Year of Living Hopefully

Driving my car

through town on a recent overcast morning a skateboarder appeared in the left corner of my windshield. My foot slammed on the brakes, my car skidded left as I gripped right. My reaction was faster than my thinking. 

I spotted a human figure through my rearview mirror, head-covered in dark clothes, grab his or her skateboard and tenderly walk across the street to the sidewalk. Maybe he realized how close he came to being hit, possibly killed. 

I found myself trembling. 

So close.

I was reminded that things can change in an instant. 

So precious. This life.

Every second. A gift.

Here in Santa Cruz we move in close quarters with pedestrians, bicyclists, skateboarders, tourists and clueless wanderers. It behooves us all to stay alert.

As 2021 comes to a close, I want to shout out a "thank you" to those who take a moment to read my scribbles. It's been a roller-coaster year of hope one day and fear the next, mainly due to COVID and its increasingly contagious variants. The partisan rancor of a divided nation also plagues us. Thanks for hanging in there.

Two of my readers, that I know of, passed away this year, although not from COVID: Bill O'Hara, a longtime friend from high school, and Lee Quarnstrom, a writer with a resume to match Damon Runyon. They both lived the high life. I salute them.

As I face my 75th birthday next month, I consider that three-quarters of a century puts me on the short end of the curve. Now's the time to write that novel and tell my sister that I love her.

My beautiful wife Barbara celebrates her 73rd birthday today. Happy birthday, honey. We will mark our 40th anniversary of marriage on Christmas Eve. Thanks for believing in me, sweetheart. I love you. We met as neighbors on a circular street, two pilgrims clinging to the bend in the road. 

We raised three independent, gifted daughters, Molly, Vanessa and Bryna, who have contributed intelligence, compassion and levity to the world. We came together with each of them this year, and husbands Jason and Mike, as well as their children Summer, Piper, Samson, Finn, Viva and Mystiko, although never all at one time. 

I yearn for the day when we can all sit together.

We shall dance and howl as we have in the past. Drink wine. Take walks at sunset. Eat donuts at sunrise. Listen to good music. Savor delectable meals. Tell stories. Smell the roses. Laugh our heads off.

May you all embrace love, hope and happiness this holiday season and into the new year.

Drive carefully.

Pearl Harbor Day

Frank C. Samson, 1945

Look around today and you will see Old Glory, the flag of the United States of America, flying at half mast.

That is because 80 years ago today, Dec. 7, 1941, the U.S. Naval Base at Pearl Harbor in Honolulu, Territory of Hawaii, suffered a surprise attack by Japan.

More than 2,400 Americans were killed, nearly 1,200 wounded, eight U.S. battleships were sunk, 169 Navy and Army Air Corps planes were destroyed and 129 Japanese aircraft were shot down.

The following day, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt asked Congress to declare war on Japan.

War is hell.

My father, Frank Cameron Samson, had shipped out of Pearl Harbor on the battleship USS Idaho in June, missing the attack by six months. He spent six years in the Atlantic and Pacific theaters in battle support situations. His final deployment was on the USS Midway aircraft carrier. As a fire controlman he maintained and fired a range of military weaponry.

He never talked about his war experiences. 

As a farm boy from the plains of North Dakota, he had never seen a mountain until he traveled west on the train as a young adult. 

"I was awestruck by the Rocky Mountains," he said.

I can only imagine his long days at sea and intense moments during combat. He believed in service to his country and never complained. Ever. 

Frank was the son of Scottish immigrant, David Samson. His mother, Jeanette Harvey, homesteaded in Minnesota in the early 1900's.

My father found peace and contentment doing things with his hands, which were large for his small stature. A devoted rock hound, in his later years he made beautiful bolo ties, broaches and pins from gems and minerals. He also planted and tended lovely gardens. He devoted his life to my mother, Dorothy Herron Samson, a native of Havre, Montana. They were married in Seattle in October of 1945, following the war.

Controlman Frank C. Samson passed away on August 17, 2006, one month shy of his 91st birthday.

Thank you for your service, Dad. So glad you got out of Pearl Harbor before the attack.

Love, Kevin

Coming Home for Thanksgiving

Happy Gratitude Day from Kauai

The waves rise in horizontal blue lines as they approach the shore. They peak when the under current reaches the shallow bottom, they curl and crash into plumes of white foam. A surfer's ride may last a couple of seconds before the rider tumbles into the soup. It's over in a flash and a splash.

The short-lived beach break in Manhattan Beach does not stop surfers from grabbing their boards and heading out. You see the same people every day. It's their routine: The long-haired older guy who drives the El Camino. He's already out of the water by the time we see him peeling off his wetsuit in the parking lot. And there's the gal with the big white smile, long dark hair who's likewise caught her morning stoke and getting dressed behind her SUV.

"Good morning!"

She beams.

Barbara and I have just descended the hill next to the currently renowned Bruce's Beach, a terraced park of grass and trees that rises behind the lifeguard station operated by Los Angeles County. That section of the park was recently deeded back to the Bruce family, descendants of the original owners of the land who were run off by the authorities in the 1920s because of their dark skin. In those days they were politely called Negroes.

The Bruce family is the new lease holder. The remainder of the park still belongs to the city of Manhattan Beach.

Activity in the park has blossomed lately, says a longtime resident with a view of the park. "It's nice," says Bettelu, Barbara's mom, from her birds-eye window view.

Park-goers reflect a diversity of skin colors and ages, from toddlers to grandparents. The vibe is mellow.

We've come for Thanksgiving weekend to spend time with Bettelu. Our daughter Vanessa and her sons Samson and Finn arrive for our grateful feast. Husband Mike stays home with flu-like symptoms.

We're all trying to be careful during these days of COVID, and especially protect our most vulnerable family member who is 96 years young.

Our daughter Molly and her family (Jason, Summer, Piper and doggie Dolce) were all set to join the celebration when Piper came down with a cold. At the last minute, they called off their trip from San Rafael to Manhattan Beach. We all grieved with disappointment but made the best of it.

Thanksgiving table in Manhattan Beach

Vanessa presents Samson's birthday cake

Samson and Finn

So our Thanksgiving dinner was lightly attended. Samson, who just turned 13, contributed mightily by baking two pies -- banana cream and chocolate pecan -- and creating one cranberry salad with walnuts and marshmallows. His culinary interests tend toward the sweet side.

We all participated by helping ourselves to slices of pies and scoops of cranberries, as well as turkey, mashed potatoes, artichokes and a delicious Brussells sprout concoction prepared by Vanessa. She also entertained us with holiday tunes she played on Bettelu's piano.

Molly's table setting in San Rafael

Molly sent us photos of her last-minute Thanksgiving table arrangement at her home. And daughter Bryna on Kauai texted a photo of her setting for the holiday, which she called Gratitude Day, per her always-fresh and never conventional perspective. I'm sure her children, Viva and Mystiko, appreciated her gratefulness and organically inspired holiday cuisine.

In the morning, Barbara and I walk from 27th St. along the Strand to downtown Manhattan with our dog Frida. This is our ritual. I'm not fond of riding beach breaks and tumbling in the surf like a rag doll first thing in the morning. I always bring my wetsuit, however, and I have a board stashed in Bettelu's basement.

Along the way we pass and chat with the "surfer boys" who hang out at Marine Street, checking the surf and maybe heading out to the drink. Barbara calls them "surfer boys" because she's known some of them since elementary school in the Fifties. She grew up here. It's not the same beach town of middle class families that it was then. Most of the boys cannot afford to live here anymore. They come from places like Long Beach and drive the freeways to get here and meet their buddies at the beach.

"It's so crowded in the water it's beginning to look like Malibu," says one of the guys.

They should see Santa Cruz.

At the Manhattan Beach Pier, we turn up hill from the beach toward town. Green lights shaped like a Christmas tree shine at night at the end of the pier. It's a landmark. So is the Shellback Tavern just up the street, the only funky drinking and eating establishment in town, where you're liable to run into professional volley players or maybe an LA Laker.

Barbara's brother Bob owns the Shellback and if we're lucky we might see him ordering supplies early this morning. The doors are open and the bar empty. It reeks of disinfectant as Julio busily scrubs and mops, refreshing the place for a new day after last night's partying. If you want to watch sports on TV, this is the place.

Shellback is an old nautical term for one who has crossed the equator.

We head up to one of the coffee joints with Frida where locals with their dogs shuffle around, grabbing their morning fix and gabbing in front of Peet's. We slide through, order our cups of Joe, procure a bagel at Noah's next door. We bag one to bring back to Bettelu.

There's a Trumper at a table outside who goads people for wearing masks. Most are. He's a fixture, advertises his politics with his DT camouflage regalia. People accept him, many probably agree with him. It's a well-heeled conservative town. If you want to sit among liberals you go to Santa Monica.

Vintage and late model Porches, Lamborghinis, Ferraris, Lexus and Cadillac SUVs line the parking spaces like a car showroom. Wealth and sportiness are on display.

As a hometown girl come home, Barbara does not know these current locals. It's a change of pace for us. The homeless population hovers at about two.

Sunset in Manhattan Beach Nov. 22

The Green Flash

The day we arrived, I walked Frida down to the Strand just before twilight. The pristine blue sky had begun to fade. The silhouette of Catalina Island drew a shadowy line on the water. I stopped to stare at the gold sun as it sank behind the watery horizon, until its final glimmer of light.

That's when I saw the green flash, a split-second halo of spectral green light. It winked, a reminder of nature's sometimes subtle grandeur and the concept of mindfulness. Pay attention. When the Zen Buddhist monks enter the zendo (temple) they lead with their foot closest to the door hinge. It's a reminder to be mindful of every step.

Curious, I googled the green flash that appears at sunset and sunrise, although rarely seen.

Ever since Jules Verne's 1905 novel The Lighthouse at the End of the World, the green flash has engaged peoples' imagination. Pirate lore claims it signals the return of a dead soul. It has shown up in numerous poems and songs and plot points in novels.

"I saw the green flash," I said to Bettelu when I returned to the house.

"You did?" she said.

"Have you ever seen it?" I asked.

"No," she said.

I could tell by her expression that she still considered me the oddball son-in-law from Santa Cruz.

Diet for a Small Family

My days as a chef were short. They were out of necessity more than anything else. I had two daughters to feed.

My staple recipes came from Frances Moore Lappe's small paperback book, Diet for a Small Planet, the 1975 copyright edition, The original copyright was 1971. 

I didn't need glasses to read the tiny print, which now appears fuzzy and impossible to discern without a pair of spectacles. I still own the same book. A couple of the recipes have remained family favorites over the years. Namely, Clam Spaghetti and Monastery Lentils.

When first published, Lappe's book "virtually created the publishing category of food politics and turned [her] into what she once self-deprecatingly called, "the Julia Child of the soybean circuit," according to a recent piece in the New York Times https://www.nytimes.com/2021/11/20/style/frances-moore-lappe-diet-small-planet.html about the author and the 50-year anniversary of her little book that created a big shift toward our approach to sustainable food.

It's a vegetarian cookbook with emphasis on whole grains and fresh vegetables. The recipes are simple and the resulting dishes healthy, emphasizing complimentary protiens. Not being a strict vegetarian, I incorporated Italian sausage into Lappe's recipe for whole-wheat and soy flour pizza.

I haven't made that pizza crust in years. 

I did make the Clam Spaghetti dish for my dear Mother-in-Law during a trip to Southern California a few yeas ago. She loved it, or so she told me. Perhaps what she really loved was having me cook for her for a change.

Understanding how adventuresome she is about food, I had given her a copy of Diet some time before that, but the latest edition did not contain the recipe for Clam Spaghetti. 

Thanks to Frances, I was able to provide healthy meals to my daughters. The book has always had a special place in our kitchen, and in my heart.

Following is from the recent New York Times article:

'[Diet for a Small Planet] was published during 'a very idealistic time for American youth...  There was also this idea of the personal is political. Her book filled the blanks.'

Today, a similar desire for personal and planetary health pervades the culture. There's been such a consciousness shift around food that fast-food restaurants new serving plant-based burgers, and climate change activists are once again calling for cutting consumption of beef, though for different reasons, including its outsize impact on greenhouse gas emissions.

Surveying the current landscape, Lappe mentioned with approval the proliferation of community and school gardens and the thousands of farmers' markets around the country. 'These didn't exist 50 years ago.'

But Ms. Lappe is troubled by the way healthy eating has become an elitist activity, saying of $12 green smoothies, 'That's not what I'm all about at all.' She's also ambivalent about plant-based meats made in a lab. While they contribute less to climate change, they are not a solution to fixing our broken food system.'

'It keeps processed foods as our staple. The answer is healthy foods that come directly from the earth, or as close as possible.'

Nowadays people seem to eat much better, and much worse. Processed foods loaded with sugar dominate the supermarket shelves, and nearly 1 in 7 Americans now have diabetes. 'Food is life itself -- and we've turned it into a killer. It's jaw-dropping.'

I feel very grateful to have had a mother who cooked from scratch. And my wife Barbara has continued the same tradition.

Recipe for Clam Sauce with Garlic and Wine from Diet for a Small Planet copyright 1975:

avg. serving = approx. 12 g usable protein,  28-34% of daily protein allowance

Start cooking:

1/2 lb spaghetti   

Drain juice from 2-3 8 oz cans minced clams and set aside

Saute'

1/4 cup olive oil

2 cloves garlic minced

Stir in:

clam juice

3/4 cup chopped parsley

2 tbsp white wine

1 tsp basil

1/2 tsp salt

dash pepper

Now add clams and heat through while you drain the spaghetti. Serve over spaghetti. A special dish that is no trouble at all! For a feast include garlic bread and Caesar salad.                                                             

                                                                                                                                                              

Come All Ye Faithful

I haven't published anything

on my blog for a few weeks, since the World Series, which was won by the Atlanta Braves. I did write a story about spooky Halloween trick-or-treaters that mentioned the final WS game and the Mexican celebration of the Day of the Dead. 

I may have tried to cram too many subjects into two pages. Although it is surprising how much you can say with little space. Space is all we really have. That, and faith.

I read my Halloween-etc story to my writing group but never posted it. 

Reading out loud to an audience is the best way to understand what written words sound like, where the inflections should be, if the rhythm and pace are working, if I can pronounce the words. Often I cannot. Is it com-pare-a-ble, or compra-ble? Is it lever (as in Leave it to Beaver) or (I drove my Chevy to the levy) leh-ver?

By the time I felt ready to post the Halloween story, it seemed as stale as a three-day-old bagel. Thanksgiving and the holiday season were approaching at break-neck speed. So I started a piece about Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday, which led me into a few rabbit holes and I wasn't digging where I was going. 

As we approach the festive season, we remember seasons of yore, some of which didn't go as well as we had hoped. Like when Uncle Edgar helped himself to one too many cocktails and the ceiling came down. Or it seemed that way when he began insulting the hosts who knew better than to invite him in the first place. The guy who never says a word until that sixth bourbon and water.

That's not mentioning the searingly hot subject of politics at a family gala. There's more than a turkey on the table.

The stakes are higher than ever because of COVID. Raise your hand if you've had it. It's astonishing how many have been afflicted, and are still alive to talk about it.

And you received two vaccinations? A breakthrough. Is there a better word? Like breakdown.

So we have a rebellious daughter who is not vaccinated, doesn't believe in it, never has, never will. All politics are phony, pharmaceutical corporations are bent on greed, mainstream news feeds on fear and injecting toxins into your body is dangerous to your health.

She relies upon manifesting her desires by calling upon Mother Universe and all the far galaxies of orbiting stars that have already spun out but were -- err, are -- a few light years ahead and the past is future and we may, as integral parts of the whole, overcome our traumas from past lives before they even happen.

In other words: herd immunity.

I've had two vaccines and a booster.

I am basically a rule follower. I have faith.

Fauci the expert says do it and I do. It's my nature. In Fauci I trust. I realize that there are many here amongst us who sincerely believe that Fauci is the Devil. Or drop the "D." A rapacious capitalist animal torturer.

Go on Facebook if you don't believe me.

Don't mention FB to me, though. I swore off after I heard that Zuckerberg changed the name to Meta. (cue Twilight Zone theme.)

Knowing how Z looks when he gets an idea in head scares the hell out of me. You've seen the photos. Is he for real? He may be one of those avatars. I know he's digital. Saw it on Instagram.

I just want a peaceful holiday season with my family and the in-laws. Can't we just get along for a few hours. Okay, minutes. Talk about sports and music. Maybe play music. Eat pie. Dance a little.  We surely can.

But what if they're not vaccinated? Are they invited.? Do we not get together in an indoor environment with our daughter and grandchildren because they are unvaccinated? What about my 96-year-old great-grandma-mother-in-law? She's had all her shots. 

If we make it through this Holiday Season unscathed. At peace in one piece. It will be a miracle.

I believe in miracles.

As Sister Gualberta said: Faith overcomes doubt. Faith is not knowing but believing.

I'm going into the holidays with a hopeful spirit, a great measure of faith, looking forward to a martini on Christmas Eve.

Cheers!

There: I got a jump on the holidays. Do I still have to go shopping?

Reading Baseball Signs

Jimmy Piersall flies like a hawk into home plate

The seasons have changed but one last rite needs to be settled as we celebrate Halloween.

The World Series.

I cry because my black and orange Giants are not playing. The colors of Halloween. 

The 2020 World Champion Dodgers are done. No pretty blue colors in the Series this year. No Los Angeles celebrities in funny hats and shades behind home plate.

It’s the Braves and the Astros, Atlanta and Houston and who gives a damn.

This is a perfect time to fill our blank space — open base—with a story about my first baseball mitt, a three-fingered fielders glove, a signature Jimmy Piersall model.

It was one of my most prized possessions, made of brownish orange leather. I slipped my left hand inside and let my index finger rest on the back of the glove. That was the style, to add an extra degree of padding to the pocket, where the hardball would be caught.

I worked the pocket with my right fist, punching it over and over to make it pliable so the ball would stay in it.

I held my mitt up to my face and inhaled the warm smell of soft leather. I rubbed Linseed oil into the pocket to make it last. My mitt became a very personal part of me.

I played for Rod and Gun, a sporting goods store in Pomona that sponsored our team. Our uniforms were a grey flannel with dark pinstripes and a navy blue cap with an R on it. My number on the back was 9, which I happily discovered was the number that Ted Williams wore, maybe the best hitter ever to play the game, the last player to hit over .400 for a season.

But who was Jimmy Piersall?

I spent the summer with my mitt, slinging the wrist strap over the handle bars of my bicycle when I traveled. Every Saturday there was a baseball game broadcast on TV and I happened to be watching when Ted Williams, playing for the Boston Red Sox, stepped up the to the plate against the Cleveland Indians pitcher.

“Look at Piersall,” said the TV broadcaster, calling attention to centerfield, where the camera lens focussed in. It was my first chance to see him. In an attempt to distract Williams, Jimmy Piersall was running around in centerfield with his arms raised performing a war dance. He was ejected for breaking the rule of intentionally distracting the batter.

JP was a good player but he did odd things on the field. I learned much later that he was diagnosed by today's parlance as having bipolar disorder. A 1957 film, Fear Strikes Out, was released, based on his memoir of the same title.  Anthony Perkins, who played the infamous Norman Bates in the Alfred Hitchcock movie Psycho, was cast as Jimmy Piersall.

Because of my beloved baseball mitt, I felt a weird compassion and kinship with Piersall, who played 17 seasons in the Majors, and doubtless exposed the issue of mental illness to a national audience.

                                                                    ***

Near our LL field, there was a Tastee Freeze soft-serve ice cream joint. Following some games our coach, Mr. McCaskill, would treat us to ice cream cones. We’d all run across the field and jump over the fence to get there in a hurry. 

I learned from a story in today’s New York Times that the Atlanta Braves have relied on a secret weapon that has lifted their spirits during this pandemic-plagued season. That weapon: a soft serve ice cream maker in their clubhouse. This was the feel-good baseball story I was waiting for, a sign and connection.

I’m rooting for the Braves in this World Series.

Old Kauai, New Kauai

The Jetty was once the center of nightlife on Kauai

We were so young but we didn't know it.

I had no idea that a trip to Kauai would foretell my future. I had no interest in Hawaii beyond Connie Stevens, the comely blonde nightclub singer in the popular television series Hawaiian Eye. The year was 1968.

"They call it the Garden Isle," said the travel agent who arranged our honeymoon, her face made up, red lipstick, deep tan wrinkles from over-exposure to sun, or perhaps too many cigarettes. The raspy voice was a giveaway. "You have to see the Hanalei Plantation. You will love it.”

She wore a plumeria in her hair that released the fragrance of a tropical Shangrila.

We were barely old enough to vote or purchase a Mai Tai, whatever that was. We were the innocent, good-looking, wide-eyed married couple who appeared in glossy magazine photos. 

But we didn't know it.

Hanalei (2019)

Our trip was a wedding gift from her mother, my new mother-in-law, following a large wedding at Our Lady of Assumption Catholic church in the little town of Claremont, where we had rented an apartment to live when we returned from the islands.

The oldest of the Hawaiian chain, Kauai had not yet been fully discovered by the tourist crowd. They went to Waikiki. In the Seventies, the surfers and hippies invaded Maui.

We were booked into the only visible hotel in Poipu a few short miles from Lihue, the county seat. Our accommodations were a two-story building that resembled Travel Lodge motels that could be found on any highway in the U.S. Our lodging sat on hardened lava, not near a beach. It was so quiet we could hear the silent cockroaches at night.

As, seemingly, the only human occupants of said hotel, we relied solely on love and romance, along with the music of song birds and gently swaying palms with clumps of coconuts; wafting cool breezes subsumed the indulgent humidity.

"I want to find a fresh pineapple," my new bride said to me.

When we ventured out the first morning, in our rental car, I was startled to see dead frogs, the size of papayas, splattered on the few roads amid the island's lush greenery. The sight sickened me: squashed, long-legged frogs on hard asphalt.

We never saw a chicken, modern Kauai's signature fowl-feathered friend. As the story is told, the chickens were released from their cages with Hurricane Iniki in 1992, the most devastating natural disaster to hit the island in modern times. Homes were flattened and swept away. Chickens fluttered and propagated with a feral variety introduced earlier from Southeast Asia. 

The island survived disaster as it had for 5 million years.

I bodysurfed the excellent waves at Brennecke’s, pure and glassy cover-ups, the best and most memorable ever. The locals climbed to the tops of palm trees and tossed down coconuts that they punctured with knives and drank from. Civilization at Brennecke's consisted of a tiny market the size of a small garage, across the road.

“With your dark hair and skin,” she told me, having watched from the beach, "you blended in." 

I felt empowered, observed and complimented. I told her that I admired the way she peeled tropical bananas with her long, beautiful fingers.

Drive, She Said

We headed north in our rental car. She read from a visitor's guide about menehunes -- the little people who once lived here. There had been sightings. Her enthusiasm was infectious. Did she really believe?

We veered from Kuhio Highway toward the beach at the Hawaiian settlement of Anahola where according to our guide book, in 1946 the community had been destroyed by a great tsunami. The tires of our rental dug into the sandy beach and spun like a fan. We were stuck.

I searched near a beach shack for a board or tree branch to leverage beneath the rear wheels to move the car. Following several unsuccessful attempts, a young man -- brown-skinned and shirtless, empty expression -- emerged from the shack.

"Get in da cah, staht da engine and give it gas."

I followed his directions while he bounced on the back bumper. The tires grabbed the sand, pushing the rental forward. He disappeared back into the shack. That was that.

I felt like the most clueless haole tourist on the island. At that moment, I was. I had signaled to the young kane in his beach home that we -- malihinis -- were coming. We were a sighting of the island's future.

We continued northward seeking the Hanalei Plantation. At an overlook, we saw rows of taro growing in shallow water. The sultry atmosphere steamed upward from below filling our nostrils with redolent organic fumes.

"This must be the plantation," we agreed. The backdrop of tapering, rich green volcanic mountains, creased with white waterfalls confirmed our expectations. Yet we were never sure.

We passed through the small village consisting of a few old, wooden Western-front stores and a long-porched school building, not realizing that this would be the heart of the oncoming invasion many years later: Hanalei, as in Puff the Magic Dragon, a folk tale converted to song by Peter, Paul and Mary.

We stopped at a beach on Hanalei Bay and watched crabs the size of our hands appear from under the sand and scramble in all directions. This was not Newport Beach.

We parked where the road ended and discovered a cove called Ke'e. We swam in the turquoise-clear water, the two of us alone beneath cerulean skies and puffy white clouds.

"We've found paradise," she said.

Swimming pool at the Kauai Marriott at the harbor

One evening we turned our sights toward night life.  We ventured to the Surf hotel, the tallest building in Lihue on the hill above the Nawiliwili Harbor, Kauai's port of call. "Surf,"proclaimed the sign on top that glowed in blue, lighted letters. Opened in 1960, the Surf was the first hotel at Kalapaki, the name of the harbor beach.

The location is noteworthy in Kauai's history. In 1891, 2,000 islanders, likely the entire population, welcomed Queen Lili' uokolani with lighted torches blazing along the harbor mouth announcing her royal tour of Kauai. William Hyde Rice and his wife arranged a grand luau in honor of the Queen held on his Lihue Ranch property that he had purchased, in conjunction with other adjacent properties, for $27,500 from Princess Ruth Keelikolani. 

The tidal wave of 1946 destroyed Rice's beach home at Kalapaki.

In 1987 the Westin Kauai replaced the Surf. Eight years later, the grand Kauai Marriott with sumptuous architectural gardens and artful stonework took over the site and continues to operate today. It is the site of the Kauai Writers Conference held annually in November, considered one of the top meetings of writers and publishers in the world.

Where the Locals Go

That night we rode the elevator to the top of the Surf where we discovered a cocktail lounge with windows, although it was too dark to enjoy the view.

We were the young, starry-eyed honeymoon couple sitting at the table in the middle of the room. We attracted two women tourists in too-tight clothing who joined us at our table. We also lured a slight, dark-complected man outfitted in a blue and white aloha shirt.

"I'm Sonny," he introduced himself. "I drive taxi. I can take you anywhere." 

The two women, Irene and Betty, were older and gussied up as if for a luau at the Royal Hawaiian in Waikiki. We drank tropical libations, talked story and giggled. 

Well into our cups, Sonny announced:

"Do you want to go where the locals go? I will take you."

We piled into his cab and sped down the hill to a waterfront roadhouse called "The Jetty." A sudden breeze arose, sending the stiff aroma of the ruffled sea our way.

We heard music blasting from inside. The room vibrated boisterously. An attractive, young dark-haired woman danced on a stage, or was it a table, for all to see, her arms flailed. She lifted the front of her skirt flashing her panties that featured the image of a target, a bull's eye, between her legs.

The crowd roared. Sonny guided us to seats. We drank beer. The band played. The locals yelled their approval.

Eventually surfeited with raucous local foolery, we allowed Sonny to drive us back to the hotel.

There, beneath the stars, we said our good-byes. My bride and I looked into each other's eyes and smiled when Sonny leaned into Irene and kissed her goodnight. 

A phosphorescent white tide-line crept in, as quiet and subtle as a sensuous hula.

Sleepy Kauai was already on the map as a film location. Movies South Pacific, Donovan's Reef and Blue Hawaii with Elvis Presley had been filmed on the island. The Fern Grotto on the Wailua River was a popular wedding location for celebrities.

We were so young and we didn't care.  

Forty years later I returned to Kauai. Half a lifetime had passed. I had a new bride. I searched for Brennecke's, but it had dramatically changed. Hurricane Iniki had literally blown it apart. It was unidentifiable. The little store was gone. Poipu had been settled with houses and condos and hotels. Even the frogs had mostly disappeared.

When I asked about the Jetty, I received blank looks. Only a few old-timers remembered. 

An online search revealed that Club Jetty was opened in 1946 by Mama Emma Ouye. She booked live entertainment from the Mainland, including Las Vegas. Visitors included actor John Wayne. According to one account, President Ronald Reagan gave Mama Ouye the White House Hot Line number to use in case of an emergency. That emergency occurred in 1992 when Iniki destroyed the Jetty.

Mama Ouye's motto: "If you help people with their life they will help you with yours."

Besides damages wrought by hurricanes and tsunamis, the general landscape of the Garden Island remains unmistakably the same, the ancient volcanic mountains and palis, the rainbows and waterfalls, the ever-encroaching jungly flora. At the end of a short road on the eastern point of Hanalei Bay, beyond a gate, along a trail that leads down to a shady beach, you will find the ruins of a hotel, the Club Med Resort built in the 1970s. Before that it was the site of the Hanalei Plantation Resort, the place we never found whose life was less than a decade long.

Our youngest daughter lives on the Garden Island, with two children, one born here, who call us grandparents, Coco and Lolo.

They are so young and they don't know it.

 

Saturday Market, 1952

Every Saturday when I was very young my family would go to the market to shop for groceries. It became a ritual that I enjoyed until I grew old enough to beg to stay home with my friends. We lived in a small house on the side of a hill in Monterey Park, Calif. and the market was located on Garvey Avenue one step off of the sidewalk. The entire front of the market welcomed us with open accordion doors made of wood.

Bright oranges, red apples and green cucumbers with rich earthy aromas were piled in bins, tempting shoppers to pick them up and buy them. The shaded north-facing storefront offered a cool escape from the hot sunshine into an enticing world of soups, cereals, cookies and crackers. But the best item was found in the freezer bin -- delicious creamy ice cream that would be our Saturday afternoon dessert.

My mama, Dorothy, wore a dress. Pants suits were not known to me, if they even existed. Her dresses were always light-colored and sometimes featured a floral pattern. She was not one for dark colors, especially black, the word alone she pronounced as if it were the color of death. "BLACK." She would shake her head at the thought. She held that view throughout her life, always avoiding black clothing. Those Saturdays were designed for breezy blue and yellow dresses.

My daddy, Frank, wore slacks, a short-sleeved collared shirt and leather shoes. To me, those were the duds of a dad. I learned that word, "duds," from him, which he called fancy clothes, like those worn by TV cowboys including Roy Rogers, Johnny Mack Brown and Tex Ritter: shirts with ornate piping and fringe on the sleeves, scarves around their necks and boots with embossed patterns. His wardrobe was much plainer, yet as he aged and society became more casual toward men's and women's apparel, he started to wear Western-style duds and blue jeans. He loved country-Western music and got a kick out of learning that singer Tennessee Ernie Ford lived in the red house above our neighborhood.

    You load sixteen tons and what do you get

 another day older and deeper in debt

Saint Peter don't you call me cause I can't go 

I owe my soul to the company store

At least a working man could get a day off which made Saturday our grocery-shopping day. My dad worked about six miles from our house at the main U.S. Post Office in downtown Los Angeles.

He drove us to the market in his Studebaker. My mother didn't drive or even consider getting her license. She didn't trust cars and mechanical things, preferred to do everything by hand, or on foot. I've seen a picture of her as a young woman riding a horse, but never near an automobile. The trip to market depended upon my dad.

Sometimes we waited in the car while my mother shopped: my dad, me and my younger sister, Mimi. That was her nickname, given to her by herself. "Me, me-me." She could not pronounce her real name, Mary. An adult neighbor of ours said to me, "I know that's me-me Are you, you-you?" I guess he thought he was being funny. I found it annoying. I didn't get the joke.

My dad parked his car in the lot behind the market. While waiting for my mom, I lay on the back seat, soothing myself by running my finger tips over the woven upholstery, staring into the blue sky, listening to the rumble of car engines, peoples' voices and slamming of heavy metal doors. 

I had heard my parents talking about trees and flowers. They referred to them by name, rhododendrons, hibiscus and geraniums. Wide-leafed banana trees adorned with green and yellow bananas grew in our front yard. Stalks of greenish-red rhubarb sprouted in the dirt next to our house, from which my mom  baked rhubarb pie, a family favorite. She poured lots of sugar into the bowl with the chopped pieces of celery-like rhubarb, creating a syrupy sauce that gave the tart rhubarb a tangy, almost sweet flavor, which tasted even better with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.

"What's the name of this tree?" I asked my dad, pointing at the large tree next to our car, mesmerized by the mighty trunk and gnarled bark. Long branches covered with thin green leaves hung from the tree like the cloak of a king. The canopy produced a wonderful, shady place in the parking lot.

"It's a pepper tree," he said.

A pepper tree, I thought to myself, a strange name for this magnificent tree. I imagined small bits of hot black pepper hidden on the narrow leaves. I didn't realize that pinkish-red peppercorns would appear when it flowered.

Since that particular Saturday in 1952, whenever I see a pepper tree, its feathery leaves, drooping branches and thick muscular trunk, I can sniff the woodsy fragrance from memory and feel the easy comfort of my family.

© 2021 Kevin Samson from working-title memoir Silence of the Oranges.

 

 

Beyond the Rainbow

Linda (Lombardi) Samson

Forty-five years ago today Linda (Lombardi) Marie Samson died at age 29 in an automobile accident on our way home from Lake Tahoe. Our terrible loss affected the lives of me and her two daughters, Molly and Vanessa, in immeasurable ways, as well as, I'm sure the lives of her friends and anyone who ever met her.

She possessed a glowing presence. She laughed and cried, understanding well the emotions of joy and sorrow. She loved to help those in distress, befriending many wandering souls who had lost their way. Her heart loomed large.

We knew each other since high school. We grew up together. We experienced our good and bad times, always finding our way back.

Thinking about her today, on the heels of September 11, puts me in a contemplative mood.

I don't believe I could have survived without the help of my friends. In particular, Kim (Fredericks) and David Safir, Paul and Bette Ann Greene, Abner and Maria Greene, Jenny Mackintosh, Michelle Dugar, Fred and Tony Lombardi, my sister Mary (Samson) and Mark Fotheringham, and my parents Dorothy and Frank Samson.

The greatest fortune came my way when I met Barbara Beverly who would become my wife and mother of our children, including a third daughter, Bryna. The timing and ease of our meeting, as well as her motherly instincts, came naturally as though an unknown pretense were guiding us, a force from beyond.

Some say there is no such thing as coincidence. I would agree, with the caveat that our universe may be simpler, more connected than we can possibly understand. Its randomness is every bit as true as its perfection.

The greatest loss resulting from Linda's passing, is that Molly and Vanessa never had the opportunity to know her better. And Linda never experienced the pride and satisfaction of how wonderful they and their children have become. 

Or perhaps she knows.

The Day the Music Died

The eccentric souvenir of the human shape

Wrapped in seemings, crowd on curious crowd

                                                    -- Wallace Stevens

New York City firefighter calls for help amid the rubble

The morning of September 11, 2001, I walked lightly into the front room, as I did every morning before going to work, rolled out my yoga mat and turned on NPR news. Stretching my back while resting on my hands and knees, I heard that two airplanes had crashed into the World Trade Center in New York City.

The news startled me, my ears suddenly alert. We were under attack. Yet the voice over the radio spoke evenly with little emotion. I jumped up and called to Barbara who was still in bed.

"Something terrible is happening," I said. "Turn on the TV!"

By the time I left for my office, I understood that the airplanes were commercial jets that had been hijacked by suicide terrorists. Two additional airplanes attempted similar attacks, one on the Pentagon.

My initial thoughts were who are these terrorists who would so dramatically kill innocent people and themselves? What were they thinking? How perverted. How misled. How fortunate that we Americans, in our free country, would never entertain such an idea.

Twenty years later that thinking seems so naive. I sought comfort through a type of patriotism. That morning when I met my colleagues at work, I wanted to express gratefulness in the midst of chaos.  I hadn't learned yet about the extent of destruction, the horror for ordinary folks doing their jobs for themselves and their families.

I soon felt a greater sense of unity with my fellow Americans. 

The moment called for mourning and clean-up and we watched the FDNY perform heroic acts attempting to save lives and locate bodies amidst the toxic, choking air and rubble. You could almost smell the dust while watching the reports. But nothing could allow you to feel the unmitigated fear in the hearts of the victims careening to their death, or honestly imagine their voices, their final words or screams.

Before we had a chance to fully understand and digest what happened and why, the hawks flew in. They saw opportunity, souring, if that were possible, the already foul taste of our losses. Revenge filled the air. Blame. Racial stereotyping. Egos on fire. Sabers rattled.

"Shock and awe." This would be our strategy when we invaded Iraq. Why Iraq? Not because the leader of the terrorists was there. Because of unfinished business with Iraq's dictator. Because they had weapons of mass destruction, which they didn't. Because our leaders could not appear weak. Blah, blah, blah. The same old tune that was played in Vietnam: shuck and jive.

I talked to a good friend about it, who insisted we had to attack. "Would you send your son to fight in Iraq?" I asked. 

"Oh, no, he's not going," came the reply, tossing off the idea as if it were a far-fetched joke.

I attended a paddle-out that was arranged by a small group of surfers to protest going to war in Iraq. Paddle-outs are typically held when a fellow surfer dies. A circle is formed in the water, prayerful words are given followed by hooting and splashing. It feels ancient and sacred, a moment of brother- and sister-hood.

Very few surfers came to the protest paddle-out, causing the woman surfer sitting on her board next to me to say: "I don't understand. Doesn't everyone want peace?"

"Well, you know surfers," I replied, leaving it at that.

Many of the young hot-shot surfers were driving around in pick-up trucks with American flags fluttering in the wind. In the daily newspaper, the surf columnist wrote: "It's time to kick some ass in Iraq."

When the bombing started, I felt sick to my stomach. I wanted to cry. So began debacle upon debacle, for the next 20 years, only making matters worse. The hawks will tell you that it was worth it, because there has not been a major foreign terrorist attack on American soil during that period.

That's true. Most terrorist activities have been from within, shooting children at schools, or people in nightclubs, or folks attending concerts in places like Las Vegas. The worst president in the history of the U.S. was elected, who based his election campaign on a fear-mongering racist platform. Last January thousands of his followers staged a coup d' etat when they rampaged our Capitol because they didn't agree with our democratically held National Election.

I'll continue to look for silver linings and trust the hope in my heart, but September 11 will always be a day of mourning and sorrow for me.

 

Sharkey the Surfer Man

"Out of the water I am nothing." Duke Kahanamoku, legendary Hawaiian surfer

Copywrite 2021

There's a lot going on in Paul Theroux's latest novel, his 32nd, Under the Wave at Waimea, about an aging big-wave rider who resides on Hawaii's renowned North Shore. The title evokes Malcom Lowry's 1947 novel Under the Volcano, whose 12 chapters were symbolic of months in a year and more. Theroux's story takes 13 chapters, which no doubt has meaning, not the least is bad luck.

Beyond the title, at first I wondered if it was a thinly disguised tale about Popeye the Sailor Man, since the protagonist is linked to the ocean, boasts tattoos on his arms and falls for a woman named Olive. Silly me.

The story is about a 62-year-old surfer, Joe Sharkey, a hero and icon, at the end of his best days, who in a drunken, pakalolo-induced moment accidentally kills a man riding his bike. Sharkey was driving in the dark with Olive, 20 years younger than he, a health care nurse. The event sends Sharkey into a funk and a gnarly wipeout at Waimea, a notoriously dangerous wave.

The remainder of the book presents Sharkey's detailed back story, eventually returning to the accident, which Sharkey refused to honestly address at the time. Olive is instrumental in helping him sleuth out the identify of the unknown victim in the hope that this knowledge will restore Sharkey's failing self identity.

At age 80, following a prodigious career of writing books, author Theroux remains a master at his craft. He's got the surf talk down, Hawaiian-pidgin style. His descriptions are rich and sensational. Sharkey serves as his alter ego: a macho surfer who does not read, whose only life is in the water. Why read when you can surf? It's not that he is illiterate, rather it serves no purpose for him. He's got all the sex and adulation he could possibly want. Although his age has begun to reveal that his popularity is as temporary as a wave that rises in the ocean, swells to a liquid mountain of energy only to turn to foam and disappear.

The up-and-comig young surfers don't know him, see him only as an old guy in the water. His day is past, Now what? The water has been not only his identity but his escape from an unfortunate childhood.

In one chapter -- the Year of the Rat -- Sharkey meets a woman surfer, May, from a Chinese family and believes he has finally fallen in love, a relationship with a woman that is more than sex. Her strong connection with her ohana (family) impresses Sharkey who has no family. He meets May's family at a Chinese restaurant in Honolulu during Chinese New Year. This scene is possibly my favorite in the book.

Along the way Sharkey meets up with an old friend, the famed, drug-addled gonzo writer Hunter S. Thompson who presents Sharkey with his lastest book, a Hawaiian tale called The Curse of Lono. Sharkey accepts the book knowing he will never read a page of it. Thompson figures in several chapters symbolizing celebrity from the perspective of a writer. Here is another theme: the misplaced values of celebrity and privilege. Thompson the writer is afraid of the ocean, yet the surf community holds a sacred paddle-out for him following his suicide. Sharkey the surfer receives a pass after he kills a man, because of his local surfing cred.

A surfer friend who has read Under the Wave told me that you could drop the parts about Hunter Thompson and it would be a better story. I believe you could easily eliminate 200 pages of this 400-page novel and still have a decent story. Yet I read the whole thing and enjoyed untangling themes and scenes that were worth the trip. The final chapters solve the mystery of Sharkey's victim, and teach him the lesson of compassion. In a metaphorical sense, Sharkey the Surfer Man finally eats his spinach.

Time for a Little Kuleana

Best rental deal on the island. Tourists give me a wide berth.

Four weeks ago when we arrived at the Kauai airport, we had never seen so many people here with their luggage and gear and kids and dogs. It was startling. Understandably, people are amping to travel, to get out of their homes where they've been stuck sheltering, take themselves away to a tropical island, forget their troubles and the daily dose of grim news.

I know. I am one of them. And it's a complicated situation. As Governor of Hawaii David Ige recently stated: "It's not a good time to come to Hawaii."

As you've doubtless heard, rental cars in the islands are going for as much as $500 a day.

Friends on the island have loaned us a Kauai cruiser and based on our calculations we are saving more than $10,000! That sounds ridiculous, but it's true! 

About 50-percent of the restaurants here are shuttered, many because they cannot find enough employees. We heard that two cooks walked out of the kitchen of a popular dining establishment during happy hour, because they were simply overwhelmed.

We have not attempted to go out for dinner. The few places still serving evening meals are swamped, wait lines are too long, reservations impossible. At the Westin Resort in Princeville, occupancy is about 25-percent and most visitors are driving their expensive rentals to Foodland super market to shop for items to cook in their rooms. The resort restaurant is open limited hours with a limited menu.

Electric bikes have proliferated and are dashing down pedestrian paths like wild horses.

The road to Hanalei, one of the most popular and beautiful locations on Kauai, is closed most of the day.  If you choose to go there, you will sit in your car and wait. Hawaiian time is flexible, meaning you must adjust your schedule to go with the flow. Which can be unpredictable.

The road is closed due to a landslide that keeps sliding. Following heavy rains in April of 2018, when 50-inches came down and swamped Hanalei destroying homes and cars and the main park, Black Pot Beach, a mudslide forced the closure of the only road in. Residents of Hanalei, Ha'ena, Wainiha were left stranded. They had to vacate or bring in supplies by boat.

That road was cleared and the hillside was bolstered, repacked and covered with heavy-duty netting. As far as access, all seemed fine. Then early this year during several days of serious rainfall, that netting was pushed away as if it were made of paper mâché. The resulting slide of the hill revealed new problems of unknown tunnels that may be compromising the firmness of the earth there, which is mostly red, volcanic dirt that turns to mud when saturated.

Currently, there is one lane that is passable, a narrow ledge above the Hanalei River Valley that defies modern engineering. Its camber tilts downward. Pass at your own risk, as so many are doing three times per day, with long lulls in between. Man's faith in his ability to subdue nature is astounding.

It is borne of the same arrogance that has convinced the white man that he is the chosen conqueror of native peoples. This story goes deeper than an invasion of tourists. Throughout the islands we conquerors who will pay $500/day to drive a Tesla are called malihinis, newcomers. We first arrived with the great voyager Captain James Cook, and remember what happened to him.

Many islanders cheered the Governor's statement. Many visitors decided to keep their reservations and come anyway. I learned while working at a seaside amusement park that people, at least we "Americans," will do what we please no matter what the sign, or the guy with the badge, says.

The governor's pronouncement was in reference to the rising cases of COVID throughout the islands caused by the super contagious Delta variant and opening the island up because the economy depends on tourism. This disconnect  -- we want tourism but not too many -- is a problem. The term "over tourism" has been on the lips of the executives of Hawaii's Tourism Authority.

At the same time, Hawaiian real estate values are rising by the minute. Forget a grass shack anywhere near the beach. Zuckerberg dropped $53 million for a 600-acre spread near the shore. Other tech warriors and entertainment poobahs are grabbing up the land in a modern-day gold rush.

Children of islanders who have been here for generations are forced to leave to find jobs.

Whatever this all means, one thing is certain: the astounding beauty of Hawaii will emerge the victor. The issue for us crazy people is can we adjust?  Can we tread lightly? Can we respect traditions of those whose land we took away? Can we accept limits to our luxuries? Can we all get along in the true spirit of aloha?

It works both ways. Some islanders are resentful, but if surface optics mean anything, many more have been imbued with generosity and friendliness that make Hawaii so welcoming. It aligns with the sway of the palms trees, the scent of gorgeous flowers and song of tropical birds; the drift of ocean currents and liquid motion of life beneath the sea.

Hawaiian music and dance -- the hula -- intertwines with this land- and seascape.

A popular word today among the Hawaiians is kuleana, which means responsibility. That's probably what we all need more of, if we want to embrace true aloha.

The Stones' Straight Man

Charlie Watts, 1941-2021

Around 1964 when I was in high school, my buddies and I knew the names of all the Rolling Stones. There was Mick Jagger, the sly lead singer, Keith Richards on guitar, Brian Jones on guitar, Bill Wyman on bass guitar and Charlie Watts, the poker faced drummer. They were the antidote for the Beatles.

Our high school house parties were known for drinking, smoking, making out and goofing off, all to the music of the Rolling Stones. Each high school in our pocket of Southern California had their party band -- be they surfers or greasers -- and ours was the Rolling Stones. 

Their blues-based sound was raw with a defiant tone, certainly more dangerous than the high-pitched harmonies of the Beach Boys or the smooth styling of Marvin Gaye, who had their followings.

Little did we know that Charlie Watts, whose death was announced yesterday at age 80, was an essential ingredient to the music of the Stones. He was a jazz drummer, not a rock n' roller. Reportedly, it took a while for Keith to convince Charlie that Elvis was the real deal.

Charlie would have been happier playing in small clubs with Miles Davis or Charlie Parker. The Stones dug into their pockets to hire Watts as their man with the sticks.

When "Satisfaction" hit the top of the charts in 1965, I counted the minutes every hour until the song was played again on KHJ Los Angeles AM radio. I turned up the sound on my car dial and sang along, loudly.

When I'm drivin' in my car, and the man come on the radio
He's tellin' me more and more about some useless information
Supposed to fire my imagination

I can't get no, oh, no, no, no, hey, hey, hey
That's what I say
I can't get no satisfaction, I can't get no satisfaction
'Cause I try and I try and I try and I try
I can't get no, I can't get no

"Watt's backbeat gave early hits like "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction" steady testosterone drive, and later tracks like "Tumbling Dice" and "Beast of Burden" a languid strut," according to Ben Sisario in the New York Times."

"To me, Charle Watts was the secret essence of the whole thing," Keith Richards wrote in his 2010 memoir, Life.

One reporter referred to Watts as the world's "politest man." When the guys started to party, Charlie hit the sack. He was married to the same woman for 50 years. When the guys were debauching, Charlie was pressing his tailored suits. His appearance was in dire contrast to the flamboyant outfits of Jagger and Richards. He looked like their accountant.

His drumming style, too, was the essence of understatement. He played with economy of motion, hitting the back-beat a micro-second behind Richard's aggressive lead guitar. Emotionless. Steady. Reliable.

I regret that I have never attended a Rolling Stones concert. Like Charlie, I prefer smaller more intimate settings. I doubt that he would have attended a Stones' concert if he weren't in the band. Yet I've always looked forward to hearing their latest work. And I'll never tire of listening to the Stones' classic tunes that always spark a youthful uproar from my past.

Thanks, Mr. Watts. May you rest in peace. 

Hum Baby, Hum

Johann Sebastian Bach

So rock me mama like a wagon wheel

Rock me mama anyway you feel

Hey, mama rock me

Rock me mama like the wind and the rain

Rock me mama like a southbound train

Hey, mama rock me

                                                    -- Darius Rucker

Do you ever get a song in your head that keeps coming back? You find yourself humming the tune, or listening to the lyrics played over and over in your head.

They call it an "earworm" or "stuck song syndrome."

Sometimes I get it when I'm surfing. I'll start paddling out lying on my stomach on my surfboard and a recent tune I've heard is cued up on my inner radio. Perhaps it comes as a result of floating on water. Or maybe simply moving my body -- arms and legs -- gets the song going.

Dum, dee dum dum dum dum dee dum. Dum dee dum dum dum dee dum. Dummm deeeee dum dum.

Jack Lemon (middle character) won Oscar for Best Supporting Actor in Mr. Roberts

I can hear the late great actor Jack Lemon singing along as Ensign Pulver while stepping quickly across the ship deck in the classic 1955 movie, Mr. Roberts. I loved that film, directed by the legendary John Ford.

I watched that flick several times when I was a kid, both at the theater and on TV. Maybe that's where I learned to sing and hum to myself while moving. You could call it a habit.

Confidentially, it drives my wife cray-cray when I do it in our house.

I don't even know that I'm doing it, especially if I'm thinking about something else. It actually helps me to concentrate.

When I first noticed while surfing that I was playing the same song again and again in my head, I did worry that it might be a problem, that it might interfere with my perception of a wave or a seal or whatever. Then I decided to go with it, enjoy it.

Which is what I've done over the years. I never know what song will pop up, which is kind of cool, being surprised.

Now that we know about "twisties" and how they can interrupt athletic performance, perhaps we should consider introducing athletes to earworms to maintain their concentration.

"Find a song that you enjoy. Listen to it with rapt attention. When you're ready to begin your routine, take a deep breath and a long exhale while you allow your tune to permeate your consciousness."

It's like dancing. You move to the music. Maybe dancers have been hip to this little secret all along.

Yes, I'm going to try it with my golf swing. It's transferable to any sport or activity. Maybe I can get a patent on the concept, make a few bucks on the side.

Maybe everybody's already doing it and I just found out. That's why artists listen to Bach when they paint. When they sleep, Concerto for Two Violins, orchestrates through their subconscious, tripping the creative aspect of their frontal cortex, impressing new design concepts in their motor nerves.

When you watch a good maestro at work with a baton in hand, you know he's got a substantial earworm going upstairs.

Is it possible that I have stumbled upon something BIG, with a future on YouTube or perhaps a reality TV show? 

I looked up earworms and it advised to get rid of them, chew gum.

I say, don't chew gum, let it hum.

Caution: Expressing earworms outloud can cause severe damage to your relationships with others.

  

 

Twisted into Nots

PHOTO:Boston Globe

Over the past few months whenever I saw Simone Biles perform her incredible gymnastic routines -- especially where she twists and flips several times in mid air -- I wondered how does she do that? To me, it seemed incomprehensible.

Now I learn that I was correct: it is incomprehensible. One cannot possibly comprehend, or think about, these split-second moves while performing them. If you do, you become lost.

In gymnastics they call this mental tick, the "twisties."

When I first heard the term, I commented to my dog, Frida: "I can't even swing a golf club without getting the twisties."

Frida was nonplussed. The only thing on her mind was where are we going next, dad?

She does encounter anxieties but never in full stride, jumping into the car or through a hoop. She sometimes becomes nervous before the act but never during.

I, on the other hand (err, paw), seem to be more prone to twisties as I get older. I used to scramble up the ladder and onto the roof of my house to repair a shingle or clean a rain gutter: no more. Such activity now brings on a case of acrophobia and dizziness. It's mental. I doubt my coordination. I'm smarter than I used to be. 

Frida instinctively knows better than to try to walk on a roof.

In golf, a twistie is called a "yip," and it has led to the demise of many a golfer. And God knows I'm one.

It involves an element of doubt, or as Simone explained, "I felt lost."

Gymnasts practice their routines over and over and over to develop muscle memory so that thinking about what they're doing is removed from the equation. Yet any little thing can trip the mental switch. When you're spinning around in midair and the danger of falling on your head enters your mind -- look out!

The pressure becomes greatest when you're competing in front of the world and expectations are foremost.

Developing the impeccable muscle memory requires excellent coaching and physical training. I can only imagine the stress of having a bona fide pervert tinkering with your body while you're going through full-scale training. Which, of course, was part of Simone's, and other young female gymnasts', experience.

Being a Black woman in a predominantly white sport only added to the pressure.

A little twistie can come from a heaping helping of mental loading.

I salute Simone for standing up for herself. She has entered a higher level of athletic performance that will prove even greater beneficial effects for all.

PHOTO:KCS

In the meantime, I will drag myself back to the driving range resolved to overcome my own simple case of the twisties, to swing a golf club beyond the doubt of failure, with confidence and the feeling of pure joy. 

Just don't think about it. Right, Frida?

Eight Surfing Books

Top photo from late 1800s print showing Hawaiians riding boards on small waves, from Surfing, a History of the Ancient Hawaiian Sport.  In contrast, Gerry Lopez goes tubular at Moneytrees in G-Land circa 1980. Photo from his book Surf Is Where You Find It.

Summer is here but not many waves. It's time to re-wax your surfboard, repair your dings and take a book to the beach, or find a quiet spot beneath a tree. Going through my limited library of surfing books, I've enjoyed re-visiting various yarns about the ancient sport that has fascinated ocean lovers for centuries. Herewith, are eight books that I suggest are worth a read, or at least a look-see. You don't need to surf to enjoy a good story.

Mike Doyle rides a thick comber at Sunset Beach, 1966. At top with his Trestle Special, 1960, Santa Monica

1. Morning Glass, the Adventures of a Legendary Waterman by Mike Doyle

Full of life and total stoke, Doyle tells his story of learning to surf growing up in Southern California in the 1960s and then going to Hawaii to challenge the waves of the islands, the origin of surfing. No artifice here, Doyle opens his heart and it's full of colorful characters, the onset of commercializing surfing and the pure joy of the sport. Doyle represents the heart of the ancient sport of kings. Next to the great Hawaiian, Duke Kahanamoku, Doyle was its greatest ambassador. And this is his rip-roaring tale. He died of ALS in 2019 at age 78. We are so lucky that he wrote this book. Includes cool, historical photos. Mike Doyle deserves the number one spot.

Rell Sunn and Gerry Lopez win the female and male Ala Moana Junior Surf Championships, 1965

2. Surf is Anywhere You Find It by Gerry Lopez

Appropriately known as Mr. Pipeline in the 1970s, Gerry Lopez demonstrated the consummate art of surfing during his era: maintaining casual composure while blasting through the famous hollow barrels of the signature wave of the North Shore of Hawaii. A lifelong practitioner of yoga and son of a newspaper man, Gerry writes clearly about growing up in the islands and going to surf near his grandma's home on the far west shore of Kauai, among other adventures, with a variety of photos. If Mike Doyle represented the stoke of surfing, Gerry Lopez represents surfing's coolest customer.

3. Barbarian Days A Surfing Life by William Finnegan

Finnegan is a writer by trade and a surfer at his core. And we are fortunate for it. His graceful prose takes us on a journey chasing the ephemeral essence of waves, where they're found and who would be the first to ride them. Think Hemingway with a modern twist: a wave to machismo instead of a bull. Finnegan has written in The NewYorker about the Mexican cartels with the bravado of one who challenges the greatest forces of nature. This is the story of his passion which lies in the ocean. You don't need to surf to enjoy his journey.

4. Tapping the Source by Kem Nunn

Novelist Kem Nunn is a voice for surfing's underbelly, the James Ellroy of surf writers. His fictional tale goes to the dark side of the subculture to meet the seedy characters who make wave-riding their cultish religion. Of his three surf-themed novels (includes Dogs of Winter and Tijuana Straits) -- all of which fall into the category of surf noir --consider Tapping the Source his book of Revelation. The title alone evokes the diabolical core of surfing's genesis. If you want to ride that particular wave, Nunn spins a compelling yarn, and deserves an audience.

Miki Dora stylin' at Malibu back in the day

5. All for a Few Perfect Waves by David Rensin

Known as Da Cat for his smooth, athletic style, Miki Dora was a scammer, a renegade, a thief, an out-spoken racist and a talented rider of the longboard during the 60s. Author Rensin chases the infamous surfer during Dora's days on the lam, which makes for a fun, intriguing ride. Dora was the colorful bad boy of surfing and the first to express his disdain for the commercialism of the sport, while at the same time filling in as an extra during the filming of the most commercial surf flick of his day, Gidget. "The best long boarder I ever saw," according to the late Santa Cruz surf legend Johnny Rice, talking about Miki Dora the legend.

6. The Gentlemen's Hour by Don Winslow 

Novelist Don Winslow has built his reputation by writing fictional tomes about the Mexican drug cartels (The Border Trilogy) as well as exposing the illicit doings of the New York City Police Dept. (The Force). His fiction is authentic and gritty. Before he dove into deeper waters, Winslow wrote a series of crime novels based around the surf scene in San Diego, California. The Gentleman's Hour represents this period. His dialog laced with abundantly cool surf slang brings his wave-riding characters to life, coupled with his talent for good story telling: like a tasty burrito with extra salsa.

Pipeline and nearby breaks on Hawaii's north shore. Photo from Welcome to Hawaii...

7. Welcome to Hawaii, Now Go to HELL by Chas Smith

Chas Smith is a punk, and he's not afraid to prove it through his own self-absorbed prose and posturing. A writer for Surfing magazine, Smith gives an honest appraisal of what's going down on the North Shore of Oahu where all the surf heavies hang and ride ridiculously powerful waves. He dishes the lowdown on the sponsored houses where team riders stay within ocean-spray of said crunchers. His in-your-face style of reporting evokes memories of the late gonzo master Hunter S. Thompson. The book comes with choice colorful photographs of the place and characters. Steal it if you have to.

In 1868, according to legend, Holoua rode a tidal wave to shore on a plank he tore from his house. Painting by C.P. Cathcart, from the book Surfing, a History...

8. Surfing, a History of the Ancient Hawaiian Sport by Ben Finney and James D. Houston

A soft-cover, coffee-table book, Surfing, a History... travels back in time to surfing's origins in Polynesia where some historians speculate the possibility of human beings riding waves 2,000 years b.c. We have record of humankind surfing in the Pacific Ocean 1,000 years ago. This compendium of information published in 1966 is based on research, including from the archives of the Bishop Museum and the Hawaii Maritime Center in Honolulu. The book is full of wonderful historical photographs, engravings, prints and the extra bonus of excerpted writings of Mark Twain, Jack London and Herman Melville. Who knew these guys were writing about surfing?