers, no hand-stamping. I gladly forgot about the Jersey macho men with their bronze bellies, gold crosses, and Brilliantine-slick, nappy hair.

As afternoon progressed into evening, hamburgers sizzled over charcoal. You could smell grilled chicken, teriyaki sauce, relish, mustard, hot dogs. Heck, if you started a fire on a Jersey beach for any reason whatsoever, a cop would be there in ten minutes to give you a ticket.

The sheer number of girls was driving me crazy. I could really surmise how the melody of “The Girls on the Beach” arrived into the mind of Brian Wilson. I affectionately recalled ‘Eileen,’ Asbury Park, summer of 1967, first girl to kiss me on the lips.

The surfers were fun to watch on the north side of the pier, too. They were doing hang tens and duck dives and 360’s and acting hardcore. But you had to keep your distance. It was a clique. An unwritten rule said don’t mingle unless you had a surfboard, wetsuit, a dab of sunscreen for your nose, long blond hair gnarled with sand, and an entourage of groupies hovering around smoking cigarettes.

The only disappointment was the sunset. The same confounded fog that plagued the coast further up—suppressing the beauty of the evening—came rolling back toward the end of the day, right on cue. Same fog, same misty dankness. It was ubiquitous. That didn’t bother the natives. Emphasis swung to bike riding, kite flying, roller skating, and jogging. Sweatshirts and windbreakers covered up swimwear. Otto and I returned from a fast-food dinner at Jack in the Box to check on our stuff, which in the spirit of the day we left right out in the open.

Two girls were sitting on a beach towel not far from our spot. They were facing the water and not saying a heck of a lot to each other: an agile, rough-and-tumble blond, wearing a gray teeshirt and faded corduroys; and a cunningly mysterious, dark-eyed brunette. She wore a white lace shirt and dungarees. Both in bare feet.

“Where’s the sun?” I ranted. “I don’t call this a sunset.”

The two stared at me with that wondrous feminine lure. The blond giggled happily and carefree; the dark-haired one smiled and winked with surprising maturity.

“I trek out here all the way from New Jersey, and the least I expect is a decent sunset. But look at that.” I pointed toward the water.

“Yeah, it’s crummy out,” the blond said.

“It’s like this all the time,” her friend said sadly. “It’s depressing. It’s like the sky has a disability.”

The blond wiggled herself a groove in the sand, and sat up straight. “Haven’t you ever seen a sunset before? That’s funny. Where have you been all your life?” She took the Doublemint she was smacking and pushed it under the sand. She looked at me with smiling wonder.

“Well, yeah, I’ve seen sunsets. Not over the Pacific, though.”

“Where do they get this fog?” Otto joined the circle.

“Oh, it comes and goes. It’ll go away tomorrow morning. It’s nothing new. It’s the same old thing. We weren’t even watching it.” The blond rubbed the bottom of her feet together, and kept wiggling herself a better position, all while looking at me.

“My goal on this trip has been to come across a sky like a velvet- orange mural. Or see the sun sitting on the water like a big red ball. But I don’t think so, not tonight anyway.” I shifted the weight on my legs. “It’s like this all the time, huh?”

“Constantly,” the dark-haired girl said. “It’s the unCalifornia California.”

“Say, you guys are a scream. Did you just get into town or something?” The blond blinked in rapidity.

“Yeah, around noon or so. We came over from Disneyland. Before that, we were up in the Valley. Before that, Big Sur. We’ve seen quite a bit of your state.”

“We’re hitchhikers,” Otto announced.

“Yeah, the originals.”

“Oooo, that sounds like fun,” the blond said. “I knew a guy from Marin County who did that once. Except he was a biker on a Harley. He rode wherever he wanted, day and night, camped out by himself, cooked over a fire, and partied with the people that he met. He had a bitchin’ time.”

“Where are you girls from?” Otto asked.

The blond laughed outright. The brunette snickered. The blond made a hitchhiking gesture with her thumb. “Out,” she giggled. “Way out. Hemet. Ever hear of that?”

I took my foot and dug a question mark in the sand and looked up with a smile. “Well, guess what, folks? The professor is stumped. That’s one I’ve never heard of.”

“I didn’t think so. No one has.” The blond smiled with empathy. She reached for a cigarette from her bag, then thought better of it and tucked her bag against her leg.

“Is that down by Mexico?” Otto ventured.

The girls stared at each other, deciding. The blond replied, “No, but it’s way out in the boondocks. It don’t matter, we’re not there now. Good god.”

“Really, that place is beat. I think that’s where they invented the term ‘one-horse town’,” the dark-haired one said. The two giggled in unison.

“Hiccup, hiccup, pass the bottle, Marla. Cut the deck. Let’s play another round of Spades. Say Linda, who’s got gas money and a car that works? Hey Donna, when’s the next race?” The blond laughed. “That’s all that’s going on in Hemet. Drink drink drink.”

“In other words, it’s a boring place,” the dark-haired one summed up.

“So if you ladies weren’t out here watchin’ the sunset, what were you doin’?” Otto inquired.

“Oh, not much.” The blond’s nature was open and trusting. “We were just talking about this neat dragstrip race in Laguna Beach that we could’ve gone to if we had someone to give us a ride. The top fuel eliminations are tonight. Do you guys have wheels? Oh, that’s right— you’re hitchers.”

“We were just planted here on the sand, talking up a plethora of nothing.”

“Do you mind if we sit with you?” I said. “We’re not doing much ourselves.”

“Sure. Grab a seat.” The blond wiggled a spot free on the blanket.

“Great!”

I was ready to pair off, and the winner was the blond. She had the most spunk and made the most accessible comments. With her blond, toned, rugged body, she was dripping ‘California.’ I craved her physicality and lack of pretense. The dark-haired girl was attractive, for sure—in many ways she was a jewel—but she was too complex and serious, a little too cerebral for my mood. Her eyes hid too many secrets. I stepped onto the rumpled blanket and sat cross-legged next to the smiling blond, on the spot she vacated. Otto lowered himself next to the pixie.

The four of us shared a no-pressure, sprightly evening. They were sisters, half-Cherokee at that. Cindy Latourette was the blond, sixteen. Denise Latourette, her sister, was fourteen. They were on an overnight getaway with their parents at a motel on Highway One, something their family did every few weeks during the summer.

“My name’s Omar,” Otto uncorked for all to hear. Immediately I knew what he was up to. He was referencing Omar Sharif, the dashing male lead in Dr. Zhivago. It sounded like some sort of calculated advantage. To prevent him from moving too far ahead, I adjusted my identity as well.

I went from Roger to ‘Rodney.’ That not only kept up with Otto, but would counterbalance Cindy’s heavy interest in race cars, motorcycles, and auto mechanics. She already cut down her talk about drinking after she realized I didn’t imbibe. It was a gamble, but she didn’t hold it against me to promote myself as straight. If anything, it raised my stock.

The four of us remained engaged until well after dark. When the mist turned chilly and the pier lights blurred through the wind I kicked the affair into a higher gear. “Say—why don’t we all get together tomorrow for a day of swimming and socializing?”

“Oooo, that sounds like fun,” Cindy said. “Denise, you and I can make sandwiches. We’ll bring Mom’s extra cooler, and the radio. Maybe we can find some wine.”

“I’m dying for a glass of burgundy right now.” Denise yawned and looked about.

“You can count on us,” Cindy said. “Rodney, what’s the matter?”

“Oh, nothing. I’m just trying to think of where my friend and I are going to sleep tonight, that’s all. But don’t worry about that. We’re experienced vagabonds.”

“You poor guys.” Cindy put her hand on my shoulder. “We’d have you come back to the motel and crash with us if it weren’t for Mom and Dad. They’re so dumb for coming out to the beach and staying in the room watching TV all night.”

“Come on, let’s go home, Cindy,” Denise said. “I’m getting cold.”

The only ingredient I needed to declare the evening a total success took place while the gentlemen from New Jersey escorted the ladies from California back toward their room. Cindy walked at my side. Tall, big-boned, and slim, I sure was anxious to know what her package looked like unsheathed. To my delight Otto and Denise seemed to be pairing up as well. I heard them laughing and talking behind us.

First chance I got, I veered Cindy off behind a row of bushes. I threw my arm around her, and our lips met. Yes! It was a hungry smootch. Her lips devoured mine; I returned the gesture. I swallowed that kiss and let it sit in my stomach.

Hand-in-hand we joined Denise and Otto on a sand hill overlooking their motel. That’s where we parted ways. I was ecstatic. Otto looked lonesome.

“I did all right for myself,” he barked when I questioned him. He seemed dejected and testy. “The last thing Denise told me was, ‘See you tomorrow. I’ll remember to wear a smile.’”

“So you got no kiss, but you got a date. You can work on that kiss tomorrow. Cheer up, my brother.”

“Shut up with that ‘my brother’ talk. I ain’t nobody’s brother.”

Our main concern was where to sleep. Supposedly the beach closed at midnight. But my watch said 12:20 a.m. and all these older couples had built fires in the cookout tubs, and were standing around with bottles in their hands, singing and cavorting. A line of tour buses sat along the roadway.

“I’m thinking that rule about the beach being closed has been suspended. It looks okay to me right here.”

“You’re gonna unroll your sleepin’ bag just like that, without checkin’ out our options? That don’t bode good in my book, sons.”

“From a man who said he’s had enough running around? You’re the one who mentioned to Denise that sleeping on the beach would be the ultimate. So here we are. Those fires are high. You’ll never have a chance to sleep on a beach at the Jersey shore, that’s for sure. We’ll mix in with those couples.”

“You expect me to sleep like a dog, don’t you, with one eye open.” Otto slowly bedded down next to me on the sand.

“Dream of Denise. She’s cuter than Cindy, you know. She’s got a deep personality.”

I fell asleep fairly fast, resting to the rhythm of the waves. For sure I thought I was dreaming when I heard a beckoning voice.

“Hey fellas? Fellas?”

A flashlight seared my eyes. Where was I, in a hospital bed? At home? I recognized a jeep, its running engine, and the guy’s Huntington Beach badge. “Fellas? Hey fellas?”

It was a patrol guy. I rose in my bag. I could hardly believe what I saw. All the beach fires were dark. Everyone had gone home. The only life on the moonless, windy coastline was this astute patrol guy atop his jeep, its fat tread grinded deeply into the sand.

“I’m sorry, you’re not allowed to sleep on the city beach. You’ll have to move.”

“What’s this?” I feigned disbelief.

“No one is allowed on past midnight. It’s a city ordinance.”

“You won’t believe this, but when we went to sleep, there were hundreds of people right over there. It was past midnight then.”

“That may have been so, but you’re breaking the law by being here now.”

“We’re from out of town,” I pleaded. “Do you know where we can go?”

“That’s a good question. I don’t really care, as long as it’s not on the city beach. Now please, don’t make me radio for the police. Believe me, it’s nothing personal. I’ll give you a couple of minutes to load up. For your own sake, don’t be here the next time I drive by.”

I shook the rest of the sleep out of my body and checked my watch. Please please please let it be close to five o’clock. Lord, 2:45 a.m.! Otto arched up in the sand and relayed all sorts of negative stimuli: disgust, anger, resentment, bitterness, exasperation.

I snapped my fingers. “The state park!”

“What?” Otto looked over with half-open lids.

“Didn’t you hear that guy? He said no sleeping on the city beach, but nothing about the state park next door. He gave us a hint. He’s showing that he’s one of us, part of the new regime. Come on, man, it’s only a hundred yards down. That’s under a different jurisdiction. Let’s ramble.”

“Ramble gamble schmamble . . . shit. We gotta get off the beach altogether.” Otto dragged his opened pack behind me. “This ain’t gonna work, Winans.”

“Looky here.” I pointed to the tire marks deep in the sand. They curved back the other way right at the state beach boundary. “There’s your proof.”

“That don’t tell me shit.”

“Trust me for once, will you? I’ve been waiting this whole trip for you to trust me.”

“It’s too hazardous to trust your can.”

I moved far enough down on the state park so even the most powerful searchlights would never be able to pick us up. I dug out a shallow sand bed for two. Otto cursed me loudly as he lay down in the cranny. I tried to go to sleep.

One small blip later, Otto’s hand was pounding my chest. In the distance—headed toward us from the opposite direction—churned the wheels of another jeep, searchlights beaming.

Otto scooped up his gear. I followed. Thirty seconds made a difference. It was like fleeing a no trespassing zone. The jeep circled our abandoned area and drove back the other way.

3:19 a.m.

“We’re in trouble.” We were stunned, exhausted, and stranded. Highway One looked evacuated. We had authentic cops to contend with, not just beach patrol summer hires. Illuminated signs warned of a curfew between 2-5 a.m. for persons seventeen and under, “strictly enforced.” I scanned the dusky roadside while stuffing away my sleeping bag. There was nothing to snuggle against or to hide under. I felt pale.

“You goddamn son of a bitch, Roger!”

“Shut up and find us a place to sleep if you’re so smart!” We traipsed northward on the left-side pavement, stumbling and stealthy. I felt like a fugitive. Every time a car drove past, I sweated until I was sure it was not a cop. Without even including Otto’s sniping, it was dreadful.

A black Cadillac, southbound, stopped across from us. Its windows rolled down, revealing a duo from the nethersphere. The driver was gangly and blanched, with narrow cross-eyes, a faint mustache, rolling Adam’s apple, and wearing a Navy uniform. His companion was older, stout, and black, lackadaisical and remote, wearing a full tuxedo.

The white guy asked in a fruity voice, “You guys need a ride?”

They scared the hell out of me but I didn’t ask questions. We scrambled into the back and blurted out our dilemma.

“Sleeping on the beach is a cinch,” the white guy said, suddenly smiling. “Isn’t it, Homer? You only have to know the in’s.”

“Where?” I demanded.

“Right up here.” He pointed. “I know a little old waterbank where you’ll sleep like babies curled up with a warm bottle. The black and white don’t know everything in this town, do they, Homer? We’ll drive you up.”

4:02 a.m.

We were deposited at a thin, rocky beach at the north edge of Huntington Beach, a pitfall really, eroded from landslides. What looked to be oil dredges and oil repositories were built into the sandhills, operating at full throttle. I took precaution stepping down the rocks.

Those guys were straight. They didn’t murder us, slash our throats with a switchblade, rob us at gunpoint, nor leave us decimated and destroyed.

True to their word, I took my slumber.