Author's note: The review that follows was posted in January 2020. I'm reposting it here in memory of Charlene Imhoff Dividson who passed away December 18, 2023. That's her in the picture below, second from the right--beautiful, talented, and a dear, sweet friend. Rest in peace, Sis.

Remember When…

By C.W. Spooner

“Sly walks in and says, ‘Does anybody sing harmony or are y’all going to sing melody?’”

-          Charlene Imhoff Davidson

That was the In the Beginning moment for a doo-wop group that came to be known as the Viscaynes, six kids from Vallejo, California. “Sly” was Sylvester Stewart, known in his community as a musical prodigy. Guitar, keyboards, horns—was there an instrument he could not play? And there was the voice that could hit the sweet high notes when they were needed.

Frank Arellano and Charlene Imhoff had a group and showed up for talent contests. That’s where they first heard Sly, a classmate, Vallejo High Class of ’61. Frank asked for help to “get our harmonies together,” and Sly said “sure.” The group grew to six members, including Charlie and Verne Gebhardt and Maria “Ria” Boldway. They began to meet in the Gebhardts' rec room, equipped with a piano and encouragement from Charlie and Verne’s parents. Along the way, Mike Stevens joined to play piano. They’d stay in that room for hours.

All that practice paid off and they began to win talent competitions. In the spring of 1961, they auditioned for the Dick Stewart Dance Party, the San Francisco equivalent of Dick Clark’s American Bandstand. They were accepted. The television appearance and talent show wins led to recording sessions in San Francisco where they cut a series of 45-RPM sides, including “Yellow Moon.” That tune became a hit in the Bay Area, reaching number 16 on radio station KYA’s Top 60 chart.

This backstory is meant to call your attention to a reissue of those venerable tracks recorded in 1961. It is titled The Viscaynes & Friends, and it’s available on MP3, CD or vinyl. Amazon delivered my CD a few days ago and I’ve been spinning it ever since. Songs like "You've Forgotten Me," "A Long Time Alone," and "Heavenly Angel" take me back to a simpler, brighter time when absolutely everything was possible. My only complaint is that two of my favorites are missing: “Stop What You’re Doing,” and “I Guess I’ll Be,” both featuring Charlene’s clarion voice. You’ll have to go to YouTube to hear those two.

As we know, Sly went on to fame and fortune as the star of Sly and the Family Stone. But fame and fortune cuts both ways, especially in the music business. Sly has seen some very hard times, but the latest word is that things are a little better. Will there be a happy ending? Let’s hope so.

None of that dims the legacy of the recordings that will live forever with the release of The Viscaynes & Friends. There is a quotation in the liner notes that captures the pure joy of the ride home from a recording session. It could be attributed to any member of the group, because their collective memory is as tightly woven as their harmony:

“We did not come home until five o’clock, six o’clock in the morning, because we recorded all night. Coming home, it was the coolest image ever. I close my eyes and I can see it, all seven of us, in Mike Stevens’s dad’s convertible. We are coming across the Bay Bridge, and the sun is coming up, with the top down, singing to the top of our lungs. It was the coolest thing ever.”

I highly recommend this album. Put it on, close your eyes, feel the wind in your hair, and watch the sunrise over the East Bay hills.

_____

PS: This release of the "Complete Recordings 1961 - 1962" came out later and included Charlene singing lead on "Stop What You're Doing" and "I Guess I'll Be." 

_____

 Quick Eddie

 Part 2 of 2

Things were going like clockwork that Saturday night. There had been some guys who wanted to try their luck and ended up donating lots of money. Pete was sipping beer and going to his flask and getting louder and louder. And finally, everybody was out but Eddie and the money was all in. Pete tanked a few shots and Eddie won the big pot. The beauty part was watching Pete just barely miss a critical shot or two. Pete was a master.

“I’ve got five hundred dollars …” Pete went into his big speech. And sure enough, a bunch of guys came to Eddie and said they’d back him, and for him to kick Pete’s ass. The final game was moving along with Eddie about to miss a critical shot by a fraction when he heard Pete curse under his breath.

“Jeezus, Mary and Joseph!” Pete looked like somebody had punched him in the gut.

“What is it?” Eddie stood next to Pete at the ball return.

“The house manager is up there talking to a guy that looks familiar. I think I saw him in Walnut Creek when we were there last month. Oh, shit! It is him. We’ve been made.”

Eddie looked up and saw the manager in earnest conversation with a tall, thin man wearing a plaid jacket. The manager stepped out from the counter and began to talk to one of the men who’d put money on Eddie.

“Okay, kid, we’ve got to run for it,” Pete said. “Head across the lanes to the pit area and out the back door. My car is out there. You run for the bus station and I’ll take the car. They’ll follow me and I can lose ’em. We’ll hook up later in Frisco. Go!”

With that, Eddie took off across the darkened, empty lanes, heading for the back of the house, skipping over the ball returns and trying not to trip in the gutters. Pete was right behind him, change and keys jangling in his pants, huffin’ and puffin’, his big belly bouncing along. They blasted through the back door and Pete headed for his car. Eddie sprinted around the building and across Sonoma Boulevard to the bus station. He peered through the plate-glass window of the station and saw Pete tear out of the parking lot and onto Sonoma, heading for Highway 40 and the bridge. Sure enough, a group came charging out the back door and jumped into two cars. They sped off after Pete.

He waited a few minutes to let his heart rate return to normal, then he went to a ticket window and bought a one-way ticket on the next bus scheduled to leave. It was heading to Oakland and he knew he could get home to San Francisco from there. He boarded the bus and sank down in his seat. He didn’t begin to breathe easy until the bus had crossed the Carquinez Bridge. He glanced down at his feet and realized he was still wearing his bowling shoes. His ball, his bag, his street shoes, and his jacket were all back at the Vallejo Bowl. And his suitcase was sitting with the desk clerk at the Casa De.

He made it back to San Francisco the next day. Later he heard that Pete was back in town and they arranged to meet. Pete had ditched the posse by heading off Highway 40, through Crockett and down past Port Costa. It was all pretty funny and they had a good laugh over their adventure. Except for one thing: Eddie couldn’t go back to Vallejo and he didn’t know what to do about Jodie. It wasn’t long before his dilemma was resolved. On December 7, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. A week later, Eddie enlisted and shipped out for basic training at Fort Ord, near Monterey. He never saw Jodie again.

Eddie called Don over to settle his bill. When the young man returned with his change, he had a question waiting for him: “Donnie, why doesn’t a rooster have hands?”

“Don’t know, Eddie.” Don could see it coming again.

“Because chickens don’t have tits.” He let it sink in, then let loose his best Pete Pannel laugh and got up to leave. “I’ll be coming through from time to time. See you later, kid.”

“Not if I see you first,” Don mumbled under his breath.

Eddie started for the door, then stopped and stared at an empty booth in the corner. He hoped Jodie got everything she wanted: art school, a career, a great guy, a bunch of little green-eyed kids, and happily ever after. She was a great kid and nobody deserved it more than her. She deserved better than Quick Eddie Clark.

***

The door swung open and a well-dressed woman with flowing brown hair walked briskly into the Ritz. She waved to several of the regulars at the bar and they called out her name in greeting.

“Whoa, who is that?” one of the barflies asked his friend. “What a knockout!”

“Forget it, man. The lady is all class and she’s way out of your league.”

Don exchanged smiles with the woman as she sat down at the bar. He scooped ice cubes into a tall glass, dropped in a wedge of lime and filled the glass with club soda. He placed the drink on a coaster in front of his new customer.

“How’s it goin’, Mom?”

“Good, honey. How’s your day?”

“Not bad. Hey, you wouldn’t believe the guy I just had in here. What a piece of work! Oh, yeah…answer this: why doesn’t a rooster have hands?”

_____

 

Quick Eddie

 Part 1 of 2

From Children of Vallejo

 

The sun was breaking through a thick gray overcast and it looked like it could turn into a decent afternoon. Eddie Clark drove across the Carquinez Bridge, then took the Sonoma Boulevard exit and headed toward downtown Vallejo. He had time to kill before heading on to Napa. In fact, he had all Sunday afternoon and evening. His meeting wasn’t scheduled until the next day. He had recently moved back to San Francisco and been assigned a territory that extended into the North Bay.

Eddie had not been in Vallejo in nearly twenty-five years, since November of 1941, and he wanted to check out some places he remembered. He approached the downtown area not knowing how much might have changed. Then he saw the old Vallejo Bowl, still standing at the corner of York and Sonoma. A little up the block and across the street was the Greyhound Bus station. Things had been cleaned up and painted, but at least these two landmarks were standing. The scene of the crime, Eddie said to himself.

He continued across Georgia Street, the main drag of town, and up the hill to the Casa De Vallejo hotel at the corner of Sonoma and Capitol. By God, it was still there too, and looked to be in pretty good shape. As he passed the front of the hotel, he saw the coffee shop inside the lobby on the street level. That’s where he’d met Jodie.

Eddie turned left onto Capitol and found a place to park at the curb. Just down the hill from the hotel was a bar, now called the Ritz. He pushed open the door and went inside. It was dark, but he could tell there had been changes—probably remodeled many times over the years. There were a handful of patrons sitting at the bar or in booths along the wall. He sat at the bar and waited for the bartender to approach.

“Hi, what can I get for you?” The bartender was a young man and Eddie wondered for a moment if he was old enough to serve drinks.

            “Gimme a draft,” Eddie replied, letting his eyes take in the interior as they adjusted to the light. The bartender returned and set his beer down on a coaster. Eddie extended his hand across the bar. “Name’s Eddie. Eddie Clark.”

The young man shook his hand. “Hi, I’m Don.” Don sized-up the middle-aged man sitting across from him: slick hair, slick clothes, too much jewelry. Had to be some kind of salesman. Or a pimp.

“Donnie, tell me something, when is a woman like a good draft beer?” Eddie smirked a little, waiting for the answer.

“Don’t know,” Don replied. He could tell a punch line was coming.

“When she’s got a good head and goes down easy.”

Eddie let the line sink in then let loose a laugh that was way too loud. Don laughed too, then glanced away, a little embarrassed. He moved away to help another customer at the bar.

Eddie sat at the bar and nursed his beer. He was in no hurry today. He picked up a copy of the Vallejo Times-Herald and thumbed through to the movie section. He noted that The Hustler was back in the theaters again. Great flick, he thought. Fast Eddie Felson, Minnesota Fats. They don’t make ’em like that anymore. Eddie laughed out loud. That’s what he needed when he was hustling in bowling alleys, a good nickname. How about Quick Eddie? Quick Eddie Clark. He wondered how many people knew there were hustlers in bowling, just like pool, and lots of other games. Any game where you could get somebody to put down a bet, there you’d find hustlers making a living.

He remembered the sweet little hustle he and Pete had going back in ’41. Pete Pannel! What a guy, may he rest in peace. Pete was thirty years older than Eddie, big and barrel-chested with his stomach hanging over his belt. Bigger than life, that was Pete. Eddie could still hear Pete’s voice booming through a bowling establishment, challenging anybody to bowl him for money. Then he’d bust out with that huge laugh of his.

Eddie recalled how Pete could hold a sixteen-pound bowling ball on his palm, let it roll down his forearm, pop it up in the air with his biceps and catch it in his hand. He saw a lot of guys wreck their arms trying to match that stunt. Pete was a powerful man, and a great bowler. He taught Eddie everything he knew about the game—angles, lane conditions, how to find the groove, how to adjust—but especially how to get into the other man’s head. Pete was a master at that. He knew just where to stick the needle.

Bowling was a different game then. Lane conditions were rough, the pins were heavy, lots of variables to consider. You had to “hit ’em to get ’em” in those days. Not like today, with these plastic-coated pins flying around like ping pong balls. Hell, in the thirties and forties, if a bowler could average 180, he was damn good. Now guys are carrying 210, 220 averages like it was nothing. It’s a damn circus.

Eddie looked around and he thought about Jodie. They used to come in here for a drink. God, she was a doll! Auburn hair, beautiful little figure, and light, light green eyes. Those eyes: that’s what did it to you. What a doll.

He and Pete were working their hustle down at the Vallejo Bowl when he met Jodie. He remembered how their little game used to work. They’d pick a bowling establishment in one of the smaller towns, well outside of Frisco. In any good house, when the league bowlers wrapped up around midnight, the pot games would start. A bunch of guys would get a couple of lanes, hire a pin setter and a scorekeeper, throw a few dollars in the pot, then bowl winner-take-all.

There was nothing like it after midnight in a good house, all the lights turned off except for the lanes where the action was taking place. The bowlers, all kind of nervous and jumpy, messing around with their gear. And there’d be a few people watching, enjoying the action, maybe waiting to jump in when the stakes got high enough. Eddie focused the picture in his mind, right down to the sign on the wall saying, “No Gambling On These Premises.” It was a beautiful thing to see.

Well, the games would go on and the stakes would go up. Pretty soon, guys would be tapped out and it would come down to a couple of bowlers. Finally, all the money would go in the pot, and somebody would walk away a little richer. By that time, the sun might be coming up.

Eddie had seen men lose their paychecks. They’d put up anything—rings, watches, golf clubs, pink slips—to stay in the action, sure that in the very next game, they’d come out on top. It was sad to watch sometimes. Unless you had an edge and knew you’d be the winner. He never found a bowler in any one of the small towns they worked—Orinda, Walnut Creek, Pacheco, Fairfield—who could beat him when all the money was in. Hell, this was Eddie’s job! These other Joes had to put in fifty or sixty hours a week on a damn shipyard or some other gig.

So, Eddie would go into a town first, start hanging around the lanes and getting into the pot games. After a couple of days, he’d have a reputation built up. He was good and none of these small-town guys could touch him. Then Pete would blow in on the weekend and start shooting off his mouth about how nobody could beat him for money. The hometown boys would find Eddie and the match would be on. Of course, nobody knew they were connected. So, Eddie would win a few, and Pete would win a few, and there would be other bowlers that would be in for a while, until they tapped out. Finally, Pete would start talking up the stakes until the pot got nice and big. He’d be drinking beer and going to his bag for a silver flask he carried, and he’d be nipping at that flask and getting louder all the time. There wasn’t anything in the flask but water. He’d scare off everybody but Eddie, and finally, all the money was in. Pete would make a few mistakes and Eddie would win. Then it was time for Pete’s big speech.

“I’ve got five hundred dollars says you can’t beat me again,” Pete would bellow, and he’d flash a roll of bills.

“Hell, I don’t have that kind of money,” Eddie would say.

“What’s the matter, kid? Tell him, guys. No guts no glory!” Pete was something when he got going.

Eddie would flash some anger then: “You old fart, I’ve been beating your ass all morning, and I can keep on beating your ass. I just don’t have that kind of money.”

Five hundred dollars was a fortune in those days. But sure enough, somebody in the crowd would offer to put up the stakes for Eddie. It could be a bunch of guys going in together, or it could be the manager of the house. They wanted to see Eddie beat this loudmouth drunk and make a little money in the process.

Then the game would start and Eddie would miss a shot or two and suddenly, Pete was the winner. And that was it. They were careful not to be too greedy. After the big finale, it was time to make an exit. Eddie would tell the men who put up their money he’d be back that night with a new stake, and they’d all get their money back. He’d challenge Pete to show up and try to take him again. Of course, Pete would accept, at the top of his lungs. What a guy, Pete!

They’d leave separately and Eddie would beat it back to wherever he was staying and grab his suitcase. Pete would be waiting for him in the car when he came out, and they were gone. It was a sweet hustle, and they worked it through a bunch of small towns during the summer and fall of 1941.

That’s what brought them to Vallejo that November. And that’s when he met Jodie. Eddie checked into the Casa De Vallejo—everybody called it the “Casa Dee”—then walked downstairs to the coffee shop. Jodie was working behind the counter. They were about the same age, mid-twenties, and they hit it off right away. Her shift was over around 2:00 PM, and he asked her if she’d like to catch a movie. He had lots of time to kill before he went to work around midnight.

They saw a movie that first afternoon, then had dinner together with a nice bottle of wine and ended up back in his room at the Casa De. They made love until it was time for him to head for the Vallejo Bowl, just down the street. Just like that, he thought. She was a beauty.

He saw Jodie the next day, then the next, and the day after that. He was really getting to know her. She wanted to go to college to study art and was working hard, saving her money. Her father didn’t think girls should go to college, so she got no help there. She was about as nice a girl as Eddie had ever met, and smart too.

Eddie remembered his room at the hotel, looking out on Sonoma Boulevard, with the neon light from the hotel sign turning everything kind of a rose color inside, and he and Jodie snuggling and laughing after making love. There was an old steam radiator near the window for heat and they’d turn it up to take the chill out of the room. Jodie would put her underwear on the radiator to warm up a little before getting dressed. God, what a girl!

            Well, Pete rolled into Vallejo on Saturday and they were all set to do their thing that night. Eddie checked out of his room Saturday morning and left his bag with the desk clerk. His cover story with Jodie was that he sold bowling equipment, and that he had to move on to his next customer. He made plans to come back and see her in about a week. He wasn’t sure how he would work that out with Pete, but he knew he wanted to see Jodie again.

            First, there was business to take care of.

_____

Coming soon: Part 2. What happens to Eddie and Jody? Don't miss the conclusion of "Quick Eddie."

_____

 

 

 And Spare Them Not

 Part 2 of 2

 

 Max walked into Gordy’s Club, a working-class bar not far from the office building where he’d reported to work for thirty years. He took a seat at the bar, ordered a beer, and waited for Combs to arrive. It was mid-afternoon and the place was nearly empty. He didn’t expect to see anyone he knew, not until after quitting time.

Roy Combs walked in and stood near the door, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. He was about six feet tall with a solid build. He wore rumpled slacks and a short-sleeved shirt that revealed powerful forearms. His hair was cut high and tight, military style, and his expression was that of a pissed-off football coach. He saw Max and nodded toward a booth against the wall. The men shook hands, exchanged awkward small talk, then Max got down to business.

“So, what’s up, Roy?”

“Okay, here’s the deal, Max. We are gonna need you to testify.”

“What? You’re shitting me. I told you I won’t do that. You want me to get my family killed?”

“We don’t have any choice. The judge threw out Sonny’s confession.”

“How the hell did that happen?”

“Sonny’s got some young hotshot lawyer. They claimed the confession was coerced. The judge ruled in their favor. It’s out.”

“Wait a minute…you video tape those things, don’t you? You have it all on tape.”

Combs looked away, agitated. “We don’t have a tape. The camera malfunctioned.”

“Malfunctioned? Malfunctioned my ass! What did you do, Roy? You didn’t tape it. You didn’t even try—”

“Let it go, Max—”

“You beat it out of him!”

Combs glared at Max, eyes blazing. “That little motherfucker spit in my face! Spit in my face, Max, and called me a faggot. You’re damn right I beat it out of him.”

“And this is what I fought for in Vietnam? Life, liberty, the Constitution, the American Way? So that you can beat confessions out of gangbangers?”

“Don’t throw the Constitution at me, old man. I served in Desert Storm. I put my life on the line against Saddam’s Elite Guard. Don’t play ‘holier than thou’ with me.”

The bartender called in their direction, telling them to keep it down or take it outside. They glared at each other, both of them breathing hard, their fists clenched on the table. Combs broke the silence.

“Look, we’ve still got the gun. And we’ve got your testimony. The DA says he can get a conviction.” He paused for few seconds. “One more thing…with the confession thrown out, they set bail. Sonny and the other two are out on the street.”

Max felt sick, as though he could vomit his beer right there on the table. He wanted to break the longneck bottle over Combs’s head. “And what if I won’t testify?”

“Come on, Max. We have your statement. We can subpoena you, treat you as a hostile witness, force you to tell the truth. Or go to jail for perjury.”

Max had no way of knowing if this was true. He stared at Combs for a long time. “You knew this all along, didn’t you? That you’d force me to testify. You lying bastard! And how long before Sonny finds out that I’m a witness?”

“I don’t know. It’s in the DA’s hands. It’s called discovery. They have to let the defense know all the evidence against him.”

“And what will you do to protect my family?”

“We’ll do what we can, increase patrols in your neighborhood—”

“Increase patrols? That’s it? That’s all you got?”

“Hey, it’s all we can afford. Our budget is cut to the bone—”

Max bolted out of the booth and headed for the door and the parking lot. He sat in his car for a long time, his head resting on the steering wheel, fighting for composure. He was still there when Roy Combs left the bar.

***

It was the same dream, over and over again, through all the years since Vietnam. Max stood on a muddy jungle road and watched the flamethrower reach out and ignite a hut. The flames leapt into the sky, black smoke billowed upward, one hut after another. Women and children streamed down the road, carrying a few meager possessions, the children crying, the women wailing. No men. Where were the men? All dead, fuel for the inferno? Or in the jungle, watching, waiting?

This is what it had come to in a country where you couldn’t separate the friendlies from the hostiles, where the guy next to you died at the hands of a child with an assault rifle, where you looked into the eyes of the people you were fighting for and saw that sick, twisted mixture of fear and hatred. Why? Because you were destroying their country with napalm and agent orange and carpet bombs and your flamethrowers from hell.

The same dream, over and over, until tonight. Tonight one of the children on the road turned toward him and held out a plate of cookies. It was Ellie.

Max usually jolted awake from this dream drenched in sweat, his breath coming in great gasps. But tonight was different. Tonight he could only lie there and cry. He was awake for a long time then, trying to push the images and the questions out of his mind. How could he answer for the things he had done, and how was he different from Sonny? Who was that brilliant general who said, “Unfortunately, we had to destroy the village in order to save it”? And how many villages had they saved? He refused to remember; he would not count them. And so the dream would come again and again.

***

The District Attorney’s office called to let Max know the trial date had been set. Jury selection would begin in two weeks. They would meet beforehand to go over his testimony and prepare him for cross examination. It had taken sixteen months to reach this point, the wheels of justice grinding away, slow but relentless.

Max was ready, at least as ready as he could be, and he felt an eerie calm now that decisions had been made and set in motion. His daughter and granddaughter were settled with family in Minnesota, two thousand miles away. His house was nearly empty, everything he owned donated or sold on this thing his daughter showed him called Craig’s List. There were a few pots, pans, and utensils in the kitchen, his meager wardrobe in the bedroom closet, his recliner in the living room, along with a framed portrait of Stella on the fireplace mantle. His footsteps echoed as he walked through the house.

He filled his days with routine. Two mornings a week, he attended minyan at the synagogue where he’d been a member since the mid-seventies, and he observed Yahrzeit and attended services to say Kaddish for his parents and for Stella. He read voraciously, went to lunch at favorite cafés, and stopped by Gordy’s for a cold beer or two. And of course, there was his beloved garden. This year’s crop of tomatoes had been exceptional, even by Max’s standards. He’d given away so many that he was sure the neighbors were sick of tomatoes. Some of the rest he’d turned into soup and stocked his freezer with plastic containers filled with the red-orange liquid.

He had sold his bed, and now he slept in the La-Z-Boy. Among the stack of books next to his chair was Stella’s dog-eared volume of Tanakh –The Holy Scriptures. In Deuteronomy 25:19, he had underlined these words: “…you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under the heaven. Do not forget it!” And in I Samuel 15:3: “Now go and smite Amalek, and utterly destroy all that they have, and spare them not…” Amalek, who attacked from the rear, plundered the sick and the weak, and murdered women and children.

Max would not forget.

Propped against the wall, just behind the chair, was his Winchester 11-87. The twelve-gauge shotgun was a relic of his days as an avid duck and pheasant hunter. Max had given up the sport when most of his hunting buddies either died or moved away. Now the well-maintained 11-87 stood loaded and ready, one shell in the chamber, four in the magazine. With the trial date set, he was sure they were coming for him.

***

The night they came, Max was wide awake. Since the call from the DA’s office, he’d developed the habit of setting an alarm for a little after 2:00 a.m. when the bars closed, figuring they would get a load on before heading his way.

The old black Honda Civic with the faded paint job and bright chrome wheels rolled slowly past the house, circled the block and rolled by again. Car doors slammed, Max’s signal. He turned the recliner sideways and positioned himself behind it, one knee on the floor, the shotgun resting on the arm of the chair.

Two figures walked across his front lawn, up to the low shrubs that grew in front of the living room window. One of them carried a heavy tool with a long handle. They peered in through the window, and then, unable to see anything or anyone, they went to the front porch. A sledgehammer blasted the wooden door frame to pieces, splitting the stillness. The door swung open and the two men moved into the room.

“Oh, Maxie…old ma-an…where are you?” The man in the lead called out in a sing-song voice. The one behind him laughed softly.

Max squeezed the trigger and the shotgun blast rocked the room. The first man flew back against the wall and crumpled to the floor. A new shell was in the chamber and Max pulled the trigger again. He saw a series of muzzle flashes and braced for the shock and burn of the bullets heading his way. The shock and burn never happened. The slugs slammed into the wall behind him. Both men were down on the floor, moving, but just barely. Max stood up and walked the few steps across the room. The second one through the door, the one who had returned fire, was Sonny—Amalek himself.

Max waited, the shotgun ready. Would someone from the Civic come running to provide backup? But then came the sound of the engine racing as the car sped away. He looked at the bloody mess on the wall and at his feet. Should he fire one more shell into the chest of each man? No need. They were no longer moving.

He placed the shotgun on the recliner and went through the kitchen and into the garage. He retrieved a five-gallon can and brought it into the house. He would douse the bodies and the walls with gasoline until the can was empty, then stand back and toss a match into the room. The little wood frame house would be saved, just like all those huts and all those villages in Vietnam.

Instead, he stood motionless, staring at Stella’s portrait on the mantle, tears clouding his eyes.

He set the can on the floor, pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed 911. The dispatcher led him through a series of questions, confirming his name and address, and the fact that two men had been shot while breaking into his home.

“I’m sending the sheriff and an ambulance, Mr. Silver.”

The ambulance wasn’t necessary, but he didn’t argue. “Okay…and you should notify Sheriff’s Detective Roy Combs. This is his case.”

Max traced the bullet holes in the wall with his finger as he spoke to the woman on the phone. He thought about Minnesota and his daughter and granddaughter. He could not wait to be with them. Several questions played in his mind. It was late September now: were the leaves there starting to turn color? Would they need to purchase new clothes for the Minnesota winter? And what varieties of tomato grew there?

Sirens grew ever louder as the call ended.

_____

Note: Elvira Campos of North Highlands, California, was shot and killed as she sat in the front room of her home on May 18, 2013. She was ten years old. This tale of vengeance is for her.

_____

And Spare Them Not

 Part 1 of 2

 from Like a Flower in the Field

  

Max Silver loved the little piece of ground he called his tomato patch. Situated in one corner of his backyard, it wasn’t much more than eight feet wide by twelve feet long, but the production every year amazed him. Maybe it was the late morning and early afternoon sun, or the yards and yards of steer manure he worked into the soil every year. Whatever it was, from June through October the fruit just kept coming. He loved passing out lunch bags filled with ripe tomatoes to his neighbors, and they seemed to enjoy them as much as he did. Hey, Max, they would say, how are those tomatoes coming? One neighbor, the house just across the street, would turn the ripe fruit into salsa and share several jars every season.

Today he was busy nipping and pruning and staking his thriving plants. It was late May and soon the blossoms would turn into small green globes, and if left unsupported, the weight would be too much for the vines to bear. The sun was nearly down on this warm May day and he started to think about the cold beer waiting for him in the fridge. His daughter and granddaughter were at the movies and wouldn’t be home until well after dark. He’d be on his own for dinner tonight.

Max had lived in the little wood frame house in a northern suburb of Sacramento for thirty years. He and his wife Stella poured lots of love and care into the place, even as the neighborhood began to decline. When Stella lost her battle with cancer eight years ago, he carried on, even though the house was empty without her. Then his daughter Marnie went through a divorce, and five years ago, Marnie and his granddaughter Jessica moved in to fill a part of the gaping hole in his life. Now all that love and care flowed in their direction.

He was gathering his tools when he heard two sharp cracks and the faint sound of glass breaking. Then two more cracks. Max was a hunter and Vietnam veteran; he knew it was gunfire. He dropped his tools and hurried to the gate at the side of the house. As he reached for the latch, he looked through the gate, and then froze.

A young man wearing a hooded sweatshirt crossed the street, headed toward a car parked at the curb, a gun in his right hand down at his side. Max could see his face clearly. He knew this boy: a neighborhood tough named Sonny. Years earlier, he had played on a Little League team Max had coached. Sonny was a handful then, difficult to control, impossible to teach, an all-around nasty little kid. And now he’d graduated to firearms. The young man climbed into the car and the wheels screeched as it tore away from the curb.

Max left the gate and backtracked to his patio. He kicked off his shoes as he entered the house and hurried to the front room. The drapes were open and through the large window he saw the house across the street and four round holes—the four shots he’d heard—in the living room window. Now he heard screams and shouts emanating from the home.

The screams and shouts continued and neighbors along the block came out on their porches to see what was happening. Sirens pierced the gathering dusk. Something tragic was unfolding and Max was a terrified witness.

***

The neighborhood swarmed with law enforcement. A half-dozen patrol cars clogged the street and yellow crime scene tape stretched along the perimeter of the lot across the way. Uniformed and plain-clothes officers moved about. Down the block, behind a set of barricades, television trucks and their crews stood by. Max sat in his La-Z-Boy recliner against the back wall of his living room. The house was dark. No one looking in the window could see him sitting there.

Okay, now what? Should he simply walk out there and tell the deputies what he had seen? And if he did, what then? His home and family would become the next targets. It would be like hanging a bullseye on his front room window: shoot here. His cell phone rang, startling him so that he jumped in the chair. It was his daughter Marnie.

“Dad, what’s going on? We can’t get into the neighborhood. There’s a line of cars here on Maple Street and I see a sheriff’s roadblock up ahead.”

“There was a shooting—”

“A what?”

“A shooting. Across the street at the Preston’s house.”

“Oh my God! Was anyone hurt?”

“I don’t know yet. Look, don’t come home. Don’t even try to get in here. Take Jessica and go to Aunt Millie’s.”

“But we don’t have any clothes or—”

“It’s not safe here, Marnie.” He could not hide the tremor in his voice. “Go to Aunt Millie’s. I’ll pack a bag and get some things to you tomorrow.”

“But, Dad—”

Max stifled her protests and ended the call.

The activity out on the street continued and Max wondered what had happened and why. The Prestons were good neighbors, never a problem. Their little girl, Ellie, was ten years old, the same age as his granddaughter. The two girls played together constantly, walked to school together, shared birthdays. Ellie was a sweet and friendly child, round-faced and chubby, always smiling. She’s the one who delivered the fresh salsa the Prestons made from his tomatoes, and she helped her mother bake cookies for the Silvers at holiday time. Ellie had an older brother—Max couldn’t remember his name. Was he the target? Gangs and drugs were a reality in the neighborhood. Could it be gangbangers in some kind of turf battle? If so, Max was not getting involved. Let them go right ahead and thin out the herd.

His hands shook as he called his sister’s number. Before he could tell her that Marnie and Jessica were on their way, she interrupted him.

“Max, are you watching the news?”

“What? No. No I’m not—”

“There’s a report about a shooting in your neighborhood. My God, Max, someone shot a little girl.”

 “What?”

“A ten-year-old girl, Max. Someone shot her in the back of the head while she was sitting on the couch watching television. She’s dead.”

Millie continued, recapping the news report. Max could hardly breathe. Oh my God! Ellie? They shot Ellie! Oh God. The animals, the goddamn animals. A little girl…a sweet innocent little girl.

Max ended the call with Millie after making her promise to keep Marnie and Jessica safe. He would bring clothes and toothbrushes and whatever they needed tomorrow. As he put down the phone, that telltale taste rose in the back of his mouth. He hurried to the bathroom to toss the contents of his stomach, though all he could produce was bile. He rinsed his mouth and splashed water in his face. His friends often told him he resembled the actor, Charles Bronson. When he looked in the mirror now, he saw a frightened old man.

***

Max parked near the phone booth adjacent to the convenience store. He turned the business card over and over in his hand. The detective had handed it to him that morning at the close of the conversation at Max’s front door. No, he had seen nothing, heard nothing. He’d been in his garden out back. No, no one else was home at the time. His daughter and granddaughter had been away at a movie.

All the while, Max scanned the street behind the officer. Who was watching, timing the length of the conversation? Just give me your damn card and get off my porch! That’s what he wanted to say. And then the detective was gone, the door closed with Max leaning hard against it, his heart racing.

Now here he was, ready to call from a payphone, certainly not from his cell that could be easily traced. He punched in the number and listened to it ring, again and again. An operator answered and he asked for Detective Roy Combs. She patched him through to Combs’s mobile number.

“Hello, this is Detective Combs. Hello?”

Max held a folded handkerchief over the mouthpiece. “Yeah, I may have—” He stopped and began again. “I have information about the shooting on Chestnut Lane.”

“Okay, let me get my notebook. Now, sir, what is your name?”

“Before I say anything, I need to know…can you protect my family, my home? You’ve seen what these animals will do.”

“Sir, I can’t promise anything until you tell me what you know.”

Max slammed the phone into its cradle, then picked it up and slammed it again and again. Sonofabitch, sonofabitch! They can’t protect you, they won’t protect you. He climbed back into his car and drove around aimlessly, looking for a way out, but there were no options. Max had to tell Combs what he saw, who he saw leaving the scene with a gun in his hand. He couldn’t let Sonny get away with it. He pulled into a service station and parked near a phone booth. Again, the operator patched him through.

“Detective Combs speaking. Who is calling, please?”

“Look, just tell me you’ll try to protect my family. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Okay, sir, this is Mr. Silver, right? Max Silver? You live across the street from the Prestons. I spoke to you this morning. I recognize your voice, Mr. Silver.”

Max’s heart pounded out of his chest again. He started to hang up, but what good would that do? “Is there somewhere we can meet? Not at my house. Not in the neighborhood.”

They settled on a small café a few blocks away. Max hung up the phone and then used the handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He would tell Combs what he had seen. But he would not testify in open court, if it came to that. No way in hell would he testify.

 ***

Sonny had been easy to find, along with the two bangers who’d been with him that night. The three of them were being held without bail pending trial. It turned out Sonny had confessed, which was good news for Max. Roy Combs assured him he would not have to testify. They had the confession, they had the murder weapon, and the District Attorney was planning to seek the death penalty. Ellie was dead; no way to change that fact. Even though the death penalty was a joke in California, at least her killer and his pals would be going away for a long time. Max hoped to see life return to normal—or near-normal—on Chestnut Lane.

So why did Combs want to meet with him now? Were there new developments in the case? Max checked his watch. He did not want to be late for the meeting.

_____

Coming soon: Part 2. What news does Roy Combs have for Max? And how will it change his life? Don’t miss the conclusion.

_____

 

Eureka

 from Like a Flower in the Field

 

A full moon hung over the Trinity River Valley in Northern California. It made for a beautiful drive—the moonlight on the water, the gentle slope of the canyon lined with pines, the river like a rippling white ribbon. Ward glanced up from the winding road, determined to print the scene in his mind. He’d never seen a picture so perfect. He figured he’d be in Eureka around 10:00 p.m., get a room there and take a long, hot soak in the tub and then a shower. After camping for five days on the Trinity, a hot bath and a warm bed seemed like heaven.

            He had left Jimmy in Junction City at Pat’s place. Jimmy would be heading home tomorrow, back to Redding and down through the long valley to Vallejo. They had fished the Trinity hard, from Weaverville to Junction City, with nothing to show for it this year. Nineteen seventy-three was not a banner year for salmon. That didn’t matter. October on the Trinity was reward enough: the clear, cold mornings out on the water, the afternoon temperatures climbing into the eighties, the air so fresh you could taste it, and then hanging out at the bar Pat owned where cold beer and conversation flowed like the river itself. The fishing didn’t matter.

This was his last trip with Jimmy, Karyn’s father. That’s what mattered. Karyn was moving on and there was no way to change that. She was in love, and you can’t fight love. You can’t say don’t love him, love me. It doesn’t work that way. It was good of Jimmy to plan the trip, their last hoorah so to speak. They had fished the Trinity for salmon every fall for a half-dozen years and this trip was a nice nod to tradition. Jimmy was a good man, damn good, and he’d been a great father-in-law. For the five days they were together, he’d never mentioned Karyn, never asked about the break-up. Ward was grateful. He didn’t want to talk about it.

Ward made it to Eureka on schedule and found a room at a motel on West Fifth Street. After the hot soak and shower, he felt like a new man. He was ready to find a friendly tavern and throw back a cold beer or two. The attendant at the front desk directed him to a place a couple of blocks over, an easy walk from the motel. 

 The night air was cool, fog beginning to roll in across Humboldt Bay, when Ward reached the bar situated on a corner. He was about to cross the street when a car came tearing down the hill from his right and lurched to a stop at the curb. A girl with short blonde hair leaned out of the passenger side window, laughing and shouting. The driver, a woman who looked to be a little older, jumped out of the car and helped the blonde out of the front seat. Together they stormed through the door of the bar.

Ward wasn’t looking for excitement. He thought about turning around and heading back to his room. Finally, he crossed the street and went inside. There were a handful of customers at the bar and in booths along the wall. A small dance floor took up the back of the room, a jukebox off to one side. He took a stool and waited.

The bartender was busy with the two recent arrivals, especially the blonde girl. She was talking loud, laughing, poking fun at him, and he was giving it right back to her. It seemed they knew each other. She stood on her stool and leaned across the bar, showing generous cleavage from a scoop-neck knit top, and demanded a kiss from the barkeep. He grabbed a breast in each hand and planted a kiss on her lips, all the while squeezing the ripe little peaches. The blonde girl found this hilarious. What strange world had Ward stumbled into?

The bartender broke away and came toward him. “Hey, buddy! What can I get you?”

“Whatever you have on tap. Hey, what’s with the wild child over there?”

“Oh, don’t worry about her.” He smiled. “Her sister is keepin’ an eye on her.”

So that was it: little sister, big sister. Ward nursed his beer and tried to relax. He noticed the girl glancing his way every now and then. After a couple of rounds, she was starting to look pretty good. She was a little plump, spilling over her jeans at the waist, but she had a pleasant face and large, expressive eyes. It really was a nice face. You’d have to say pretty if you were being fair. She smiled at him once when their eyes met and she had a nice smile, too. Another couple of beers and she would look like a young Shirley Jones. The Partridge Family theme played in his head.

Ward took some change and wandered over to the jukebox. It was a good playlist and he dropped in a few quarters and started to punch in his picks. And then the girl was standing next to him, bumping elbows.

“Why don’tcha play ‘Earth Angel’? I love that song.”

“Sure.” He punched in the letter-number combination, wondering at the choice, a song from the mid-fifties. “Anything else?”

They scanned the columns and made a few more selections. She was very young. Was she old enough to be in this place? He got a strong whiff of cologne, mixed with the alcohol on her breath, and he recognized the scent: it was Karyn’s favorite. What was it called? Emerald, or Emeraude, something like that. This girl had bathed in it.

“I’m Ward, by the way.” He waited for her to respond. “And you are?”

“Umm, I’m Jane. Call me Jane.”

“Jane Doe?”

“What?”

“Nothing. Can I buy you and your friend a drink?”

“Sure.” She led the way over to the bar. “This here’s my sister. What’d you say your name was?”

“Ward.”

“This here’s Ward. He’s gonna buy us a drink.”

Big sister gave Ward a critical glance and then nodded. She had no name she wanted to share. She was drinking club soda. Jane ordered a 7-and-7. They sat through several rounds and chatted about nothing in particular. Big Sister kept her eyes straight ahead, chain smoking and sipping her soda. She had nothing to say. “Earth Angel” came on the jukebox again.

“Oh, come on, let’s dance.” Jane grabbed Ward’s arm. “I love this song.”

They slow-danced to “Earth Angel,” and then to two more ballads. By the third song, Jane was wrapped around him and Ward couldn’t help but be aroused. He knew she could feel it but she didn’t pull away. He was lightheaded from all the beer. Or was it the cologne? As the music ended, she reached up to him, her lips parted, and he kissed her long and deep. When she stepped back, there were tears in her eyes.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothin’.”

“Come on, I thought we were having a good time.”

“It’s not you, Ned—”

“Ward.”

“Ward…sorry. I’m thinking about my old man, my boyfriend. He’s doin’ six months in county. I really miss him.”

“Sorry to hear that.” He started to ask six months for what? but he didn’t want to know. “Come on, let’s have another drink. Maybe you’ll feel better.” He led her back to the bar and ordered another round.

“I really feel bad, ya know? I miss him. He’s not a bad guy. He was always good to me.”

“Well, maybe he’ll get out early, good behavior or something.” Ward glanced at Big Sister who gave him a look that said Yeah, sure.

“But I feel bad, ’cause while he’s been in there, I chippied on him. I chippied on him a lot.”

Ward thought he knew what “chippied” meant, but he wasn’t sure and he didn’t want to ask. It was time to take a trip to the men’s room and splash a little water in his face. He excused himself and made his way down the narrow hall past the dance floor.

As he washed his hands, he noticed the condom vending machine mounted on the wall. He thought about the kiss on the dance floor and imagined taking that warm young body to his bed. He dried his hands, dropped in the required coins and stuffed the foil packets into the pocket of his jeans.

When he returned to the bar, Jane was gone. Big Sis was there, chain smoking and fixing him with a steady gaze. She turned on her stool to face him.

“Watch yourself, Ward.” Her voice was calm and cool, but she pronounced his name like an exclamation point. She was about Ward’s age—mid-thirties—and though her hair was dark, the resemblance to her sister was clear.

“What?”

“You heard me. Watch yourself. She’s just a kid, a kid with problems. The last thing she needs is a one-night stand with a jerk like you.”

“Look, I don’t know what you think—”

“You think it’s going to be easy, a sure thing. Right, Ward? You’ll just say, ‘Hubba hubba, baby. Let’s go back to my place. I’ll show you a real good time.’”

“No, I mean, come on…” He glanced around as though looking for help. He could not look her in the eye.

“And what’s your story, Ward? Divorced? Separated? Yeah, I noticed the little tan line on your ring finger.”

He covered his left hand with his right.

“And now you think you’re God’s gift to wayward girls?” She punctuated the question with a wry smile.

“Look, Big Sister…sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“My name doesn’t matter, Ward. Let’s just say I’m your conscience, here to make sure you do the right thing.”

“Which is?”

“Leave now, while she’s still in the lady’s room. Go back to wherever you’re staying, watch some porn, whack off, do whatever it is that you do. And leave my sister alone.” She let it sink in for a few seconds. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell her you said goodbye, good luck, best wishes. All that crap.”

There was nothing more to say. He’d been busted and he was no match for this woman. He got up off the stool, dropped a few dollars on the bar, and headed for the door, away from this strange encounter in Eureka.

 

Ward checked out early the next morning. He popped the tailgate and tossed his bag into the back of the compact wagon. As he stuffed his dirty clothes in among the camping gear, he saw the shirt he’d been wearing the night before. He picked it up and brought it to his nose. It smelled of cigarettes and cologne. He paused to play back the events at the bar and felt the blood rush to his cheeks. Big Sister, God bless her, had been right.

Ward sniffed the shirt again, then closed his eyes, and just for a moment Karyn was there. She had not been with him all week on the Trinity, but now she was. He started to say her name, but his throat tightened. He’d lost her, and now he was out here on his own, acting the fool.

He wadded the shirt into a tight ball and threw it—hard—into the back of the car. His shout became a howl, echoing through the parking lot and down Fifth Street until the air was gone from his lungs.

It was time to move on, time to forget, and that scent carried memories.

 _____

 

FISH ON!

A real fish story

 

“Look!” Frank shouts. “Straight ahead, where the birds are!” Frank, our fishing boat captain, shoves the throttle to full ahead and we race toward what boat captains call la mancha—the stain—an area the size of a small arena where the deep blue ocean has been churned to a white froth. “Oh man, there are some big tuna breaking water, feeding on the surface.”

I can’t see the tuna but I definitely see the birds circling the area and diving into the water. And then the most amazing sight of all: spinner dolphins flying into the air, turning a half-dozen rotations before falling back to the water. Until this day, I’d never heard of a spinner dolphin, let alone seen one. And yet there they are—one, two, three, and more—shooting into the air like prima ballerinas.

We are twenty-five miles off the west coast of Costa Rica, out of the harbor town of Flamingo. Our party consists of my daughter Cheryl and her husband Bruce, their sons Mason and Collin, my daughter Kim, and me. Cheryl and her family have lived in Tamarindo for more than twenty years and are involved in several business ventures there. Kim lives in Welches, Oregon, with her husband Cliff and extended family. It’s my first visit to Costa Rica, a gift from my five children in honor of my eightieth birthday, and this will be a day I’ll never forget.

Bruce and my grandson Collin are experienced spear fishermen. Captain Frank will try to position the boat out in front of the dolphins and tuna. Then Bruce and Collin will jump into the water with snorkel gear and spear guns and descend about thirty feet below the surface. The dolphins will come racing by, followed closely by a school of yellowfin tuna. The goal is to get a good clean shot at a tuna, after which the speared fish will dive deep, taking with it a line attached to a float. The fish will eventually wear itself out, the float will come to the surface, and the catch hauled in.

We speed along with forty, fifty, a hundred or more dolphins racing alongside the boat. Bruce and Collin are in the bow, ready to go into the water. My grandson Mason is busy capturing as much of the action as possible via his 35 mm camera and his trusty smartphone. He is a skilled photographer, filmmaker and editor, like a young Spielberg. In the meantime, Captain Frank’s deckhand has rigged two fishing poles and cast them to troll behind the boat. Finally, Frank cuts the engine and Bruce and Collin are in the water, dropping below the surface, hoping for a clear shot as the tuna race by.

“Fish on!” Frank shouts. The rod nearest me bends at a ninety-degree angle and the reel sings as the line races out. “Grab that rod, Chuck. Let it run if it’s taking line, otherwise crank hard, reel it in.”

I go to the rod and begin reeling. The fish makes a couple of runs and I keep on cranking. My arm is tiring and I think about giving up, handing the job to someone else. But call it pride or call it machismo, there is no way I can quit. I keep straining to gain line. Suddenly the fish comes into view. I’m winning the battle. Now the deckhand moves in, a heavy glove on his left hand, a long gaff in his right. He grabs the line with his left hand and pulls the fish near the side of the boat. With his right, he makes a quick move with the gaff and jerks the fish up into the boat. It flaps wildly on the deck, blood splattering everywhere. In a matter of minutes, the deckhand has the yellowfin safely in cold storage, surrounded by bags of ice. Our best guess is it weighs about sixty pounds.

Bruce and Collin swim back to the boat disappointed. The drop point must be precise to find the tuna schooling behind the dolphins, and this time the positioning was off. Captain Frank idles as the spearfishermen climb aboard. All the while, the great gathering of fish and sea birds has moved on. The captain guns the engine and off we go, his eyes alternating between his radar screen and the horizon.

            Finding la mancha is a continuing challenge because the fish change direction frequently. We spend most of the day dashing here and there, trying to relocate our prey, successful on at least two more occasions. Late in the day the shout of “fish on” goes up again. This time Cheryl takes the rod and begins reeling. Aided by Collin, she lands our second yellowfin of the day. It’s a little smaller than the first one, but a beauty, nonetheless. Bruce and Collin come up empty, unable to find their prey today, but we have two nice tuna to bring home. 

It’s time to head back to shore and we begin the long journey home. I think about Cheryl and Bruce and the life they’ve built here in Costa Rica. Their entrepreneurial ventures are too numerous to list here, but the current flagship is their property management firm: Stay in Tamarindo. If you have an urge to visit Costa Rica, maybe catch a tuna of your own, or visit a volcanic national park, or catch a perfect wave on your surfboard, Stay in Tamarindo has the ideal vacation rental for you.

            The boat races on, the harbor coming into view. I think about Kim and the beautiful life she and hubby Cliff have built in Welches, Oregon. Kim provided a last-minute surprise, joining me in Los Angeles for the flight to Costa Rica. She will be with us for the first week of my stay and it is a joy to have Kim and Cheryl in one place at the same time. It doesn’t happen often enough. From these two beautiful daughters, I count seven of my twelve grandchildren, plus five great grandchildren, soon to be six.  

            What did I ever do to be so blessed?

***

Back home, Bruce goes to work immediately to clean and filet the fish. Collin and Mason jump in to make it a team effort. As Bruce carves off the filets, Collin trims and cuts them into thick steaks while Mason packs and seals them in freezer bags. Cheryl and Kim join the team, preparing rice, green salad, and other side dishes. My job is to hoist a cold beer and offer encouragement. Later that evening, we sit down to a dinner featuring perfectly seasoned and seared tuna steaks. It isn’t lost on me that these delicious steaks were swimming freely in the deep blue Pacific earlier this same day.

Through all of this teamwork, Mason has been telling us about a documentary series narrated by Sir David Attenborough titled Our Planet. One episode, “The High Seas,” features a segment on spinner dolphins. After dinner, we gather in front of the TV and Mason finds the episode we’re looking for. It is a fascinating explanation of what we witnessed at sea.

It turns out dolphins and yellowfin tuna feed on the same tiny species called lantern fish, a species that thrives because it has no commercial value and is, therefore, not hunted by the fishing fleets of the world. Yellowfin tuna follow the dolphins because dolphins are like cowboys, herding the lantern fish together into a compact school. The Attenborough team’s brilliant underwater photography captures this phenomenon perfectly, the dolphins working to keep the school together, the school of lantern fish looking like a giant balloon, swerving and swirling, held tight by the hard-working cowboys, all the while pushing the school toward the surface. Then, as though someone fired a starter’s pistol, the feast is on. Dolphins and tuna attack the lantern fish in a feeding frenzy, joined by sea birds diving from the air, creating the boil on the surface of the ocean the fishing captains call la mancha.

As for the spinner dolphins, according to Attenborough, they are very rare, found primarily in two locations: off the coast of Costa Rica and around the Hawaiian Islands. I am stunned! On a planet seventy percent covered by water, I spent the day in one of the two places on Earth that spinner dolphins call home.

When Sir David says goodnight, so does our intrepid crew. We’ve been up since four in the morning, a very long day indeed. Still, it takes a while for my mind to calm down and prepare for sleep. Every time I close my eyes, one, two, three, or more spinners go flying into the air, and Captain Frank is shouting, “Fish on!”

 

                                                  Me, Cheryl, Collin, Mason, Bruce, and Kim

_____