When to Cancel Culture, and How Much?

PHOTO:LA TIMES

If, a century ago, your great-great-grandparents lost their home and business due to an eminent domain decision based on racial prejudice, should you be entitled to reparations today? And how much should that restitution be?

That is the crux of a controversy that is currently happening in the upscale beach town of Manhattan Beach, Calif., where, until recently, controversies centered around limits to the size of your McMansion.

The death of George Floyd last year brought the issue into the spotlight as the Black Lives Matter movement took center stage across the U.S. Old memories and festering hard feelings were resurrected. 

One hundred years ago Manhattan Beach was a no-man's land of wind-blown sand dunes on the shores of Los Angeles County's South Bay.

Spurred by the American entrepreneurial spirit, Charles and Willa Bruce purchased land next to the beach and developed a beach-gear rental business and eatery. Their success prompted several other African-American families to settle there.

In 1924, the city of Manhattan Beach condemned the entire property, ostensibly, to develop a public park. The Bruce's were paid $14,500, considered fair market value at the time, and their land was taken through eminent domain. Other property owners, Black and white, were paid $1,200 -- $4,200 per lot.

A city task force researched the history of Bruce's Beach and the city published highlights on its Website. These include mention, in the 1920s, of Ku Klux Klan activity in the area. And there is no question that racial prejudice influenced the city's decision to acquire the land.

"We cannot be responsible for something that happened 100 years ago," says Suzanne Hadley, mayor of Manhattan Beach, acknowledging the unfairness of what happened then. 

She says the community is not racist today. "I would not live in a racist town." 

Residents of Manhattan Beach are predominately white, with fewer than 1-percent Blacks, according to the L.A. Times.

Charles and Willa Bruce PHOTO:AMTHONY BRUCE

Today, that property, named Bruce's Beach, is the only park in town near the beach, a lovely terraced greensward that includes a couple of basketball hoops, park benches, a few trees and shrubs. A Los Angeles County Lifeguard station is located adjacent to the beach, on the same site where the Bruce's business had been.

Descendants of the Bruce family and activists are asking for reparations, ranging from return of the property to the family to various monetary remunerations. Land value is estimated at $70 million.

Hearing the clarion cry of injustice, Los Angeles County Supervisor Janice Hahn has taken up the issue, specifically involving the property occupied by the County Lifeguard station. In 1995 that land was deeded to the county.

Hahn has suggested transferring the property to Bruce descendants with a lease-back arrangement to the county. Other more "creative" suggestions, from a state reparations agency, include providing family descendants with free tuition to the University of California, or no-down payment for first-time (family descendant) home buyers within the state.

The Los Angeles Times recently featured a detailed story about Bruces's Beach, including a related story about claims of racial prejudice in the local surf lineup. The "n-word" was mentioned. 

A city task force on the subject reportedly dissolved into disagreement and disarray. The city refuses to apologize for the original injustice. "We don't want to wear a scarlet 'R' on our chest," says Hadley.

Others disagree with Hadley, believing that making an apology is extending long-due respect to those whose home and livelihood were taken away because of the color of their skin. It is the opposite of racism. 

Visitors to the park today include people of all ages and colors. The publicity has increased park activity without causing notable problems. One newcomer is a food truck called Black Flour, a not-so-subtle pun. The truck features a variety of crepes made from black buckwheat.

If the word "buckwheat" brings up memories of racial stereotyping in your mind, rest assured that it is only coincidence. The Black Flour food truck is owned by a couple from France who claim they are honoring a traditional specialty from Brittany on the French coast.

According to the Times story, "The world is watching" Manhattan Beach.

I spent five days last week mostly near Bruce's Beach park, including one day when Mayor Hadley was being interviewed there. My 96-year-old mother-in-law is a park neighbor. She worries about losing the park that she has enjoyed for more than 60 years. I feel confident that a solution that respects all sides can be found. It will be found somewhere in the middle, with each side giving up something.

As a starting point, how about an apology.

 

 

A Dangling Meditation

The thirties were a time when people had very little and there was nothing to hide behind, and that Bull Durham tag dangling from the string coming out of your pocket -- that showed you had it, you could roll with one hand. -- Charles Bukowski, Dangling in the Tournafortia

PHOTO:KCS

Dangling. There is something sexy about that word. When something dangles, you want to touch it softly with your fingers, or study it carefully with your eyes while it changes color and reflects light from various angles. Or perhaps observe it in anticipation of the dangling object falling, losing its precarious grip. Yet it doesn't. It simply, dangles.

I think of a woman's dangling earrings and how they sway or turn with the tilting of her head, ideally when she smiles or laughs. The way dangling metal or feather brushes her skin as though it's whispering a secret, tender and personal. 

In 1966, when Simon & Garfunkel's song, The Dangling Conversation, hit the radio airwaves, I thought it was cool. I envisioned hanging out with my intellectual friends engaged in deep discussion about philosophy, art and literature: Descartes, Klimt and Dostoevsky. 

Even though I didn't know much about those things, I pictured drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes and being engaged in a higher form of discussion than the usual chatter of who's having a party and when and what we might wear. Or what happened after the football game on Friday night.

This dangling curiosity sounded like it could just go on forever in a cloud of comfort and bliss and elevation of the spirit and intellect.

I'm dangling, here. Can't you see. I'm dangling. 

So, the other day, I am walking my loyal dog Frida under a firmament of heavenly clouds scudding like runaway roosters across the sky. One minute the white cumulus are pushed away by dark gray thunder heads and the air temperature goes from warm to freezing. Then the reverse happens.

Sun. Rain. Sun. Rain. Sun...

The wet trail emits an earthly scent that makes me want to praise the ground beneath my feet.

I am layered with three shirts, bucket hat atop my head and my COVID mask dangling, yes dangling, from a lanyard around my neck. I am feeling sexy as hell. That's because of my long healthy strides reminiscent, I tell myself, of when I once ran the 880, a two-lap race around the track.

The endorphins have kicked in. I break a sweat as I power up the dirt trail, Frida in my wake. When I approach other walkers wearing their masks, I pull mine over my face. I've had my two vaccinations yet continue to follow healthy standards. It's courtesy. 

My sunglasses fog up when I cover my face with the mask. As my body heats up, swelling with warmth, I pause at a bench to dab my runny nose, remove my top shirt and my sunglasses. I fumble with my mask, my shirt, Frida's leash as if we are taking a break from running the Iditarod through the Alaskan Yukon. We fall behind if I dawdle. Gotta go. Mush, Frida!

We reach the end of the trail before I realize that I have lost my sunglasses. They're not in my pockets or covering my eyes. How many times have I lost glasses only to realize I am wearing them. Not this time.

I must have left them on the park bench when I removed my shirt. Come on, Frida, we're going back. Got to retrace our steps. I'm carrying Frida's leash and my top shirt in one hand. She never leaves my side.

We arrive at the bench and my glasses are not there. I search around. Maybe they fell into the tall wet grass. No dice.

We continue down the trail and meet a woman going in the opposite direction. She's not wearing a mask. She's been jogging. A baseball cap rests on her head with short red curls dangling on the sides. She says she saw us on the road earlier and watched us turn up this dirt trail, asks where does it go?

I tell her and mention that I'm retracing my steps looking for my sunglasses. She thanks me for the trail info and, understanding that I will be heading back her way, says if she finds my glasses she will place them on a rock or bench. Look for them, she says, and continues onward while I muster all the way to where the trail starts, but find no glasses.

I raise my arm that is holding Frida's leash and my shirt, gaze down and there, dangling, like a monkey with one arm hanging onto the branch of a tree, I see my sunglasses. How did they not fall to the ground? Were they dangling from my shirt this whole time?

I am amused and relieved. I carefully adjust the sunglasses as I place them on the bridge of my nose with their temples resting above my ears.

Shortly before I reach home, I hear a voice: "Hey!" I spot a face framed in red curls in the distance peering out of the window of a blue van heading north.

I see you found them, she yells.

I think, what are the chances that I cross paths with her again: she in her van on a main road, me walking on a side street? We must be dangling on the same thread.

Like a poem poorly written / We are verses out of rhythm / Couplets out of rhyme / In syncopated time (in syncopated time). -- Paul Simon

Surfing For His Life

 The best surfer out there is the one having the most fun.  -- Duke Kahanamoku

Bruce Mylrea "about to be swallowed by a gaping tube" at Bank Vaults in the Mentawais

You would be hard-pressed to find a surfer who is having more fun than Bruce Mylrea. One glance at Bruce, lean as a Greyhound, with shining saltwater blue eyes and a boyish grin, and you know you're in the presence of someone who is enjoying life.

Surfing happens to be his passion.

"The surf pumped relentlessly in Santa Cruz through December and January," he says, bouncing around like a 12-year-old. "Just getting back into the flow of surfing everyday made me feel great. I found myself performing pretty damn well for an old man of 62! We all surf better when we do it every single day in good waves.

"You can always surf bigger waves than you think."

Ten years ago Bruce was diagnosed with late stage prostate cancer. His prostate was removed but the cancer is still in his body. "It's been the biggest mental challenge of my life," he says. "When I found out I had cancer, surfing became my major therapy and outlet.

"It made me charge even harder."

The combination of his super positive attitude, vigorous exercise and a plant-based diet, he claims, has saved him, so far. No way is he going to give up this regimen, which includes 60 push-ups and 50 chin-ups everyday.

Bruce has surfed Santa Cruz breaks for 40 years and is one of a group of locals over 60-years of age who continue to surf "waves of consequence," as he defines the large, powerful waves that he craves. These are not gentle rollers.

His major limitation, he says, is the cold water in Santa Cruz, which dips into the low 50s (F) in winter. "I'm very lean [130 lbs soaking wet] and it's hard for me to stay warm even wearing a 5-mil wetsuit and 5-mil booties."

Mindy, Mylo and Bruce Mylrea on the road.

So he and his wife, Mindy, have sold all of their belongings, including their house in Santa Cruz. They're  heading to Florida with their 8-month-old Golden Doodle, Mylo, negotiating their "veggie wrapped" 32-foot Winnebago, The Wellness Wagon, their calling card for their educational non-profit www.OneDayToWellness.org., featuring programs for medical, health and fitness professionals. Bruce has a degree in Economics from University of Florida and a background in marketing in Silicon Valley. Mindy is his able and cherished partner in business and life.

"It feels good to be completely free!" he says.

He is no stranger to the Sunshine State, having grown up in Orlando near Lake Butler where he and a friend learned to surf riding ski-boat wakes on a Pure Joy swallow tail surfboard. "I'm pretty sure we were the first to surf behind a boat, but I have no proof." 

He still has family in Orlando.

He and Mindy have purchased a pad in St. Augustine for their rig and as a launching point for continued travels, including flights to places like Portugal where he'll find "epic surf. Heavy epic surf."

"We love the beach in St. Augustine but simply put, the surf sucks 90-percent of the time." 

As a lifelong wave rider, Bruce offers thoughts about surf culture and its current popularity.

"The sport has gone through so many superficial changes on the surface, but at its core it has always been the same for me. I never competed and I never got caught up in the hype. I have always simply loved the chase. I think surfing is one of the hardest sports to really get good at, period. And you never feel like you have it wired.

"Surf culture is fine... but pouring thousands of people into the lineup on Costco Wavestorms has not been beneficial. Having said that, everyone deserves to experience the sport. The problem is you can always build more tennis courts and football fields, not so with surf spots."

He's talking about naturally occurring surf breaks -- as opposed to wave machines -- each with its unique set of variables dished up by Mother Nature, with admission determined by factors other than dollars.

Bruce tells the story of a surf session 30-years ago at Kalihiwai, a local break on the north shore of Kauai: 

"I paddled out on a perfect 8-foot day. After catching a few waves on the inside, I paddled out to the main peak with a few locals, one a well-known Hawaiian. He went off on me for paddling into the main take-off zone, letting me know I had to prove respect and earn my way. I said, No problem! I didn't want to get smacked around by Hawaiian locals. I moved inside, caught a few more waves and went in.

"Walking up the beach, there was The Guy. I thought he was going to give me another verbal beat down. When I walked by, he smiled and handed me a joint of killer bud. I was not going to refuse it. I stood on the beach and smoked the joint and chatted with the guy like we were good friends. During the interlude the surf got bigger and better as I got stoned to the bone. Then he said, Let's go back out! I was high as a kite but was not going to say, no.

"We paddled out and shared some great barrels with no hassles. Respect is numero uno in Hawaiian surf culture. Period."

Bruce and Mindy have been married for 38 years and have three adult sons: Drew, 33 a film director; Chris, 32 a set and stage designer; and Casey, 28, a boat captain.

 "The crazy thing," he says, "is none of them surf! They hate the cold water. I was bummed at first, but they're all into their own things and very happy and that's all that really matters."

Regarding his future, he recites the mantra: "Florida. Work. Portugal. Morocco! I love Santa Cruz and will miss my friends, but we'll be back.

You can expect that to be next winter when the waves in Santa Cruz become of consequence.

Read more about Bruce's journey battling cancer in his book, A Plant Powered Approach to Prostate Cancer.

Read regular blog posts about surfing and other stories by Kevin Samson at www.kevinsamsonblogs.blogspot.com

My Friend Frida

PHOTO:KCS

While I was casually sipping a glass of wine watching the evening news on TV this week, Frida lifted her head from her pillow on the floor and turned toward the flat screen. Somehow, and I'm not a dog expert, she was attracted to a story about Major, the Biden's German Shepherd.

Maybe she was simply adjusting her prone position on her dog bed. But I don't think so.

Major had misbehaved, had nipped at at White House security agent. The event was later reported in detail, a top-level item a notch or two below the Royal Family brouhaha, which didn't phase Frida.

As a kindred German Shepherd, Frida had more than a passing interest in Major's behavior. Harry and Meghan's bombshell interview with Oprah could wait. Her ears go up over dogs not people.

We learned that Major is a rescue dog, as is Frida. We've lived with an array of rescue doggies that could fill a catalog of stories about breeds and what it's like to have a dog in the house. 

In addition to several frolicking Labrador muts, we have shared quarters with a floppy burnt-colored Afghan named Tres, kind of an airhead dog, and a Queensland Healer-mix with one blue eye named Mudshark, who became a Westside Santa Cruz celebrity for her roving escapades that included Houdini-like escapes that defied belief. (She's another story.)

We had a Lab-mix named Skyla who turned out to be a bona fide bar-hopper. We would receive calls late at night that Skyla was hanging with the crowd at the nasty Asti, a dive bar on Pacific Avenue. One night I had to drive across town to Callahan's, an Irish biker bar, where Skyla had followed her booze-loving nose.

No, I didn't have a snort before driving Skyla home. I wanted to, though.

I grew up with a Poodle named Mitzi who sat on my lap and ate ice cream for dessert.

Throughout the years, I've always had an unspoken desire for a German Shepherd. Although I've never had one for a pet, in my mind, a GS is a real dog, from its pointed ears, to its fury coat, tapered nose and intelligent brown eyes. 

Rin Tin Tin was the model dog, a war hero and movie star. Singing cowboy Roy Rogers had a GS named Bullet that ran like an antelope after him and Trigger, Roy's Palomino. I preferred Rinty over Lassie, the revered Collie who had her own TV show.

My interest in dogs has always been secondary, however. I'm not a "dog person." I've always found fawning dog owners to be a bit obnoxious with their "dog talk" and attitudes that dogs are better than humans, even though it might be true and they're proving it.

Frida showed up needing a home, shortly after we had buried Skyla in our backyard. At age 14, Skyla required lots of patience and attention during her final years and I was ready for a break.

Barbara, however, must have a dog. But her experience with German Shepherds was limited. She would learn.

If Frida had not been a GS, I would have said "no way." After all these years, here was my chance to live with my favorite breed. So I agreed. 

PHOTO:KCS

Frida and Kevin at Pogonip Labyrinth. PHOTO:BBS

She was mangy, hadn't been cared for, neglected more than physically abused, we guessed. On our first walk, she pulled in every direction, a nervous soul in a world of cars and people, loud engines and sirens, bikes and skateboards, and lots of other dogs.

She lunged at those dogs. When I heard about the Biden's dog, Major, my first thought was he must have lunged at another dog.

We enrolled Frida at the K9 Clinic in Corralitos where German Shepherds are trained for police work, as well as how to behave with other dogs and people. Most important, dog owners learn how to handle their pups.

Frida began to bond with me unlike any canine I've known. That seems to be a trait of a GS. They are super loyal, especially to one person. I was that person.

I brought Frida to the Cove, a dog friendly beach in town, where she met other dogs, played hard, nipped at the waves but always trotted back to my side. German Shepherd equals loyalty.

If Barbara and I hug or dance, Frida becomes jealous. She jumps and nips at us. I belong to him! Although there is no doubt that she would protect Barbara if threatened. German Shepherd equals protector.

I met some cool folks at the Cove, dog owners who broke my silly, previously rigid attitude about their ilk. They were intelligent (who knew?) people who loved their dogs. I enjoyed watching the variety of doggies and their unique personalities as they made up their own games of chase and fetch.

Of course, I had Frida, the Queen of the Cove. How many times had I taken other dogs to the beach to have them run away from me when it was time to go? I just didn't have the right dog. 

Frida is a great traveling companion. We made a road trip to Santa Fe, NM, where I stayed with my friend Rod and his dog, Gary, a lively Smooth-coat Fox Terrier. We went downtown to the historic La Fonda Hotel on the Plaza where we strolled through the well-appointed lobby with Frida and Gary by our sides.

We were duly approached by the colorfully clad ladies of Santa Fe who had come to dine. "Oooh, how cute," they cooed. "What a beautiful dog!" they exclaimed.

I became exactly what I had rued: "a dog person." It involved many years and one dog to get here. I have no doubt that three-year-old Major, following a brief training period, will return from the dog house to the White House. Because he's a German Shepherd. They love to be trained. They want to work.

"What do you think, Frida?" I asked, studying her for a sign.

She rose gracefully from her bed and walked across the room to my side, as if to say: "What now dad?"

Did I mention she loves children?

 

The Good, Better and Ugly

PHOTO:KCS

"When was the last time you had a cold?" a friend recently asked.

His point was colds have practically disappeared because we're wearing masks, washing our hands, rubbing our palms and fingers with sanitizers. We're more conscientious about cleanliness, at home, in our automobiles and when we venture out into our world of potential infection. We take wide berths when we cross paths with others.

A year ago when this thing started -- the Novel Corona Virus Pandemic, COVID 19, now known simply as COVID -- we entered a new and different way of living with hopes that it would be a temporary thing.

Today the number of COVID cases in the U.S. is nearly 29 million people. Deaths from COVID are more than 520,000 in this country, world leader in mortalities caused by the global pandemic.

We read obituaries in our local newspaper that do not mention cause of death, yet we learn that many had COVID. Many of us know of someone close who has died of COVID, a relative or in-law, a friend or friend of a friend.

A year ago we didn't know. Today we act differently. We've modified our lives, which has caused a domino effect knocking down one peg after another from how we work, where we work and even where we live. Real estate has gone through the roof here in Santa Cruz.

Houses are selling here before being listed. You can't find a beach shack for less than a million dollars. Houses listed for sale receive multiple offers and are sold for cash within hours.

Why live in a dense urban environment when you can work and live in a rural atmosphere or near the beach? "Zoom," once a space age term of the future, is today a common method for meetings, parties and classes. The future is now.

We have three different vaccines in the U.S. with more than 2 million people a day getting shots. The death curve has dropped, cases are down and people are going out.

While we are slowly emerging into the new normal, braced by a better understanding of how to stay well and safe, an elephant has rolled over in the room and farted. We don't know what to do about a serious blight that has been among us and has become a more visible problem.

That is, homelessness. It's a dirty word that is difficult to say, because we don't know what to say. There are about 2,000 homeless people living in Santa Cruz, whose population is about 65,000. These numbers do not include those who are sleeping in cars and vans and RVs at the periphery of town, or park their vehicles on neighborhood streets at night.

Stories are rampant about theft, trash, sewage, needles and more. People complain but no body seems to have an answer. The city has been moving the homeless camps from one location to another. There are lawsuits defending encampments and human rights. The mayor recently sent a letter (endorsed by many citizens) to Gov. Gavin Newsom asking for funding to help address the problem.

The state has a surplus of funds -- thanks to high taxes and the frugality of our former Governor Jerry Brown. Santa Cruz has received less financial support than most cities in the state even though our percentage of homeless is greater, according to our mayor.

Homelessness is a national, and global, problem, like the pandemic.

A core of local homeless people are mentally ill and drug addicts. They live under tarps and sleep on the cold ground wrapped in tattered blankets surrounded by stuff, lots of stuff that they cart around. There's the former pro surfer-now-addict with his looney girlfriend who move their van from one spot to another. There are many forlorn stories that could fill an encyclopedia of sadness.

In Venice, a beach town in Southern California with a Santa Cruz-type vibe, real estate values are going down, according to a story in today's Wall Street Journal. The homeless population of Venice, nearly 2,000 people in an area of three square miles, has grown by 57% since 2019. Residents are fleeing into the nearby suburbs of Santa Monica and the expensive rural canyons where they feel safer. And don't have to see it.

The United States is supposed to be a world leader. Didn't we used to unite -- as our name suggests --to work for the betterment of all. Maybe that's always been a sham. We had the Rockefeller's and the Clampetts, millions of dollars apart. But it wasn't until the Clampetts struck oil, became rich and moved to Beverly Hills that we could laugh at and with their funny ways.

It could happen to anyone, right? Strike oil and be able to light cigars with hundred dollar bills?

Maybe the homeless just need to get rich. Maybe the states need to deed a section of property to them, reservations. Where they can take drugs and wander around to their hearts' content and we never need to see them again? Just like we did to the Native Americans.

Maybe we need a new idea. It's not going away anytime soon. But we could well be on the verge of subduing COVID, for a while. And that's a start.