

### Table of Contents

### Title Page

### Dedication

### Prologue
### Introduction

### Chapter 1 The Beginning
### Chapter 2 Moving to California

### Chapter 3 Moving to the Mesa
### Chapter 4 We actually bought our own house

### Chapter5 High School

### Chapter 6 Entering the workforce
### Chapter 7 The Army has me

### Chapter 8 Aviation School
### Chapter 9 Vietnam here I come

### Chapter 10 Home again
### Chapter 11 A civilian again

### Chapter 12 The birth of a Legend, Outlaw Biker
### Chapter 13 Jesus is not my crutch, he is my stretcher

### (borrowed from a friend of mine)

### Chapter 14 Epilogue

## Surfer, Soldier, Outlaw, Saint

### Memoirs of C. C. Bates

I want to dedicate this book to the ladies in my life

### My wife Janet who has put up with me for thirty-eight years

### My granddaughters Tabitha and Emily

### My daughter-in-law Debra

### And my future daughter-in-law Denae

### Prologue

I sat straight up in bed, the sweat flowing from every pore in my shaking body. Terrified, looking around the darkened room, I could see my club jacket (colors) hanging from a hook on the wall. The nightmares and flashbacks had become more intense. So much so, that I dreaded to succumb to sleep. I reached under the pillow, pulled out my .45 caliber automatic and placed the barrel on my temple. I put my finger on the trigger, I muttered to myself, squeeze, not pull as you were trained to do. I begin to exert pressure on the trigger......
Introduction

Many times, I have sat down to write my memoirs. This time I have the motivation, my 11 year old granddaughter Tabitha (my honorary editor) and the fact that after nineteen-and-a-half years as a department head I was forced into retirement.

One Friday the talking heads came in the shop office, during our lunchtime, and eliminated my department. We had no notice or anything. I wasn't surprised I lost my job — I was old, and made too much money. I had heard the footsteps behind me for years.

Oh, they did give two weeks severance pay whether or not you had six months of service or nineteen-and-a-half years. Look up tightwad in the dictionary and my ex-company should be well represented.

The first year I worked for them another supervisor told me they gave $10 Christmas bonuses. I laughed and said no one could be so insulting. I came from a company that gave $2000 bonuses at Christmas. Sure enough right before Christmas the owner went around shaking hands and giving out envelopes. After he was out of sight, I opened the card. There it was a crisp — starched $10 bill.

The nineteen-and-a-half years were not too bad. I knew my job, so nobody really bothered me. I will say that they never gave me any perks and most of the other guys in the shop were treated poorly. This place you would not want to spend long at. Get experience, then quit and go somewhere decent.

I do want to add that the owner's older brother was one of the finest men I have ever known. He helped me on many occasions to battle off the buttheads who at certain times tried to mess with me. Last, but not least, when my youngest son needed surgery. And the best doctors were at the University of San Francisco Medical Center, which is very expensive. He made a phone call and made it happen immediately. Thanks again, Terry, for all you did for me. I could write a book about that place with all the games and politics, but maybe another time.

Right now, I need to refocus to the task at hand. I came of age in the 1960s and the Vietnam War Era. I lived several different lifestyles, always an extremist. I lived all the different phases of my life full out, holding nothing back, whether good or not good at all.

Probably some background on my parents may shed some light on my behavior, also a little on my older brother. All of us who have an older brother know what a blessing they are (said with tongue in cheek). Although I dearly love him now, it wasn't always the case.

My mom was born in 1920, as was my father. She died April 2011 and is missed very much. My father died of cancer at 53, in 1973. My mom had a very hard childhood. Both her parents were alcoholics and constantly fought. They would split and divorce and later re-marry to each other. I believe they were married to each other five times. My mom had two sisters and a brother. One sister died at about five years of age from scarlet fever. When my grandparents would split up my mom always lived with her father.

My uncle died at 21 or 22 years old. He was my grandfather's pride and joy. He had a bicycle accident when he was a teenager. This caused a tumor to grow in his head. Eventually causing him to go blind and then killing him. At that, time doctors could do nothing for him. According to my mom, he would navigate the mile between my grandfather's estate and where we lived just to come and play with us. From what I was told, I really would have liked him.

Over the years, I gathered that my mom never felt wanted by her mother and she most likely was right. My grandmother was a strange person; she was in and out of state mental hospitals

over a period of years. My alcoholic grandfather, according to my dad was scared straight because many of his friends had died from alcohol abuse. Somewhere along the way, my grandfather became wealthy. He was a lumber broker during World War II, which made him a millionaire. Being a millionaire in the 1940s was a lot of money. My father called him a profiteer, making money off the war, but he was hardly alone.

So, about the time my mom came of age she lived a rather lavish lifestyle. But, according to her when she got home from school she would have to do yard work on the estate grounds until dark. The grounds of the estate were very upscale. The main house had three levels. The Lodge was a two story house converted from a carriage house and there was a cottage deep in the expanse of the property. There was a tennis court, a basketball court, a waterfall that ran into a large pond, which was filled with water lilies and fish. He owned lots of other property, houses and a bunch of beachfront lots. He retired at 50 and died at 83, having lived off his holdings over 30 years and still a millionaire.

Both my parents were good looking and smart. And my mom was a good athlete. My dad on the other hand was no athlete. He could hit a golf ball farther than any one I have ever seen, but literally had no idea where it was going. One time he tried to ride my brother's motorcycle. He headed right for a telephone pole and that was from a dead start. He had no hand, foot, balance or any other coordination, it was scary. He was strong 6'4" and slim, my mom was 5'1". My dad did have talent; he could build anything out of metal, wood, or whatever. He also did really fancy ink pen drawings and loved to paint in watercolors. The little I know about his childhood I will share with you. He was the youngest of four brothers. He was born in Washington State. Growing up during the depression, his family was poor and he was sent to live with his grandmother and step-grandfather on the farm in Washington. The rest of his family lived in Portland, Oregon. He never forgave his parents for sending him away. But, he was treated well on the farm and returned home in his teens. From what I was told he had many girls after him. He was very good looking and a charmer.

How my parents met I don't honestly know. Except for the fact, my grandfather didn't like him. So, he ran a check on my dad and his family, which I think set the tone for how my father felt about him. It was revealed that my dad's family came from solid respectable stock. They had come out from Missouri, on the Oregon Trail, in 1849. Nevertheless my grandfather still did not like my dad, but it was a mutual feeling. Especially, after he sent my mom away on a six-month trip with her older sister and her husband to forget my dad. Returning home the flame still hadn't gone out and they were back together. They married during the war years.

When WWII broke out all of my dad's brothers were in uniform, in fact I think two were already in the service. My dad had a heart murmur so no one would take him. The murmur went away and he joined the Marines in 1943. He finished boot camp and volunteered to be a bomber turret gunner. He finished gunnery school and was sent to his unit and it was soon discovered he did not fit in the turret. You have to remember during the war most of the equipment was already deployed, so he had never been on a bomber until he got to his unit. So, they sent him to navigation school, where he became a navigator on a bomber. When his unit was shipped to China, he was in the hospital. The Marines kept him in the states and he became an instructor and to his dismay never got into the war. Growing up I knew he felt cheated. So, when Vietnam came around I wasn't going to miss my war.

Now a little bit about my older brother. He was two-and-a-half years older than me, and three grades ahead of me in school. I know he could have been a talented musician because he regularly beat me like a drum. My brother inherited my parents' intelligence, my mom's athletic ability and

good looks and my father's artistic talent. I am not saying common sense came in this package; we both seemed to lack that.

A brief summary of my family in Oregon: First my mother's side, I had an aunt and uncle, two girl first cousins and two boy first cousins. My aunt and uncle were nice people. They mostly lived in eastern Oregon, where he owned a lumber mill. What I remember most about him was that he always made time to play catch with me, which meant a lot. My boy cousins were much older, so I never really got to know them. The girls, Kitsy was my brother's age and I haven't seen her since I was 12. Robin was about a year older than me. What I remember about her is that they lived next door to the police department, and she was dared to walk into there and pull down her pants, and she did (she would have been 13, give or take).

Then there was my rich eccentric grandfather and my step-grandmother Phil. We loved visiting them. Gramps would take us lots of places, Portland Zoo, the famous Rose Gardens, shopping and basically everywhere. Phil was born and raised in Austria, Transylvania to be exact. She at night would tell us stories about witches, flying horses, unicorns and the like. The stories were also a little bit scary and she could keep you entertained for hours. She told us that story telling was how families spent the evening, when she was growing up. I wish before she had died, that I would have recorded those stories. Now, they are lost forever. Also, a plus about visiting there was his huge house. My brother and I would go exploring. The house was three levels. The house had six bedrooms and he slept in three different ones depending on the season of the year. One was the sleeping porch, for when the weather was nice. One was for the winter and had thick down quilts, we loved sleeping in that room. The last bedroom, I am not sure when or why he slept there. We loved to go through his closets; one closet was about the full length of the room. We counted 102 pairs of shoes, these were all new or in new condition, and the length of the closet was filled with suits. He also loved hats and had a closet just dedicated to his vast array of hats. The amount of stuff he had was very impressive to a pair of kids.

In contrast our other grandparents were relatively poor. They owned their own small house, the kind I believe, were mass built during the depression. It had two bedrooms, one bath, kitchen and a living room. But, we had more fun there — poker, beer and my aunts, uncles and cousins.

I had three uncles, Vern, Tiny, and Cliff. Tiny was friendly, but even if my wallet was empty, I felt I had to keep my hand on it around him. He was, let's say, the crook of the family. He retired from the Air Force after serving 27 years and eavesdropping on my dad, it sounded like he was asked to leave or else. He then went to work for the post office, where rumor has it, he was fired for fishing money out of kids' birthday cards. His wife, aunt Ella, always acted like she thought she was better than the rest of us. They also had no kids, just two yorkie dogs they thought were kids.

Uncle Cliff had a great sense of humor and it was rumored, he had the first penny he ever earned. I'm not sure he ever really had any high paying jobs, but that guy could save money. He also invested in property, I think he owned ten or twelve lots on the Sandy River, up towards Mount Hood. He also was a very good golfer, I believe, I was told he was the city champion of Portland Oregon at one point. He was married and had a daughter. His wife was not the nicest person I ever met and she wouldn't let her daughter play with the rest of us cousins. She ended up running off with some guy and he didn't see his daughter again until after she was grown. If she was at all like her mother, it was probably to make sure she secured her inheritance.

Vern was my favorite uncle and Delores my favorite aunt. They also were the parents of my favorite first cousins. Kenny (who died young and I don't remember him), Jerry (my Vietnam cousin), Marilyn (who as I remember always picked on Jerry), and Jimmy the youngest. Marilyn

will to this day claim she was the victim of her older brother Jerry, but I never saw any evidence of that. J Last, but not least Jimmy, he was the kindest and happiest kid I ever knew, even though he had muscular dystrophy. He was also very smart. He died when he was nineteen and was a great addition to heaven. My uncle was a very kind and funny man. I always felt a strong sense of family around Vern and Delores. In later years I enjoyed playing golf with him and visiting with aunt Delores was always fun. She would recall things that we didn't remember and tell us family stories. Delores, my aunt, is still active and alert at 89. We just had a family re-union in Oregon in June 2011. She always had a great wit and was really funny. She seemed to have a knack for tolerating the gathering of the cousins, which to some was a very terrifying experience.

Okay! I confess Jerry picked on Marilyn without mercy. I thought I had better tell the truth, just in case she is lurking at the next family re-union.

I guess it is time to get on with the story. Names may have been changed to protect the innocent or the guilty; whichever serves my purpose more. Also, things that happened are according to my memory. My cousin thinks the knife injury that he inflicted on me in Vietnam happened differently. But, you have to remember he is really old and can't tell you what he had for breakfast.

I'm writing this book for my kids and grandchildren, so they may know me. If it sells and makes me rich, that would be a plus. I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1

The Beginning

I was born on a stormy winter night, 1947, in Portland, Oregon. Weighing in at a respectable 8 Lbs. 12 Ounces and very handsome, if I do say so myself. According to firsthand accounts, I was a happy and quiet baby. I was a nice change from my older brother, who had colic and cried all the time. We lived in one of my grandfather's houses about a mile from his estate.

Outside my window were bushes, which attracted a large number of tree frogs. Way before I was old enough to talk, I would croak along with the frogs. I am not sure I understood the language but we seemed to carry on extended conversations.

My grandfather had offered my dad $10,000 to name me after him. It would have been a mouthful, William Wellington Conger Bates. Heck, I would have liked the money set up in a trust fund for me. Instead, I was named after my dad's best friend in the Marines. Conger was put in as my middle name. I never found out if any money exchanged hands over that.

As a toddler, I lost weight and was very unhealthy and was sick quite often. Somehow, I either overheard or was told when I was older that they did not expect me to live through my childhood. The cold climate of Oregon didn't agree with me. On the positive side, I was the darling of the neighborhood as a little boy. I was cute, smart, charming and had a sense of humor. I would make my rounds visiting people and old ladies especially liked me. I remember one lady in particular. She was Mrs. Solander, a sweet older lady who always made time to visit with me. She had a picture of her son dressed in an army uniform on the mantle in the living room. I would always inquire about him and she would say he was still in Korea. That was during the Korean War. I never found out if he made it home. In reflection, I always felt bad for

the Korean Veterans. They were just forgotten by both the government and the people. We Vietnam Vets were mistreated, which in my opinion is far better than being forgotten.

Well I had better get back to being a kid. It is funny how some things you just never forget. Like, I remember choking on a nickel. It scared the heck out of me. And I remember shoving a button up my nose, and my dad somehow hooking it and pulling it out. I am not really sure why I did that one. Putting nuts and bolts in a toaster when I was four was a scientific experiment. I never understood why it wasn't more appreciated. Oh! The toaster failed, but the nuts and bolts were fine. It seemed I was always experimenting doing something. Like the time I lit a match to see how much gas was left in the gas can. I knew this might not be a smart thing to do, but my curiosity got the better of me. There was a flash of flame from the gas can and it twisted up like a pretzel. It burned off all my hair, eyebrows, eyelashes and even my nose hair, but I was not injured. From that experiment, I learned not to light a match over any type of gas container. And you people thought I was stupid. I am sure I will remember more experiments as I get further into my writing.

Chapter 2

Moving to California

We moved from Milwaukie, Oregon, to Santa Barbara, California when I was half way through first grade. I think it was a two-fold decision, for my health and my dad did a lot of outside work. He was a sheet metal fabricator, heating, and air conditioning technician. He and one of his friends went down to scout Santa Barbara for shop locations and to check the cost of housing. My dad was familiar with the area. Because, he once was stationed on a base, where the

University of California at Santa Barbara is now located. That was during WWII when he was in the Marines.

One thing nice about Santa Barbara compared to Oregon is the mild climate. It could be 75 degrees any day of the year. There were different seasons in a not so dramatic way. It did not have the trees with the leaves changing colors and falling off, but it was generally colder in the winter than the summer. I have seen snow on the beach at Christmas and also warm sunny days. My health improved with the warmer weather and I was always outside.

My dad rented a small house on the Westside. I would rate it lower middle class or high low class. It was probably middle low class. Our landlords lived next door. At the time, I did not realize it sucked, but I guess it did. My parents were always talking about their hoodlum son. He had a 1953 Mercury with spinner hubcaps and fuzzy dice on the rearview mirror — it was way cool. He also had greasy hair in a ducktail and wore a black leather jacket. He always was nice to me. It is a small world; he turned out to be my English teacher in seventh grade, go figure. Speaking of English, when I was enrolled in school they put me in speech therapy. I had a

Southern accent, I don't know where I picked that up at, but some words I really had a hard time pronouncing.

Only a few memories stick out in my mind from living there, because we were only there until I finished first grade (which only took three years, just kidding). What I remember about going to Lincoln School was a boy who sat behind me and wiped his boogers on my shirt. I punched him a couple of times and that problem was resolved. I remember gently pulling the pigtails of a girl who sat in front of me. This was a signal that I liked her, but she seemed totally oblivious to the fact.

The biggest incident that I remember was that my brother and I would get into pillow fights every night. One night to gain an extra advantage on me he dropped a cap gun into his pillowcase and gave me a solid whack to my temple. I was taken to the hospital where the doctor said it was a near fatal blow. Now for my brother's terrible punishment, my dad gathered all the cap guns in the house and broke them over the bedpost. The only problem with this was that they all belonged to me. To give you insight let me explain. I was a collector, when I finished playing with a toy, I would put it back into its box. Whereas my older brother was a destroyer. On Christmas, the vast majority of his toys did not make it to see the dawn of the next day. Therefore, the punishment had little effect on my brother, but established the beginning of a pattern, which would reoccur several times over the years.

Chapter 3

Moving to the Mesa

In the summer following first grade we moved to the Mesa in Santa Barbara. There I attended Washington School for second and third grades. It was a much nicer neighborhood than the previous one. There were a lot of kids to play with. In those days the mid 1950s neighborhoods were like extended family. The older kids looked out for the younger ones and taught us how to play baseball and other important things. We had baseball games all the time and you got to play with the big kids even if your skills sucked. Our baseball field was a vacant dirt lot, but to us it seemed like Dodger Stadium. Also, in those days you didn't have to have your doors locked all the time like you do now. The first thing I remember about where we lived were the next-door neighbors. They were retired and I don't think they liked kids living next door, but once we got to know them they were really nice people.

The Mesa wasn't overly populated when we first moved there. Track homes either weren't conceived yet or hadn't reached us. Within about a year, all that changed. Housing developments sprang up like weeds.

We walked to school the direct route, which was through a small wooded area and a really nice creek, which had a fallen tree to cross over it. It wasn't much of a creek in the summer, but

ran swift in the winter. We had a lot of fun in those woods playing, exploring and climbing in the trees.

My older brother was always making things. He carved a gun out of wood. One of his finest creations was a bow and arrows he made from trees and bushes he harvested in the woods (our Sherwood Forest). Not long after that my mom and brother came down with terrible cases of poison oak. My dad and I were immune to it, heck I could roll in it and it never bothered me. But, my mom could get it just from washing our clothes if we had been in it. My dad got curious about the origin of my brother's bow and had him take him to where he got the wood. Oops! He had made the bow out of a branch from a poison oak bush. I would have laughed, but he regularly beat me up, so I wasn't going to give him any reason to do it more.

Every now and then I would snap when he was pounding me, and although much bigger, he would run. One time I threw a pair of scissors at him and they stuck in the ground right next to him as he was running away.

At Christmas time, my parents would generally buy us the same toys or we would fight over them. That was good for me because lots of time I would get stuff, which most kids my age weren't old enough for. Like knives — I always had a pocketknife from second grade on. Knives and I developed a lifelong bond, as I still collect them to this day. Well, anyway, it was either Christmas when I was in second grade or third grade; we got real bows and arrows, metal points and all. A word of caution, do not give your second grader a real bow with metal tipped arrows. Or to any of your children if they don't have any common sense. We made targets out of cardboard boxes and would shoot at them in the backyard. Our backyard had a hedge of some kind of evergreen, so the neighbor's yard wasn't visible. A missed target would send our arrows into their backyard and we would

sneak over and retrieve our projectiles. It never crossed my mind that I might find someone impaled by my arrow, but on the other hand, where was our parental supervision? The best game we came up with was called red rover — red rover sent the arrow over. We would get on opposite sides of the house, and shoot the arrow into the stratosphere, and try to land it as close to the person on the other side of the roof as we could. Some came very close. I never thought about maybe the arrow coming down and sticking in my head. Again, I say, parents watch your kids. I don't know if people are born with common sense or if it is obtained by doing stupid things. In the case of my brother and me, we were not burdened at birth with any common sense at all.

I did come up with things to do on my own. I wasn't hampered by weighing very much, so I found it extremely entertaining to jump off the highest part of our roof using my mom's umbrella as a parachute. Pretty fun till it turned inside out and I crashed into the bushes damaging my leg.

Now a little about school, I was smart (remember intelligence and common sense are not related). All I remember about second grade was my teacher was fresh from college and pretty and I had a crush on her. She never would go out with me, her loss; probably me not having a car was the real issue. Also in second grade, it seemed like all we did was sing. Some of the songs that were burned into my mind: _When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again_ (a civil war song, I have no idea why we were taught that), _Row, Row, Row Your Boat_. Those songs still haunt me.

In third grade I formed a gang, I had about 4-5 members including myself. Our main crime against society was running through the halls. In those days there were hall monitors, usually do- gooders who kissed up to the teacher. They had badges and the authority to arrest and everything. But, I planned in advance our escape routes and where we would hide. We were never caught in the actual act of defying the law, but it was not a large school so before very long, my gang was fingered and I was found out to be the leader. They really took this stuff

seriously; my parents had to go to a school board meeting where the idea of suspending me from school was discussed. After that, at least for a while, I conformed and fell into line like the rest of the robots, but I was always thinking.

Remember the girl I liked in first grade? I romanced her by pulling her pigtails. Well another love came into my life; her name was Linda and I thought she was beautiful. In third grade you showed a girl you liked her by throwing dirt clods not at her, but in her general direction. This would usually happen while we were walking home from school. The result was another girl who was inept and did not see romance when it was staring her in the face. I had some great friends there, but after two years, we moved again.

Here I want to add a brief statement about the times we were living in. Up until the 1950s and 1960s the United States was quite different than it is now. Homeowners were more common than renters were. I never had known anyone who lived in an apartment. You not only knew your neighbors, but neighborhoods were like extended families, at least to us kids. The older kids looked out for the younger ones. Doors were locked before you went to bed, not all the time like they are now. Security screen doors, no such thing. A screen door yes, to keep the flies and mosquitoes out. Crime was not always on everyone's lips and reading the newspaper was not always depressing.

The biggest taboo of all was if your mom worked. I don't mean Avon or things along that line. I mean if she had a fulltime job. It meant one major thing and everyone would talk about it. John Doe cannot support his family, he must be a slacker. Oh, the shame that went with having a working mom. Out of all my friends and my parents' friends, we knew one woman that worked.

Besides inflation, prices increased faster than wages did, the government having their hands in our pockets up to their elbows. I am not sure what contributed to the fact that one income could no longer support a family.

In addition, most people spent time getting a tan, no SPF anything (the sunrays must not be harmful). Almost everyone smoked; non-smokers were rarer then than smokers are now. Evidently, that wasn't harmful for you either. Vegetarians, I had never heard of one, steak and potatoes was the meal of choice.

Finally yet importantly, fashions regarding clothing. Girls going to school did not reveal almost all they had. Short skirts by definition are much shorter now. Moreover, beachwear did not come close to showing everything a girl had. Sex came at a much later age than it does today. With the commercialization of sex, that is not hard to figure out why.

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Chapter 4

We actually bought a house

We moved in the summer after third grade to a house near the beach community of Carpinteria. It was in the country, a group of about thirty houses scattered in an area called Serena Park, about three miles north of Carpinteria. I remember my dad was house hunting and he found this house and he needed $1500 for the down payment. The only way he could get that much money was from my rich grandfather and he very much disliked him. We had actually left Oregon because the house we lived in was owned by my grandfather. According to my dad he had done some work for my grandfather and was told he could buy the house we were living in for a cheap price. When it came to that point, he said my grandfather had raised the price and to punish him he moved his daughter and two grandkids to California. So, you can see there was no love lost between them. I think my mom was the one who asked for the money. Still my dad would have gotten it anywhere else if he could have.

The house was an old army barracks, which had been raised up and had a stucco exterior added. It was just a rectangle, with two bedrooms and 1 ½ baths with a porch and utility room, but it was nice and had a nice front and backyard. We had highway 101 right behind us, but we had a thick hedge to break up the noise and after a while, you didn't even notice it.

I loved the area. We had an avocado orchard across the street and down the street was a lemon orchard. It was an agricultural area, with lots of orchards and planted fields and vacant land (no track houses yet). The mountains were right behind us and across the highway was the beach.

A nice Point Break called Serena Point. Over the years I saw Serena with big waves probably 20 plus feet and the waves never closed out no matter how big it got. The waves were perfect form. The other side of the highway was Padaro Lane — google it and you will see how rich the people who lived there were. The rich people considered it their beach because they owned all the access to it, but that was never a problem for me. I had many friends who lived on Padaro Lane. At one friend's house we would see movie stars on the beach occasionally visiting his neighbor who had something to do with movies. Kevin Costner lives a couple houses down from where my friend used to live. Now walls have been built and high fences and electric gates, so I don't even know if anyone I once knew still has family there.

Back to the story, it was a great place to grow up. It had lots of places to explore and a huge old tree house next to the creek that divided the landscape.

Whenever we moved to a new neighborhood my brother would send me out to meet people. I was very sociable and he was not, so basically I would find his friends for him. It wasn't a very big community, but there were just enough kids. Also, the adults were very friendly, but that had to do with the time period we were living in. I remember crashing my bike and there was like ten adults checking on me and washing my wounds and giving me milk and cookies. It is sad that an era like that had to end.

My best friend was Richard K.; his dad was an agriculture teacher at the high school. He had two sisters (one older, one about a year younger) and he had a younger brother who followed me around like a puppy. I was told that for some reason he idolized me, poor kid. He had even less common sense than I did. Richard's younger sister was pretty cute, but somehow I had grown a little shy around girls, so I never pulled her hair or threw dirt clods around her. Besides the usual

exploring and playing with other kids, every Saturday we played Monopoly until we broke the bank, even if it took all day. Also, on Friday night they would have movie night and I was always invited. In those days there was a movie, meaning one on Friday and one on Saturday night on the TV, no VCR, or DVD, just a few channels on the TV, maybe six. So, most all families watched them no matter what movies they were. They had a TV room, which was cozy, and we all sat huddled together. Hot chocolate and fresh made popcorn were always served, what a treat. I was always made to feel like I was a family member. They were and are a great family. To my dismay, they moved to Santa Barbara on the Riviera when I was thirteen. We kept in contact for a time; I would visit or stay overnight, but in time we lost touch.

I have a dilemma here; I need to write about fourth grade. So, if you will forgive me I will just insert it in here. I don't know why moving again had such a negative impact on me.

Sometimes, I think it was because I felt I was at the age where you have already made the friends you are supposed to keep from here on out. I did feel cheated having to leave my friends of two years, plus all the older people on my neighborhood visitation list. I really was a good kid. I wish I could have stayed that nice, but things rarely come out as we expect.

This makes me feel like skipping to when and why the sweet kid existed no longer. Maybe just a peek, do you want a hint? Jumping ahead to 1966: I was 19 in the Army. I had a girlfriend and orders for Vietnam in hand. I gave her the option, but she said she did not want to date other guys while I was gone. Ten months later she sent me the classic Dear John letter (I have fallen in love with someone else).Funny thing was I had gotten a letter dated the day before and she still loved me and could hardly wait until I got home and we got married. Girls and Ladies do not ever do that. If you are so inclined, break up with him before he leaves or when he joins the military but not when he is far away from home and in a combat zone and can do nothing about the situation but feel helpless. More on that subject later. Now back to fourth grade.

Fourth grade and on, I remember my teacher's name. She was Mrs. Torres, a nice lady, not young, not old, just in between. I only remember a couple of kids from my class, one boy because he was always in trouble. And one girl that invited me on a date to the movies. It was probably the first official date I ever had. Her name was Susan T. and she was smart and nice. Oh, how I remember that date, it was a disaster (all my fault). All was well at the movie for a time, but then my best friend spotted me and he sat right behind us and teased me without mercy. You see we weren't yet at the age when it was accepted to be with a member of the opposite gender. Before the end of our date, I submitted to peer pressure and was sitting with my friend. Sorry Susan, I always felt bad about that, but we did remain friends all the way through high school.

During most of fourth grade I was having a problem swallowing, I felt like I had something stuck in my throat. This really scared the heck out of me. I told my parents and was checked out, even had the upper GI where you swallow barium. They found nothing wrong, but the symptoms still remained and tortured me. I know what it was now, stress and maybe slight anxiety attacks. Probably moving and the loss of all my friends again. By the end of the school year, it had left as fast as it had come and I was functioning normally. Well, I had better add I was functioning normally for me. I am not sure I was ever normal. And that brings into play the old question, what is normal?

Fifth and sixth grade were a blur. The only thing I remember about fifth grade was a girl Rose and myself were the smartest kids in the class. Sixth grade I must have taken a year off from being smart. I think I did all right, but I don't remember any accolades for that year. The biggest

thing about that year was my parents got into golf. They tried to make it a family thing. So, we all had golf lessons. I loved golf and I practiced diligently. My first set of clubs was given to me by my rich grandfather. They were hickory shafted and old, but the shaft matched my swing. I had a somewhat flat golf swing which was tailor made for these clubs. Later on my dad gave me his old set of clubs. I was a good golfer for a twelve year old. I could beat adult golfers on a semi-regular basis and dreamed of being a golf pro. Then my parents lost interest in the game and there went my dreams. I couldn't afford the hobby on a dollar a week allowance. I didn't return to the game until my late twenties.

. Seventh grade I made a comeback and was one of the smarter kids in my classes and the smartest in my science class. The next year in eighth grade, they started a trial program. It had advanced classes for the smarter students. I think it was the forerunner of gate classes. I'm sorry to say I was moved into these advanced classes. Somehow, over the years I guess I hadn't been in the same classes as these other kids. I found myself bewildered that I was no longer anywhere near the top of my class anymore. Where had these geniuses been hiding? I had a foreign language that year, Russian and way higher math. I managed to survive that year and was in high school the next fall.

Somewhere in here, I had my first real girlfriend. She, her parents, four brothers, and a sister lived two houses away. I hung out with her mostly at her parent's house. It was a small house I don't recall how we got privacy to make out so often. Her parents loved me, and I would work with her father on his cars. I think I may have liked the family a little more at the time than I liked her. Her father was an engineer, surveying and such. He was a partner in a fledgling company, which was soon to take off. And with money, they moved to Montecito. Montecito was a very upscale area; it had expansive estates and smaller but nice houses. I ran into her once

at a movie after that. I started dating her again when I got my driver's license. I dated her until I was just out of high school. She announced to me one day that her parents would help me through college and I would have a job with his firm. And the bonus was that we wouldn't have to wait to get married. They would support us. I have to tell you that was the scariest moment of my life up to that point. The next time I had any contact with her was when I was 21 and had gotten home from Vietnam.

Chapter 5

High School

High School I remember it well. Now I was a little fish in a big pond again.

One thing I forgot to comment about was riding the school bus to and from school. We were picked up last at our bus stop, so, we also got home last. The trip coming home took 45 minutes to an hour. It was a beautiful trip, the scenery and casual conversations, or just kicking back and enjoying the ride. By the time I got home, I was so unstressed. We would usually drop our school stuff at home and go to the beach.

The first year of high school basically sucked. In those years, they still had hazing, which means the upperclassmen were allowed to pick on, torment or abuse you in any number of ways. The first week of school the boys had to wear their jeans inside out and I think we may have had to wear lipstick, but I am not sure, I may have blocked that from my memory. My big mouth got me into a lot of trouble during my freshman year. I would mouth off to upper class guys, because the ones who would usually pick on you weren't very smart, so I would insult them or make them angry in some way.

Then it was off to the races, they would chase me to beat me up. The problem for them was that I was about the fastest runner you ever saw. But, sometimes, not having eyes in the back of my head, these mental midgets would get their hands on me. Oh, well I was used to being worked over; my brother did it all the time. One time I was caught, I remember telling the hoodlums that if they messed with me (there were three of them), my older brother would beat them up. You have to remember these three were some of the tougher boneheads in the school. They said who is your brother? When I dropped his name, I could see fear in their eyes and they

let me go without touching a hair on my head. Through research I found out my brother was either the toughest kid in school or one of them. So, naturally I started to intimidate upperclassmen with the threat of being beat up by my brother. This was going rather well until someone told my brother what I was doing and then he beat me up. Oh well, it was fun while it lasted.

The most humiliating thing about ninth grade was the Slave Auction. They were actually allowed to auction us off for a week. The auction was held in the auditorium and we were up on stage, brought out one at a time and sold to the highest bidder. That is bad enough, but I was small, skinny and not attractive (I was a late bloomer, between my junior and senior year I grew and was actually nice looking). It didn't look like anyone was going to bid on me; finally I got a mercy bid from a really hot girl (what a relief). I got to carry her books for her and whatever else she wanted (I was in hog heaven), her name was Carol L. Wouldn't you know that by the next year hazing had been outlawed.

My brother being three grades ahead, he was a senior when I was a freshman. When he was a junior and 17, he talked my parents into letting him join the Naval Reserve. He talked a bunch of his skin diving friends into joining also. He was quite a bit smarter than I was, a straight A student as I remember. His school counselor telling my parents he could be anything he wanted. He got those grades by barely cracking a book. School came easy for him. I was always on the honor roll B's or better, but never straight A's except in my favorite subject, any and all sciences. During my brother's senior year he got bored with school and dropped out. My dad told him to go back to school or get kicked out of the house.

He left and went to Navy Boot camp. When he got home on leave from boot camp he said he hated the Navy. It seemed that all the regular Navy guys treated Reservists bad because they

were only in for two years active duty instead of the normal four. My brother had a plan; it seems he was smarter than the Navy. He went to an Army Recruiter and told him his story. He signed up for three years with the Army and they sent the Navy "a sorry about that" letter. The Navy was ticked, but couldn't do anything except send him an honorable discharge. The one thing that kind of sucked was that he had just finished Navy Boot Camp, now the Army was sending him to Basic Training immediately. He was sent to Fort Ord in Monterey, a very picturesque area, but the military has the knack of making anyplace a hellhole. He got half way through basic and caught pneumonia. When he got well he had to start all over again. So, he was there a long time, but he did seem to like the Army much better. Our dad having been a Marine, neither my brother nor I wanted to be like him.

When you hit the teenage years in our house, it appeared that you automatically didn't get along with dad anymore. As teenagers, we may have been a pain in the behind, but it was more than that, he seemed to take a dislike to us like an alpha male thing. After Basic Training he went to Fort Sam Houston, Texas, for training as a combat medic. I'm really glad he never was sent to Vietnam. I appreciated the medics in Vietnam, but their shelf life wasn't very long. It turns out that I actually missed my brother when he left. Maybe it was because there was no one else to share my father's wrath with.

I just had a brain rush. Writing nice things about my brother made me remember some of the things he did to me. Shall I share? I thought so. My parents would go grocery shopping, and out for lunch every Saturday and make a full day of it. That meant a full day of torture for me getting beat up a few times and somewhere during that time he would lock me in our small, dark bedroom closet. Until one day, I told him that I think it might be in his best interest to let me out. Well, I said casually that I'm going to start kicking on the wall until I kick a hole into the living

room. Then when dad gets home, I'll tell him how I freaked out when he beat me up and then locked me in the closet. It worked and he never did that again.

One that was most mentally damaging to me was blackmail. He was an expert at it. It seemed he always knew where the bones of my hidden secrets were. During sixth grade, I fell in with a bad crowd. They all smoked and shoplifted and things of that sort. Well I had a gift. I could walk through a store and leave with most of it. I never was caught. In fact I was so brazen that while talking to the owner of the small drugstore in town .I could fill my pockets with cigarettes from the counter display. The whole key to this feat was keeping eye contact with him and he was one scary dude. Remember I'm warning all you kids not do to this, if you get caught you are in big trouble. Well, somehow my brother heard of my exploits and the blackmail started. He gave me a list of items he wanted. If I didn't fulfill his demands, he said he would rat me out to mom and dad. A little advice, if a sibling of yours blackmails you, turn yourself in to your parents. It will prevent long-term suffering. How he would torture me was write on tiny pieces of paper _Crayton_ _is a thief_ , and walk through wherever my parents were and drop them every few paces on the floor. With me in hot pursuit, picking them up as they hit the floor. I can't imagine what my parents were thinking. I finally caved to his demands and delivered the goods he wanted. I then basically retired my shoplifting career.

Where we lived we had plenty of places to go shooting within walking distance. I had a BB gun and a couple of CO2 powered pellet guns. My brother had a .22 caliber rifle and pistol. One day he went shooting by himself. He was practicing his fast draw. He shot himself in the leg and limped to the closest house and they drove him to the only doctor in Carpinteria. An old retired Army Doctor. I can't remember his name, but I liked the guy. Now for a test of your memory, do you remember my brother's punishment for whacking me up side of the head with a cap gun

dropped in his pillowcase? That's right my dad broke all my cap guns. Now for quick draws punishment for wounding himself. My dad turned to me and said, "You are just like your brother; I will never let you own a firearm while you live under my roof".

Around this same time, my brother got his driver's license. First thing he did was crash into the back of a friend, who was driving his mom's car. Which, my dad had to pay for the repairs, no punishment for my brother. And then the finale; my dad had this car he loved. It was a 1958 Ford with the interceptor V-8 engine in it. With a car full of his friends, he was speeding on a curvy road Cravens Lane. He took out five trees before it came to rest. A major punishment this time: My dad turned to me and said again, "You are just like your brother. I won't let you get your license until you turn eighteen". Remember there maybe a test later.

This sucked the most, of any one of my father's stupid, lame judgments. It prevented me from dating, going to dances. It killed any high school social life, if I had ever imagined I may have one. I hope some parents are reading this and may learn something. My dad at times was a mean hardheaded ass.

My sophomore year was better. My studies went ok; I lettered in track and started surfing. Surfing was really awesome, at least after the initial learning curve. My best friend at the time was Guy S. He had just gotten a used board and we set out to learn how to surf. It was huge and took both of us to carry it any distance. I think it may have been a few feet shorter than the Queen Mary. Naturally not wanting to make fools of ourselves, we walked a great distance to a remote beach. Saying the beach was remote was an understatement. We never saw anyone there because you had to walk in over rough trails eroded by cascading water from torrential downpours. The weather here was nice most of the year, but when it rained it could drop ten or twelve inches in a heartbeat. There were caves, gullies and deep trenches. It was very cool. Lots

of driftwood made for nice warm bonfires. We would take our lunches and stay all day. Baking if the sun between turns on the surfboard.

One day, it was unusually sunny and the glare off the water was harsh. Near the end of the day, I was blind. My eyes were burned; I could see light or dark, but no shapes. We walked back to my house carrying the surfboard. Me, on the trailing end so he could guide my steps. It took over an hour to get to my house. It was three days before I got my vision back to where I could safely get around. My dad either knew a lot about sun blindness or didn't care enough to take me to the doctor. I am still trying to figure that one out.

I was really excited about getting back to the beach. We practiced daily and in short order we could stand up and just ride the board straight in to shore. Our skills weren't ready for the public yet and our style was more than awkward, it was ugly. Unexpectedly my best friend's dad died--heart attack. Guy had always admired him. He had played pro football. He was a lineman for the Detroit Lions back in the early days when they played because they loved the game ( not the money). Some of today's athletes disgust me. Twenty-six million a year to play a kid's game, as they shoot up steroids, to increase their stats to up their pay, is just plain wrong. Give me a minute to get down off my soapbox, thanks. His mom and he had to move, they could no longer afford the house they had. His mother got a good job in Long Beach. There went my friend and the Queen Mary.

Just down the street two identical houses were built and bought as soon as they were completed. A blended family moved in to one of them. Let me explain what I mean by a blended family pertaining to this one. There was the head of the house, he was in his forties and sold hearing aids (we all called him Uncle Fred). He had a daughter, she was like five and uncle Fred's mother did the cooking and cleaning, she was way old, but way cool. There were two

brothers, and Uncle Fred I believe was their guardian. But, I don't believe they were related to him. I met their mom. She was a nice lady and would come to visit them when she could. They had just moved up from Venice, California, and both were advanced surfers. Tony S. the oldest was a year behind me in school and his brother Mike was two grades behind him. I regarded Tony as a friend, but he was way high up in the surfing scene. Don't get me wrong. Mike was a very good surfer also. But, Mike was the one who was my surfing mentor. He took me under his wing and taught me to knee paddle, the catching of waves, the board balance points, turning and working the wave.

He had patience and I had tenacity. After months, I wasn't looking too bad. Except for the fact that I would usually shuffle toward the nose. Instead of gracefully walking it. Also when balancing with my hands, it sometimes looked like I was holding buckets instead of pointing them up. Other than that, I had very good balance. I had a minor problem, not knowing how to swim.

I found out one day I could actually swim. At least enough to save my life. Serena Point was breaking and there was a decent swell. "It was winter and cold". I was out alone and a friend David V. was on the beach warming up by the fire. I took off on a nice wave, I dropped in and made a nice bottom turn and raced down the face of the wave. Everything was fine until I was flying through the air and my board was gone. My surfboard fin had hit a large floating ball of kelp. The board stopped and I didn't. It washed ashore and David was keeping his foot on it so it wouldn't go into the rocks. I felt like I was a mile from shore, but I wasn't. I found that kelp ball and sat on it trying to catch my breath. That worked shortly, but I forgot to pay attention to the waves outside. I was blasted by a big set and was being churned like in a washing machine. When I came up the kelp ball was nowhere in sight. No choice but to swim for it. I knew I

should swim parallel to the beach because of the current. But a straight line in was so much of a shorter distance. I was lucky, if it had been a bigger day, I probably couldn't have fought the current. When I was finally able to touch the rocks with my toes. I quit swimming and started to try and walk in, big mistake. I tried and fell a dozen times and my legs were shredded by the barnacles on the rocks. When I got in I was totally wasted, blood was flowing down both legs. David said, "You have to go back out right now or you never will again". I nodded, picked up my board and paddled out. I took off on a clean wave wondering where the heck that kelp ball was. I leaned down and grabbed the rail with my left hand. I finally sat down and grabbed both rails so hard I probably left my fingerprints in them. But, I wasn't going to lose my board. Where was the guy who invented leashes when I needed him?

After this, I started going to the YMCA and started doing laps to increase my confidence. I forgot a funny story, I will squeeze it in here, it is about my first surfboard and you won't believe it. New custom boards in those days cost around $125 and that was major bucks. Although I had a few yard jobs saving that, much money was going to take a while. Mike and I did our research, and checked the Owl Shop and the Yater Shop and found a few used boards, which were right for me and in around the $45 to $50 range. And one other thing that was in my favor, it was nearly Christmas. We wrote all the boards down and I gave the list to my dad and assured him this is what I wanted. Come Christmas morning there was a new surfboard under the tree and it was bright passionate pink (I swear).

Here is the story around this. He was out working in Goleta and saw this surfboard plant. They told him he could buy factory direct and I could have a new board for $60, not a used one for $50, so he kicked in the extra $10. I know he thought he had done a great thing, so I acted happy and excited. But, a hot pink pop out (a Borm, it had an iron cross sticker). A pop out is a

non-custom board, which is made by injecting liquid foam into a mold, and cooking it, it has no wood stringers, which add extra strength. This board didn't even have a coat of fiberglass cloth over it; just a hard shell like an M&M. Mike showed me how to work with resin, fiberglass and pigment (which you add to the resin for color). The first time I took it surfing I found out an M&M has a harder shell. It needed major work just from running into the sand. Do you know how much I must have loved surfing to carry a hot pink surfboard under my arm? I started leaving it out in the sun to fade the pink. It helped some. I kept my surfboard in Mike and Tony's garage. It was broken into, both their boards were stolen, but my crappy one wasn't touched. I was surprised the thief or thieves didn't feel sorry for me and leave me some money to get a better board. This was the only time I was happy I had that board. I finally took it to the Owl Shop and had Jeff W. pigment it a pearl gray and I managed to sell it for $40. Tony had put on a redwood tail block for me for $5 and it looked pretty good. It had major repairs, one time it was cut half way through when two of us on a wave collided. I had the right of way and he wasn't a local. So, let's just say he was taken care of when he took off on another wave. He was the victim of a head hunting kick out by Mike.

I finally got a well- used but acceptable Owl surfboard (I was sad, it wasn't pink). The Owl rode like a dream and it was my first of many Owl boards. The Owl and Yater shops were just down the road in Summerland about a mile and a half away. Jeff White was a great guy and I would stop in and visit him anytime I was in town until he retired.

The one thing about surfing is that when you are out in the line- up, all your problems seem to melt away. And I can remember good rides I had just like it was yesterday. Also, the side benefits were the fact that you were in excellent physical condition and I also believe it helped you mentally.

Our neighborhood started to change. A high-end tract of houses were built just a few blocks south of us. The houses probably cost four times what our house cost, or more. So, there were higher than middle class people there. We had a big shot that worked for Disney Studios in the Cartoon Division. A retired Army Colonel, A Pharmacist, a Superior Court Judge, a Commercial Fisherman who owned his own boat. And a load of other upper class people,

Most of them seemed normal and nice. With the exception of the Colonel-- he was a cranky old man. Possibly, because these were the first sidewalks ever in our neighborhood and we would skateboard down them at night. And his house was on the end of one of the best downhill runs. It was a steep sidewalk and at the bottom, you would have to crank a hard 90-degree turn or crash into the street. He would come out and yell at us. All that yelling probably wasn't good for his health.

I loved skateboarding. I even to this day skateboard. In the early days it wasn't bouncing off things and junk like that. It was like riding a nice wave. I think short surfboards polluted skateboarding just like they did surfing. Kind of gave it a jerky crappy styl-- I'm old school soul surfer type. My first store bought skateboard was a Makaha ( the longer model). Thanks to Mike S., he bought one and decided he wanted the shorter one and gave me a good deal on it. They had I believe what were called clay wheels in those days. They couldn't roll over a tiny pebble or even a grain of rice-- they would come to a screeching stop. Leading to many head injuries and I am the proud owner of stitches in my head from one such incident .

We were skateboarding at a tennis court on Padaro Lane, it belonged to an old estate. I was cruising along with no worries and then was flying through the air. I cracked my head on the concrete, my head hitting it right above my right eye. I couldn't see out of that eye after, the blow split my head and the skin was hanging down over my eye. Lots of blood and I knew I was really hurt. I held pressure on it and walked over to the Van Ness house. They took care of me until my parents got there and they rushed me into Carp to the doctor's office. I got 10-15 stitches maybe and had a super black eye. It looked really cool, I wore sunglasses to school the next day so I didn't draw crowds. Anyway the wheels on skateboards now, heck, I can run over small cars.

Mike was still my best friend, but I made a couple of other friends from the new development. One was Jan D., we nicknamed him crazy because he drove like a maniac and I'm not sure he was all there. He was a few years older than me and had finished high school at a boarding school. His parents were really old and he even had old brothers, so chances are he was an accident. But, we got along well and he got me interested in folk music. Like Peter, Paul and Mary, Joan Baez and The Chad Mitchell trio and others. He worked for his dad, not fulltime but enough that he always had money. His dad owned coin vending machines like washers and dryers in Laundromats. If you are old you don't have to be weird, but his parents were. When the 1964 ½ Ford Mustangs came out his parents bought a bronze one. It had a 260 V-8 and a manual

3-speed on the floor transmission. It was fast and very sweet looking. The only Fords I ever liked were Mustangs, unless you are talking really old cars. I am and probably always will consider myself a Chevy guy. I used to race him on the back roads, but we will get into that later because that would be right after I graduated and I think I'm only through the tenth grade in my book. The other friend I made was Bob J. He was one year behind me in school. His dad was a pharmacist, his mom sold Avon, but I'm sure they didn't need the money and his older brother went to USC. The whole family was very nice and made you feel at home (even like you were family). I would go over some nights and just visit and watch TV with his family.

I know you are wondering why I never stayed home with my family, or why my friends never came over there. I guess, maybe it was because of my dad. He could make you feel unwanted even if you belonged. But, I'm really not sure why, possibly the old, "The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence" thing.

Back to school, my junior year was forgettable, nothing of note that I remember except that I bought a car. It was a 1949 Chevy, 2- door fastback. It only had a 6-cylinder engine with a manual tranny, but it ran good. The body and paint were nice and the interior was good except I needed to scrounge a rear seat. I would sit in it sometimes at night and listen to the radio. I was 16 and old enough to drive, but as you will remember my dad wouldn't allow me to get my driver's license till I was 18. This would come in January of my senior year. Oh, I did know how to drive and I did drive my car on Saturdays when my parents were doing their all day get away in Santa Barbara. I mowed the lawn and every time I filled the lawnmower, I would put a little in my car. With my dad always wondering how that mower used so much gasoline. When the gas gauge would register, I would drive up to Summerland and buy a couple more gallons of gas. Jan D. would usually accompany me on these excursions. Lucky for me, one time I ran out of gas and we had to push it home and got it in the driveway, just before my parents arrived home.

My dad had a weird rule with my brother and me. We could do anything we wanted, but if we got in trouble, he wouldn't lift a finger to get us out. My junior year passed and it was summer.

I loved the summer, the sun, the nice waves and all the bikinis. The first order of business was getting a tan; you would start with getting: a good sunburn as a base and eventually build up to a nice mahogany colored tan. In those days almost everyone had a tan, no one either knew or told anybody that there was a danger of skin cancer. I now have melanoma and have had three

surgeries. But, I have been lucky so far, it has only been in my top few layers of skin. I have to be checked every six months and I can no longer be in the sun without SPF 1000. Also almost everyone smoked and we were never told of any long term health threats. Probably because the Tobacco Lobby was so strong and bought off all the politicians. My dad died at 53 with lung cancer. I had planned for my senior year since I was a freshman. I had taken a full load of classes the first three years. Now as a senior, I only needed a few more credits to graduate. So, I took the least number of classes they would let me take. And I threw in a study hall so I wouldn't have to take any work home. It started off nice, but with all that free time, I started to mess up. I'm going to warn you beforehand that I'm going to talk about drugs. The use of them will not be glamorized and I am warning that if you use drugs, sooner or later, you will pay a heavy price, up to and possibly including your life. I'm not sure when the drug use started, but it started to go hand in hand with surfing. I got drunk with my car guy friends on Friday night and got stoned with my surfer buddies on Saturday night. My friend whose dad was a pharmacist was also a salesman for a large drug company. His garage was like a drugstore. He had a five gallon jug of codeine cough syrup that he set up on a water cooler stand. He would fill samples for doctors from it. We would fill our canteens with it. He also had cases and cases of prescription pain pills. Which somehow managed to get to a large percentage of the surfers in Carpinteria? I remember being so high in our government class that I was drooling all over myself and making squeaking noises at the teacher (we called him mouse). One or two should have worked-- for some reason I took ten. That was the last time I took any painkillers for a long time. I want to add here that in our class of 105 we lost more people to drugs than we did to Vietnam, car accidents or anything else. If you play, you will pay.

Sometime in the fall, my friend Darryl C. picked me up to go out drinking. A young surfer neighbor begged to go along, we said okay. We went to our usual contact and he went and got our booze for us. We decided that night on country club stout malt liquor. We drove into Santa Barbara and instead of going to one of our usual drinking spots, which were in the hills and hidden, we decided, or Darryl did, we drove to the parking lot at the beach where couples went to make out. There was one way in and one way out. There must have been fifty cars in that lot. We figured it was a safe place. This would have been funny under other circumstances. A police car drove in the entrance and every car left immediately except for us. I hid my can in the Chevy's heater. I don't know where the other guy hid his, but they never found our cans. But, Darryl put his can under the car right below the driver's door. That one was found. They had initially checked us out because it was just after 10 P.M. and that was the curfew if you were under eighteen. Except now, we had the extra charge of alcohol. They didn't really arrest us. We were taken into custody, written up at the police station, and then locked in a holding cell. They made it clear they were going to wait till really late to call our parents to come and get us. So they would be really ticked at us. They took us out one at a time and grilled us about where we had gotten the booze. No one's story matched, we weren't rats and were not going to abolish our supply lines. To my surprise, my dad actually came to get me out. But, my dad got really angry when he had to sign to get Darryl out. His parents were out of town and he would have had to stay in custody until Monday. I got home and my mom was crying and making a fuss as if I had just committed some serious crime. She kept saying, "Where have we gone wrong". She and my dad were church people, but they quit forcing me to go at about twelve so I never went back.

It got more interesting when a few days later they got a summons to show up at a county probation office with me in tow. They only required one parent; my dad was working so my mom took me. We were shown into an office with a female probation officer. You will notice I am not using the word lady. She was a (the B word), the first thing she said was, if she ever caught me in a car drinking with a girl, she would have me neutered. I told her to screw off and my mom piped in saying you can't talk to her like that. I said yes I can and yes, I will. The person yelled at me, "I have you until you are eighteen and I'll make your life miserable". I told her to take a look at my birth date you moron and I turned and walked out of her office. I had turned eighteen the week before. My mom was all huffy at me saying I was disrespectable, but I said she started it. My parents did nothing to me for my brush with the law.

A couple of weeks later Darryl got us an invitation to the most prestigious car guy party in the county. It was up San Marcos Pass and we were the youngest people there, the average age being twenty something. There were hot rods, a ton of women and all the booze in the world to drink. I was having a blast, I did a Mexican hat dance, was tanked and had a pretty girl under each arm. And Darryl wanted to go home and threatened to leave me there if I didn't leave right then. I was so ticked at him, neither one of us had to go home. I was staying at his house, his parents were again out of town, and his older sister didn't care what we did. I told him to drop me off at my house because I was too mad to talk to him.

I was very drunk so he laid me on my front lawn. I laid there awhile until I could stand up. I couldn't sneak in; my parents always stayed up late and watched the late movie on Friday night. I practiced walking a straight line, when I was satisfied with my performance I entered through

the front door that went right into the living room. The next morning I woke up feeling good, no hangover, I never got a hangover on beer. I thought I would have a leisurely breakfast and then go surfing. I noticed a huge wet spot on my bedroom carpet, but we had pets so I figured one of them had an accident. By this time my brother was home, he had just gotten out of the Army. I went into the kitchen where everyone was gathered and let's just say it hit the fan and I had no idea what they were talking about. My brother enlightened me later. He said I walked into the living room and said goodnight and that I was tired, then I took a couple steps and said goodnight again and passed out cold on the floor. When he and my dad were carrying me to bed, I barfed all over the carpet in my room. And I remembered none of it. I was yelled at some more, I got my board and went surfing, no punishment.

Then, after a few more weeks, there was another incident. One of my drinking buddies got a Corvair Monza Spyder. This was supposed to be the fastest one. These cars were unsafe-- the front end was light and at high speeds could lift off the ground. Generally, the owner would put a bag of concrete under the hood for stability (the engine was in the rear). We had a full ice chest and we were driving around drinking. There was John T., Barrett J., Bill H. and myself. John and I were in the back seat. We ran into Darryl and tried to talk him into coming along, but he just wouldn't go with us. It turns out he made a very wise decision. We stopped at a girl's house we knew on Foothill Rd. (I think). And we told her we were going to see how fast it would go. We got on highway 101 heading north towards Santa Barbara. Passing by Summerland you come to Ortega Hill. Once we got over the top we started gaining speed and the numbers were being shouted out. 75,80,85,90,95 and the next thing I remember was my head being slammed into something hard and I lost consciousness. I remember hearing someone crying and saying I have killed him. I looked up and Bill and Barrett were standing over me crying. I assured them that I

was indeed alive. Now we were still missing John. He and I had gotten thrown out through the back window, the car went end over end, when the front lifted up and crashed in the ice plant. After a while, we heard John, he was a hundred yards or so behind us. He had a road sign stuck in his arm.

This happened right in front of the Miramar Hotel, a swanking place where some black tie event was going on. I struggled to stand up, just as I got my footing a man in a tuxedo came up to me and said, "Lay down son, you are dying". Heck, I couldn't see myself; I assumed I was a bloody mess with body parts hanging off me. The ambulance got there and asked me where I hurt, I said I'm dying. They said get the gurney over here quick. They kept trying to lift me up onto the gurney, but I was holding onto the ice plant for dear life. They said we have to get you to the hospital. I said you aren't putting me on that and they asked why not. I said you will put me on the gurney and pull a sheet over my head and tell me I'm dead. You can see I didn't have full control of my faculties.

They finally talked me into letting them put me in the front seat of the ambulance. As they zoomed down the road, I asked if we were paying for this ride and they said yes. I asked if it was expensive and they said yes again. I said, well then, let's see how fast this thing will go. They stuck it to the floor and on our way to the hospital they almost crashed. We got to the hospital, John was taken right to surgery. Barrett needed some stitches in his head, he cut it while climbing out through the windshield. The driver Bill wasn't hurt at all. I couldn't walk, I had pulled tendons and muscles in my legs. They put us in wheelchairs and we started having races down the halls. The nurses retrieved us, locked our wheelchairs and put us in a locked room with no bathroom.

Bill, Barrett and I complained we needed to use the restroom. They brought us each a big stainless steel pitcher and said we could pee in them and they left the room. I said don't go in

those, they said why not. I said they suspect this was alcohol related, lucky for us the ice chest was empty. Ok, they asked, "What do we do?" I dragged myself over to the window, we were on the second floor, and I struggled to my feet and peed out the window onto the ambulances below. Bill and Barrett followed my example. Minutes later the nurse came in to get the pitchers, they were all bone dry. I said false alarm we only thought we needed to pee.

The nurses were all telling us how lucky we were to be alive-- two kids had hit a telephone pole at 25MPH and they didn't know if they were going to live. My dad picked me up, I was barely able to use crutches. He took me home and for the first time in my life he let me smoke in the house. I slept on the couch-- it was to hard to get into my bed. I had quite a few nightmares that night and for months to come. I missed some school and when I was back, I was on crutches for quite a while. One of the coaches at school who I really liked called me into his office and said, "You being drunk may have saved your life, but if you weren't drunk you probably wouldn't have been in that accident". I got his point, not that it remained in my head very long. I was starting to wonder if I was going to live through my senior year.

Once back in school I continued on my quest to get an "A" "5". "A" for academic excellence and a "5" for a citizenship grade, which was the worse grade you could get, it meaning you were a disruptive influence. I had been trying for that combination for four long years, but when you got an "A" no teacher would give you a "5", it would bring a magnifying glass on their control of the classroom. In English when I wanted a break or a cigarette, I would get up and throw someone's books out the window. But, all Mrs. Hall would do was give me a trashcan and tell

me to go pick up papers and at the end of class come back and she would look in the can to make sure I had done as instructed. I would head for a big trashcan in the senior area, fill my can, stash it in the bushes, go sit up in the announcer's box in the football stands, smoke a few cigarettes, and return to her class at the end of the period. She would tell me that she hoped I had learned my lesson. She never sent anyone that I remember to the vice principal's office. I don't think she ever gave me worse than a "3" in citizenship, which was satisfactory.

But, I had an elaborate plan, which involved my earth science class. My earth science teacher was a cool old guy named Mr. Burton. It also was a class with all guys and 90% of them were surfers. I had tried to get in trouble in that class before, but the most I ever got was detention. But, this time I was sure I had the perfect plan. One time during a test I had turned on the gas to a Bunsen burner outlet. My friend was so fully distracted by the test he didn't see me turn it on and light it. I slowly turned the flame higher till his test burst into flames. Shocked he just sat there holding it. I had to jump up, rip it from his grip, throw it on the floor, and stamp out the flames. All Mr. Burton did was look up and say, "Do you have that under control Bates"? and I said, "Yes sir". After that, he turned the gas off to all the tables, but I knew where the master valve was. Before I get any further into my latest plan, let me tell you a few stories about the goings on in that class. One time a girl transferred in from another school and she was nice looking, too. Picture this, all guys and mostly surfers, I was surprised she made it through one period. When he showed a movie 99% of us would climb out the windows and not return until the next day. One time I stayed to see his reaction to starting a film with 25 students present and by the end, there were only three left-- there was no reaction. He was about 75; maybe he was just losing touch with reality. On to the day of my plan, I had instructed all the guys to how this was going to go down. I was going to sneak into class early and turn the main gas valve on. We each were going to just barely crack open a Bunsen burner outlet and when the gas odor was strong enough I was going to fall off my lab stool and then the rest of the guys would start to go down. Well we did it; he raced around opening the windows and started to drag guys out into the hall. That is when I knew I had gone too far. This guy was a good guy and he was old, I could have given him a heart attack. I really did feel bad. For some reason, I was called into the vice principal's office. I acted as if I did not know why I was there; he never brought up the classroom incident. He said I want to discuss your grade in earth science. Heck I knew I had the highest grade in class, he said not that grade. He said your "5" in citizenship; I finally made it, although it did not seem to be as fulfilling as I thought it was going to be. He also threw in a bonus, a heap of detention and adding that with what I already had for ditching school, it was a sizeable amount. I could not go out for track that year; practice ran the same time as my detention. Moreover, I missed my bus ride home everyday. Lucky for me Bob J. had tennis and his mom would give me a ride home. I believe I still owed about 80 hours of detention when I graduated. But my trouble for the year hadn't ended yet. I tried to stay out of trouble, but it seemed to find me where ever I hid and school was quickly ending.

The senior quad was an area of benches where only seniors could sit. There was a loose knit tradition that seniors would sleep overnight in the quad the last Sunday night before graduation week. Only a handful showed up and a few of us got drunk. I think what pissed the school off was the trashcan on top of the flagpole. I remember watching Jim M. doing it, but to this day, I couldn't figure out how someone could climb a high flagpole with a big trashcan and put it over the top. It was easy for the school officials to spot who spent the night in the quad-- we were rumbled and had bloodshot eyes.

I was again called into the vice principal's office, it seems I had missed an assembly and they had taken attendance. Busted. I was told I was being expelled from school for two weeks. I said you could not do that, we only have a couple of days left. He said, "Now you are getting the picture, you will have to come back next year and repeat a full semester". I said, sorry I have plans. I told him I would be in Hawaii and did not give a damn about graduating anyway. Wow! He really backed off quick, he told me no more trouble and you can graduate with your class.

I made it, I graduated, an amazing feat. Now for the all- night senior party, it was going to be held at an estate on Padaro Lane, right across the highway from where I lived. I planted vodka in the bushes. We had to take a bus to the party to keep alcohol from getting there. It was a special occasion so I drank a pint of vodka before getting on the bus, usually a half pint and a few beers was enough, but how many all- night senior parties do you have?

Things did not play out exactly as I planned; it took a little while for the vodka to hit. When it finally did, I was blasted, so the only thing to do was go out to my stash and retrieve another pint. I guess the booze numbed my senses and I didn't notice the cops following me around while I was looking for more to drink. They said, "Are you looking for this"? as they held up a nice bottle of vodka, "I said yes thanks" and as I reached out for it. They wouldn't give it to me. It seems they had searched the grounds before the party and I was under arrest. Several girls pleaded with them not to arrest me, after all, it was my senior party and they would take care of me the rest of the evening. They released me into these young ladies' custody after they grilled me on where I got the booze. I issued my stock answer of I found it in the trash and they withdrew from my presence.

The one thing I have wanted to know since June of 1965, is who were the young ladies that babysat me all night, because I do not remember anything till the next morning. It appeared I had barfed on myself because I was wet, but clean. I just for almost fifty years have wanted to thank these ladies. I guess I missed one heck of a party, maybe somebody could tell me about it sometime. They fed us breakfast the next morning; amazingly, I didn't have a hangover. As they bused us back to school, I felt somewhat sad. A major chapter in my life had ended. And lots of these people I would never see again.

Now to the important things to get done, I needed to get my driver's license. My brother had a 1960 MG that my father had loaned him $1,000 to buy when he got out of the Army. He made my dad extremely angry, so of course being the way it worked in my family, he wanted to neuter me. I ran out the door and said no way. What finally happened was, since my brother never had made a payment on the car, my dad did something amazing. He gave me half ownership in the car and didn't make my brother pay anything either. I finally had a chance to pay my brother back J.

I got my license on my second attempt, having failed the driving test the first time. Trust me, in those days they only passed girls on their first test, or they would cry; they always flunked guys the first few times, really, really. A driver's license and fifty percent use of a sweet ride, summer of 1965 was off to a great start. Now it gets fun! Test time, remember my friend with the 1964½ Ford Mustang? If you don't, you are penalized about twenty pages and you have to sit facing the corner for half an hour.

We were the terror of the back roads from Carpinteria to Santa Barbara. If you are in the area, but not from here, get a map and get on to the back roads. Besides, having some wild curves

and low to high elevation, it is one beautiful drive. We would take the bus sometimes from Serena to S.B. It took a long time-- an hour or hour and a half, but it was just awesome. That might be better, park your car and get a bus schedule. Back to the races, his car may have had faster acceleration, in the curves he didn't have a chance and I think I could have taken him by a little in the top end also (close, maybe). One day we were tearing up Toro Canyon and then we were heading on East Valley Road towards S.B. , I was out in front and turned up Ortega Ridge Road. I pulled right off the road on to a slightly muddy patch of ground, got out of my car, and was intently looking under the back of my car. Jan pulled up behind me, jumped from his car, and said what's wrong? I said, "I think I blew the tranny, man I'm really in trouble".

As he looked under my car, I jumped in it and slung a stream of mud all over him and his car. To fully grasp how funny this was you would have to realize that he washed and waxed that car daily. I was laughing hard, but I knew I had to outrun him until he calmed down, but I just could not stop laughing. I darted up Sheffield Drive to get back up to East Valley Road heading toward S.B. and I took every curvy stretch of road I could find. I was in the lead without a problem, but he was pushing the limit of his car and his driving skills. I finally pulled off on Sycamore Canyon Road. I slowed down and pulled over and he pulled up next to me. I said, " Are we cool or are you still mad"? He was ok, we went back to Serena and I helped him clean his car.

We would take turns being the lead car; we were up around the East Valley and Sycamore Canyon Road area. We were at a stop sign and there was a blind 90-degree turn right away, so you had to kind of listen and slowly pull out and hope someone like us wasn't coming around the corner. I turned onto East Valley heading toward Montecito. I pulled up to the stop sign and thought heck with it. I stuck the gas pedal to the floor and popped the clutch. I was going sideways through that 90 degree corner, with most of my car in the wrong lane and of course

there was a car coming the other direction. We managed to miss each other; he had slammed on his brakes and was part way off the road. In my rearview mirror I could see him sitting there either cussing me out or cleaning his boxers. Me, on the other hand, learned when in doubt power out, meaning you have more control of your car under power than you do when you slow down. Jan turned down a road I had never been on before and the road ended right around the next corner in a circular turn around which was covered in gravel. He slid around the corner, he had hit his brakes and cranked his steering wheel to keep from ending up somewhere down the rough terrain. I had no choice but to do the same. I don't know how many times we did complete circles but it was quite a few. By the time our cars were stopped, we ended up pointing in opposite directions, we were about six inches apart, and had never touched each other. People were running out of their houses thinking there was an accident. So, in our wisdom we jammed our cars into first gear, stuck the gas to the floor and got the heck out of there.

Shortly after that, we quit racing each other, not because we weren't still friends, but because I sold my half of the car to my brother. Having a car half the time wasn't enough for me anymore.

Chapter 6

Entering the workforce

Mike my surf guru had gotten a summer job at a greasy spoon on Santa Claus Lane. I had been looking for work, trying to find a career job, but wasn't having any luck. And the reason I couldn't get on with Edison, the Gas Company or the Telephone Company was because of a bill the government had passed. Fifty thousand guys a month were being drafted and the majority being sent to the meat grinder in Vietnam. So, the government passed a law making the employer hire you back after you got out of the service and not only that, but hiring you back at the wages you would have been earning if you had never left. All that accomplished was when I applied at the Telephone Company they told me to check back with them after my military service was out of the way and they would see if they had any openings. Sure enough when I got out of the Army, in June of 1968, they hired me on the spot.

I ended up working as a dishwasher at the greasy spoon with Mike--at St. Nick's Café. I think we worked six ten-hour or six eight-hour days, with only one day off a week. We alternated opening at 6 AM or closing around 10 PM, but when you closed you usually didn't get out of there till midnight or later sometimes 1 or 1:30AM depending on how much of a mess there was. All this for one dollar an hour-- I didn't realize minimum wage was $1.25. The owner Bob was a

nice guy, but very cheap. With the buck, an hour we did get two free meals and the food was really good. "The chili was the best I had ever eaten and the hamburgers were great".

A lot of college girls worked there as waitresses during the summer, most I had gone to school with and they were one-three years older than me. It was fun, to actually get to know them, they were a nice bunch of young ladies. I remember Nancy C. she was a hoot, she was a cutie and had a good sense of humor. We just got to be friends nothing more. One day I asked her if she wanted to have a beer, she said sure, but how. I said I clean the floor of the walk-in refrigerator several times a day, then go out, and burn the trash out back behind some trees where the incinerator was and I would let her know. I had her out there at least four times that day and she was close to being on her butt. I barely had a buzz. Boy, was she amusing, she would start giggling and she could not stop. Lucky the owner's wife was not around and we were slow that day. I don't like to use the "B" word when I am talking about females, but there was no other word that accurately

describes this person, you well see what I mean later.

The benefits of having a job, as soon as I started getting a paycheck, my dad pulled me aside and said let's talk. He said do you want the deluxe package or just the barebones package? I said Huh? He explained for 10 bucks a week, I could live there and eat, or for 20 a week, I could live there and eat there, mom would still do my laundry and I could come and go as I pleased, no questions asked. I, took the deluxe package, he said, "good choice".

The best thing about closing at night was that even though the family lived in adjoining apartments you were there by yourself, you and the bottles of ice-cold beer. They could never keep a count on the beer, because the owner's alcoholic brother-in-law was a chef there and he lived upstairs and he would come down and raid the walk-in at least a couple of times during the evening. So, I usually made off with at least a six pack of beer a couple nights a week.

The first night I got my car insured, I got drunk after work and went on a wild rampage. I drove around and consumed a six-pack. I had sold my old car and bought a 1957 Ford Fairlane Convertible. I know I said I was a Chevy man, but this car was in good condition with nice paint (it was black) and had a nice interior. Besides, it was a convertible with a V-8 with a 4-barrel carb. and I wasn't planning on keeping it forever. I was looking for a '55-'57 2-door Chevy, but as of yet I hadn't found one that I could afford. I went to Carpinteria and cruised Linden Ave., the beach and Carpinteria Ave. It was probably 1:30 or 2AM and no one was out. So, I burned rubber everywhere I went, even down some of the sidewalks on Linden. Why did I do that (this will be on a test later)? It just seemed like the right thing to do at the time. I drove home the back way hitting speeds over 100 miles per hour.

Up ahead was a corner that was way more than 90 degrees, just a little north of the Polo Fields. The speed limit for this curve was 15 miles per hour. I was going uphill so I would have more control of the car; I had done this corner in the MG at 45 to 50 MPH. I knew this didn't corner anywhere near as good as the MG so I slowed to 35. I cranked the wheel hard as I down shifted and shoved the pedal to the floor. I got the car turned, but it continued to go sideways. My car slid off the road hit the side of a hill and hit a fence about 30 feet up the bank, then slid back down. My car was stuck in a ditch and I was only shaken up. I was able to get it free it by rocking it back and forth between reverse and first gear. I drove home; we had a thick ivy hedge in front of the house. I parked the right side of the car into the hedge so that my dad would not see it when he left for work.

The next morning I drove over to a friend's house and we spent all day, pounding out dents, putting on bondo, sanding and painting. It was lucky I had the day off. It looked almost perfect,

except for a little spot where the body was pushed up a little from the frame. I was outside when my dad got home and was getting ready to go into Carp (short for Carpinteria). He went right to that spot and said what happened there. Calmly I lied and said that was always there. I'm sure he didn't buy it, but he dropped the subject, so that was that. At night we would cruise and people would sit on the block wall at the end of Linden and sometimes if you saw a cute girl you would stop and talk to her. It was a slow night and I was parked talking to a friend of mine. He in his car me in mine with our windows rolled down. And, out of the blue, someone pulled my hair hard. I turned and it was a tan, slim, petite girl, who was cute as can be. She said are you a surfer? And I answered in the affirmative. We talked the rest of the evening with her sitting in my car. Denise was here for the summer with her mom and younger sister. Her father was a major in the Air Force and had just been stationed in Japan. They were staying here to give the girls a California vacation and give him time to get a house set up.

We both were in love from the second our eyes met. I admit it was puppy love, but I had girlfriends in the past and never felt like this about them. We spent every moment together, when I wasn't working and she would sit on the beach and watch me surf. Even with my long hair her mom really liked me. For some strange reason, girls parents always seemed to like me, even if the girl didn't. I didn't drink anymore at all that summer, no drugs either. I'm surprised we didn't wear our lips out that summer. At the end of the summer when she had to leave we were both heartbroken. Her mom brought her by the Café on their way out of town and we went out back and just stood holding each other.We wrote to each other for at least a couple of years. We were still writing when I was in Vietnam.

I stayed on at the diner after the summer, Mike went back to school and my boss made a big deal of the raise he gave me. I was now finally at minimum wage. I finally found a 1957 Chevy

2- door, this was a rarer one. It was a sport coupe, with the windows down; there is no post, sweet. The body was good, paint was nice and I had the interior redone. It had a 283 cubic inch V-8. So, I was very pleased to get this car. The winter went quick, no girls, no drinking and no drugs; I thought a lot about how I might find a way to get to Denise in Japan.

Now I get to share with you what kind of person the owner's wife was. In the early fall, one of the waitresses I had gone to school with got a call from her parents. Her brother was killed in Vietnam. The owner's wife wanted her to stay and finish her shift because it was almost lunch rush. The head waitress intervened and sent the girl home. She never came back. Can you believe someone could be so uncaring? She was the poster girl for women who are called the "B" word.

In December, I got in an argument with the owner's alcoholic brother. They told the Unemployment office that they had fired me, which was a lie; I left because he went to the back room and started throwing everything. The head waitress told me to leave because she feared for my safety. I didn't care I had been there six months, the job sucked and I was going nowhere fast. I couldn't find any work, but I had a little money coming in weekly from my brother who was still paying on the MG.

In January of 1966, I got my first draft notice. You didn't have to worry about the first one. They just wanted you to go down to the meat packing plant so they could grade the meat. When you got your second notice, you did not come back from that physical. I eventually ran out of money to pay rent and I thought why wait. I went down to the draft board and asked if I could volunteer to be drafted, they said yes and when? I said June 20th, I figured if I lived through it I would take the whole summer off and go look for a job in the fall. This got my dad off my back. The reason I didn't enlist was because I wanted Vietnam and the infantry and that is where draftees usually went. They didn't want to waste a lot of money on training you. Also, the fact was that I probably wouldn't like it and enlisting was one more year. I just didn't want to miss my war like my dad did. And I had no plans of making it a career, like one of my uncles did. The time to leave, was close, I had very long hair, about six inches below my shoulders. I went to the barbershop and had it cut off, to almost nothing left. It was easy to figure out that you wanted to blend in with the crowd and not be noticed. A fellow surfer friend of mine had already gotten his second draft notice. I tried to talk him into getting his haircut, but he said no. He was going to take LSD and convince them he was mentally unstable-- he had tried that the first time and it didn't work then, so I couldn't figure why he thought he would get away with it this time. He was wrong. They took him and because of his long hair, they called him lady all through basic training. What a moron!

I only had sandals, the kind with the tire tread on the bottom called huarache sandals, so I asked my dad to borrow $5 to buy a pair of shoes. He said, "No".

Chapter 7

The Army has me

Before, I start talking about my military experience. I would like to share a few things I learned with you. Without the people in uniform, we would have no freedom. As far back as our revolution to the present day, these people have laid it all on the line for you. As a Command Sergeant Major I know says, "When you join the military you are giving your country a blank check and they can fill it in for any amount, up to and including your life". Respect the people in uniform, and the veterans, thank them for their service. They fought in your place, for your safety and liberties. As a Vietnam Veteran, I will tell you from my personal experience. When someone thanks me now, it makes me feel good. I never had that happen to me forty-some years ago. During this section on the military, I will try and give you an idea of how it was, in case you never experienced military life during wartime. I will now climb down from my soapbox.

The day came and I left by bus to the Induction Facility in Los Angeles. The place was huge and several stories tall, with different colored lines going in all directions. My friend with his mop of hair was stoned out of his mind. They gave you paperwork and told you to follow a certain colored line. We felt more like livestock than people and it was very evident, we did not amount to anymore than bodies, to do with us as they wanted. You went through the same physical that you did the first time you were down there. This time at a certain station, I was pulled out and taken to a specialist to check out the lump on my chest. I had a deformed sternum, inherited from my mom's side of the family. I was teased about it, when we started to take showers in gym. It was not big, it just made me feel somehow defective. I was overjoyed when the first tank top surfing vest came out. I didn't have to wrap a towel around my shoulders, or cross my arms over my chest to hide it. Other than that, I was getting hotter (better looking) as I got older. Like an ugly duckling turning into a swan. Well, this doctor evidently had an agenda; I believe he felt guilty sending so many guys off to Vietnam, by certifying they were fit for service. He looked at me and said does it hurt when you do strenuous exercise, I said no. He changed his wording and said just tell me it hurts and you can leave, you well be free, no military service required. I said, "Sir, I have been teased for years over this minor cosmetic flaw, I'll be damned, if I'll let you classify me as 4-F". 4-F was being a physical reject. Heck I surfed all day, no problems here. "I am a surfer in excellent physical condition and I want to go fight in Vietnam". He was blown away and signed off on my paperwork. I never shared this before; my friends who were doing everything they could think of to get out of military service, they would have given me hell.

We were finally downstairs again, waiting to be sworn in. A Marine Gunnery Sergeant came up to the Army Sergeant and whispered in his ear. He said, "it seems our Marine friends need some more bodies". He instructed us to stand up against the wall and count of by two's. Example the first guy said one, the next said two and the next said one, etc. We did as told and he said," All you two's fallout, you now belong to the Marine Corp". He said, "If you do not desire this, you can get in this other line and enlist for three years in the Army". I was glad I was a one and I also didn't know you could get drafted into the Corp.

After being sworn in, we were put on buses for LA International Airport. Later that night we arrived in El Paso, Texas, and hopped on army buses, which took us to the Reception Station at

Fort Bliss, Texas. I'm glad it was night time, later on I saw El Paso in the daylight, it was no Santa Barbara (maybe it is nicer now, but it was a dirty hole). We spent 4-5 days there, being tested for our abilities or lack of said. We were measured, issued uniforms and we were required to mail all our civilian clothes home. Our hair was buzz cut; I had mine cut so short they didn't get much from me. I remember seeing my surfer friend from Carp. After they cut his hair, I laughed, with his red nose he looked like Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. The battery of tests were extensive, I recognized the infantry test, you would have to be stupid not to. Do you like the outdoors? Do you like camping? Do you like to hike? And on and on. My score on that test was genius level, I answered every question the way they wanted it answered. Just for the heck of it I took the Officers Candidate School Test and was sorry I did. They bugged me for 2 years about becoming an officer. With a few exceptions, I didn't like officers, especially 2nd Lieutenants.

We were finally assigned to our Training Companies; mine was Company D, 3rd battalion, 3rd Brigade. Our barracks were on the part of the base called the hill. The barracks were one story and relatively new. Summer in Texas was very hot, but when you are young, you acclimate quickly. We were not given very long to settle in before our training started. Making friends was easy; we all were in the same boat. They selected squad and platoon leaders by guys with prior service; we had two old guys we thought were losers. They re-entered the military at age 32 looking for a pension. Also, guys who were going to officers' candidate school and some by age and education; and some by how big they were--we had a guy who played for the Rams. He was a lineman. Training was not hard and being young and stupid, I believed just about everything the drill instructors told us.

I tried to remain anonymous. My dad said to never volunteer, but I really wanted to go airborne. But, I didn't volunteer for airborne training until I was in Vietnam and then the perimeter defense unit I was in wouldn't let me go because we were short-handed.

We went through everything from learning to make our bunks, to shining our boots, weapons training, hand-to-hand combat, military protocol, 20-mile marches in full field gear, physical training, marching, close order drill, the manual of arms, the code of military justice, you name it we learned it. The Army built on your strengths and minimized your weaknesses. I believe the most important thing they wanted us to learn was to follow orders without thinking. The college graduates had a harder time with this than us kids. The sergeants told us any hesitation in following an order could get you killed. There was the right way, the wrong way and the army way. I have to admit I hated it, even though; I was really good at it. Taking orders did not seem to agree with me.

Our company commander was a Ranger (trained elite), so he was really gung ho. To make us tougher, we were confined to the company area for the first 6 weeks, unless we were out training. Our typical day consisted of being awaked by a Drill Instructor beating on a garbage can lid at 4:30AM. We got dressed, made our bunks and then went to the mess hall. The food wasn't really all that bad. Afterward, we would go on a run and when we returned, we would have PT (physical training), which was exercise, push-ups, jumping jacks, squat thrusts, stretching, the famous leaning rest position and whatever else they could think up. The leaning rest position was you would get into a push up position, with your arms extended and on your toes and you would have to hold that position for extended lengths of time. Next, there might be marching or something new they wanted you to learn, like beating each other with pugil sticks, which had padding on each end, but still would ring your bell when smacked in the head (even with helmets on). This was so you would know how to beat someone to death in close hand-to-hand combat. Training would continue until around noon and then we went to the mess hall for lunch.

After lunch we had classroom studies, lectures films etc. This was around the hottest part of the day. They fed you, then they put you in an air-conditioned room. If you have never tried this, do it and see if you can keep from at the very least nodding out for a split second. This was how they got their KPs ( meaning kitchen police), you may wash dishes, be the pots and pan man, scrub garbage cans, work in the dining room, peel potatoes and clean the kitchen and dining room. The squad leaders would wander up and down the aisles of the classroom looking for anyone asleep, or just a split second nod would get you on the KP list. And believe me KP sucked; I pulled more than my fair share of it. It lasted from early morning till late evening. If you survived the classroom, you went back to the barracks for a brief time and then to dinner.

After dinner, we would clean the barracks and get our uniforms ready for the next day, which included shining our boots to a high luster, every night. We always had to be ready for an inspection with no notice. We each had a wall locker and the uniforms had to be displayed in a particular order. We also had footlockers, which if you weren't smart were the hardest things to keep in order. They contained your socks, which had to be rolled just right, your underwear also was to be folded a certain way. It also contained your shaving gear and toiletries, all these items, were displayed in order on a white towel, folded so it just fit the footlocker. I took great care setting my footlocker up once in 8 weeks. Everything was held in place by thumbtacks. Put in places where they could not be seen. I bought extra gear, so I never used my footlocker and only opened it for inspections. The extra stuff we would hide in laundry bags and put them in someone's car trunk.

One day we were getting ready for an inspection, I was washing off my field gear in a utility room sink. A squad leader came up and said start mopping the floor, I said affirmative, I will put this stuff away and get right on it. He was one of the guys who were going to officer's candidate school, he was a sissy punk (but I had to follow his orders). Since, I hadn't dropped what I was doing that instant, he got angry and jumped on my back and started hitting me. I could not hit him back. Because they might believe any lie that he could make up, (and the fact he had an armband that had corporal stripes on it, they were called acting jacks because the rank was not permanent) so I got control of him in a headlock and I dragged him out to the barracks area where I found a drill instructor. I explained what had happened and the usual way to settle this sort of thing was to put on boxing gloves. Of course both guys had to be about the same size and we were. The chicken would not fight me; he knew I would hurt him very bad. He was warned by the D.I. to keep his hands off me, or the next time he would throw him into the ring with me himself. In front of everyone, I told him what a sissy he was. And I hoped he did finish officer's school and get his butter bars. And that he would be put in the field in Vietnam and his troops would send him home in a body bag.

Sometime in the early part of Basic, I took 25-year old Arthur S. under my wing. Man this dude could not do anything, his bed ( beds were called racks) looked like someone was still sleeping in it after he made it. His boots looked like he shined them with a chocolate bar and at night he would cry for his mommy. As I got to know him, I became aware of deep-seated problems he had. This guy did not belong here; he should never have been drafted. His dad had passed away in the backyard when his was five and he had been the one that found him. His mom, I'm guessing, not to ever lose him, had told him all his life that he had severe asthma, but the Army found nothing

wrong with him. He had a natural muscular build and he couldn't do one pull-up. I could do pull-ups until the D.I. got tired of looking at me. However, an imbedded fear told you by your mom does not go away just because some stranger you do not trust told you that you were fine. He was here, I tried working with him mentally, physically, and to teach him how to accomplish the tasks that were required of him. He started to improve, mainly his appearance, his uniform and boots were better and his rack was almost there. I would come by and tighten his covers a little.

Then we started training in the desert at White Sands, New Mexico. That was where the rifle range was, the combat assault courses and the gas mask courses, we also bivouacked there (means camped). The tear gas course was fun; I crawled through the mud and under the wire so fast that I was almost done before they got to me with the tear gas stick. As trained, I rolled onto my side and reached for my mask. The case was open and it was gone. Instead of finishing the course without it, I crawled all the way back to the first muddy ditch, with a guy gassing

me every foot of the way. I found my mask half buried in the mud. I cleaned it out the best I could and turned around and finished the course. I got some real points for that, our Company Commander the Ranger smiled at me and gave me a thumbs up. Next up was Arthur, before we started the gas course our Commander said no other company had done the course without

someone jumping up and running off, but no one from his company was going to run. I was talking to my student and giving him tips, he got on to the course and when they popped gas and got it near him, he was like the roadrunner a cloud of dirt and he was gone running down the road with the Company Commander close behind.

When we got back to the base the guy disappeared, he went AWOL (absent without authorized leave). He went home to mommy in Los Angeles. Upon arrival, she turned him in to the authorities and the MP's picked him up and returned him. That really rocked his world, mom

ratting him out. A week or so later we went back to the desert and were doing live fire assault courses. That's where a platoon at a time walks in a straight line ( so as not to shoot one of his own) and engages targets that pop up as you more down the course. Our Platoon was up, we started in a straight line. Before long my pupil fell way behind and we had bullets whizzing by our heads with the guy in the tower screaming at him to cease fire and telling us to take cover. A Drill Instructor finally had to run out there and disarm him-- slapped him up side of his head and dragged him off the course. He went AWOL again right after that and we never saw him again. They told us he was sentenced to Leavenworth a military prison. Even us young guys didn't

believe that, he was probably home with mom, after being given an unable-to-adapt discharge. I forgot how he dropped a live grenade and the D.I. had to scramble to get it and throw it down the emergency chute before it exploded. I hope he somehow had a happy productive life.

We had lots more drama. Every time we went to the firing range we were given live ammo. Before, we were loaded up to ride back to base. They asked each of us if, we had any live ammo we forgot to turn in. If you said no, you got on board, if you forgot to turn them in, you did so at this time. I think it was some sort of legal issue. If you lied and then you were caught with some rounds, they had you. We had this hillbilly; in our platoon, I remember him, but not his name. The first thing you did when you got back from the range was field strip (take apart) and clean your weapon. Then you would turn it in to the armory. This guy brought back live rounds, loaded his rifle and took a D.I. hostage in the barracks. It took the MPs about four hours to talk this guy out. Him we never saw again either and he may well have ended up in Leavenworth (a military prison).

I was adapting and doing very well, I'll--never confess I liked it, but I had some good friends. I learned a lot and the physical end of it was a breeze. I was actually getting in worse shape because surfing was much more strenuous than this. Every so often, they would give us a

physical fitness test to measure how we were doing. I was the fastest in the 50-meter low crawl, the fastest in the obstacle course and in the top couple out of about 200 guys in the mile run. We ran in uniform and combat boots, this was way before shorts and tennis shoes were allowed. It was still in the era when Drill Instructors could cuss at you and mistreat you. I could run a mile in 6 minutes with combat boots and it being over 100 degrees. I could have run faster, but there was no one to pace me, because I would lap most people.

All right, I was doing great, but you didn't expect me not to get into a little mischief, did you? Remember the six weeks of company confinement? Well, I rather took that as a suggestion and a few times, I wandered off on a Sunday afternoon, which was our down time. Not far away was a beer hall where I spent several Sunday afternoons tipping a few. I usually didn't have much of a buzz, because the beer on base had about half the alcohol content of regular beer (civilian). Every so often MPs would come and check to make sure everyone that was here was allowed to be here. I never figured how they would be able to tell, but I would head for the bathroom and climb up to the ceiling, they would open the door look in then leave. How I did that was the stall had narrow solid walls that went to the ceiling and I would wedge myself between them and climb up using my hands and feet.

Upon leaving, your small buzz grew considerable when you went from air conditioning into the 100-plus degrees of the outside air. I figured I was committing the perfect crimes because no one ever said anything to me. One Sunday being very thirsty and wondering how much of this dishwater beer I could drink, I consumed twelve pitchers. This was well past a buzz and I sat there--hoping, that soon I would be able to walk myself back to my company area before I was missed. To my surprise two of my best friends showed up to take me back to the company. They

were sent by the head D.I. a Sergeant first class E-7. Opps! So much for my perfect crime, they had to get my arms over their shoulders, carry me back and pour me into my top bunk.

I woke up the next day a little under the weather. Then my friends proceeded to tell me the events of the previous day. They said that Sergeant came in periodically to check on me to see how I was doing. Well it seems on one of his visits I climbed out of my bunk and headed for the latrine (military for bathroom) followed by that Sergeant and the guys from my barracks. I couldn't see--my vision was so blurry; I headed for the urinals on the wall, felt around for one and took a long relief. Then I turned around with my gallery following and crawled back in my bunk. What I did not know was that with my lack of sight, I had positioned myself between two urinals, watered the wall extremely well and then fumbled around until I found a handle to flush. Oh, man they were going to have my behind. I waited for the call to the orderly room and it never came. I was never talked to about the incident.

I behaved for the next couple of weeks and on our seventh week we were allowed to leave the company area and even go off post. We had to go to the orderly room to get a pass to leave the company area and/or post (legally anyway). We were in summer dress uniforms, they we called class A's and were khaki in color. By the time I got to the orderly room, the line was long.

We had this black Drill Instructor, Specialist 4 (E-4) Clarence R., I liked him, and he was cool and had a sense of humor. He was either in charge of, or helping sign guys out on pass that day. Every few minutes he would come out and check the length of the line. He held his hand to his face to block the glare of the sun. He said, " Is that you Bates way at the end of the line"? I said, "Yes Specialist it is". He said, "Well come on up here" and I said, "I can't". He said, "Why not, aren't we buddies"? I said, "Yes we are buddies, but I can't go ahead of all these guys that were here before me, it just wouldn't be fair". He said, "If a buddy can't help a friend out now and again, that isn't cool" and he said, "You are beginning to hurt my feelings".

This went on back and forth for probably twenty minutes. He finally, against my better judgment, coaxed me to the front of the line. I get up there and he said, "Hello Bates"

and I said, "Hello Specialist". He looked at me and said, "You mean to tell me you think you can just come to the front of the line, without waiting your turn"? I knew it was a con and I fell for it. I was going down to the front leaning rest position even before he barked it out. I just could not stop laughing, as he looked at me and grinned. I had to stay in that semi-painful position until my place in line came up twenty to twenty-five minutes later. I still laugh when I think about it.

When I got my pass, I didn't want to waste my time in a beer hall. I went with a few friends; we went off post to a convenience store. It was just across the street from the gate, but it was such a rush of freedom. We lavished in our freedom for about 20 minutes, and then went back on post to go to the USO. At the USO, you could talk to a girl, which was fun. Next, we went to the PX, a PX is like a department store and usually they have like a burger place attached. We had cheeseburgers, fries and milk shakes for lunch, Yum! Next, we shopped, mostly just looking around and buying necessities like razor blades and shaving cream. Then we just walked around, checked out the library and took in the sights. I don't recall what time we had to sign back in, but we had dinner first and wandered in at the last possible minute.

Basic was starting to wind down, we had already qualified with our weapons. The last major thing to do was G-3 testing, that is where you are tested on everything you were taught over the last eight weeks and it included a PT test (physical Training). We could see the light at the end of the tunnel. Even the DIs were starting to act mellow towards us. The next week we took the G-3 test, a couple of days later a DI came up to me and said that I was going to get a big trophy at graduation and he had seen it. I asked for what and he said I had scored the most points on the G-3 test of anyone in the whole company. I was stoked, we had pro athletes and college graduates and me, a 19-year-old beat them all. The trophy still holds a place of honor in my house.

Our orders started coming in on where we were going for AIT (Advanced Individual Training). The orders were hard to understand so you would ask a lifer to explain them to you. Anyone considering doing twenty or more years was a lifer to us. They explained mine to me and said how lucky I was. I was to go to the Missile Repairman School, White Sands, New Mexico.

The school was a year and a half long and they said I would probably be an E-6 by the time I graduated; rank came fast in those high tech schools. The only way a draftee can get out of a school they don't want is to sign up for another year. Even though I may not have had much sense, I wasn't stupid either. Funny thing, a day or so later they called me into the orderly room to explain that when they hooked me up with that 18-month school, they had not noticed they only had me for two years. I had already done the math and they would have had me for two more months after I completed that school. They said this was a career school and if I gave them one more year it was mine, I declined. It wasn't very long before I got more orders. I asked this cool Porto Rican DI what they meant--he smiled and sat on the mess hall steps making machinegun noises. Not the infantry like I wanted, but a door gunner wasn't bad, after leave I was to report to Fort Rucker Alabama, the Army Aviation Center.

Graduation Day came and I got my trophy and got to shake hands with a full bird colonel. Then I caught a flight for Los Angeles and I think my parents picked me up. I was home for two weeks and it was great, I surfed every day and saw my friends. The lady that had been the head waitress at the café I had worked at quit there when her Marine son was killed in Vietnam. She now was a bartender at a family Pub and I had looked her up and to my pleasant surprise, she would serve me alcohol even though I was only nineteen. She said anyone old enough to wear the uniform was old enough to drink. I didn't abuse the privilege. I would only have a couple of beers and be on my way. The two weeks flew by and I was back at LAX for a flight to Atlanta and from there by bus to Fort Rucker, Alabama.

Chapter 8

Aviation School

Backtracking for a second, I found out that trophy I got was supposed to come with a promotion. I guess instead of promoting me, they didn't punish me for watering the latrine wall.

I checked in at Fort Rucker and they put me in temporary lodging until the next class was formed. That only took a few days and during that time I got familiar with the base and where everything was. I had money to spend so I avoided the mess hall and ate at the PX; after all, I was making just under $61 a month (rich man). Finally, I was assigned to a student company and barracks. I moved in and made a few friends and then school began. It was just like school, you were in a classroom all day unless there was a field trip to the Flight Line or to this place, where we would run engines mounted to steel frames and not aircraft. They had stuck me in the fixed wing school and not the rotary wing school. These were airplanes, there went the door gunner thing and I was ticked. Early afternoon school was out and you could do what you wanted. You could study or hang out or go down to the enlisted men's club and you could go off post even during the week, and weekends were free.

This wasn't a bad set up, I had the time and I needed a girlfriend. There was a horseback riding ring and stables right near our barracks. I met a young lady whose father was a retired major and now worked for the government. She was a southern belle. She was born in Tennessee-- had that sweet southern accent and she was a beauty. I met her parents, dined at her house and we would hold hands while on the front porch swing and kiss.

My best friend in the first school was a Canadian, he had come down to the States and enlisted for airborne and aviation school. His father had come to the states in WWII and joined the 101ST Airborne. I would tease him about being so stupid. We had people going to Canada to get out of going to Vietnam. He had enlisted and just got the one entry-level school and Jump School. He was waiting for orders for Jump School; in the meantime, he pulled KP every day.

You advanced to your next school by how high in the class you graduated, with three schools being all there was. I got my orders for the second school and was moved to another part of the base. Same old thing, classroom most of the day, I would listen, but instead of taking notes I was drawing waves with surfers riding them, but I still had my girlfriend. The second school was multi-engine observation aircraft. I passed that one and was sent to the third school and a new student company. This one was multi-turbine engine observation aircraft.

The one redeeming thing about this school was our instructor. He was a Staff Sergeant E-6, about 200 pounds overweight and when he got mad his voice went high and he sounded like an old woman. I messed with this guy more than I had with any other teacher during my high school reign of terror. After all, what could he do to me? They didn't even have detention. I finished this school just before Christmas and my orders hadn't come through for my next duty station. Like I said before, this was just like school and they shut down for Christmas vacation. I had the option of a 14-day leave or staying there and pulling KP for ten days. I hadn't had KP since basic and didn't want to get reacquainted with it.

I took the leave and went to the Atlanta Airport to catch a flight home. Usually in uniform with orders you could fly standby and it was half-price. They said the only way I could get a

ticket was paying full fair and I didn't have the money. I ended up on a bus that stopped about every few miles; it took 5-days from Alabama to Santa Barbara. When I got home the first thing I did was call the airlines and try to book a ticket. I was told the same thing full--fare. I scraped all the money together I had and came up $15 short. I asked my dad for a loan and he would get it right back on payday, he said no. So, I was home 4-days and had to climb back on a bus for the 5-day trip back to Alabama.

I made the best of my 4-days at home, a friend of mine and his wife introduced me to her best friend who was a senior in high school. We hit it off right away and I took her out all 4-days.

Climbing back on that bus sucked, I did see the country close up, but I was fuming at my dad. I got back to Rucker and they said where have you been? Your orders came through. I showed them my leave orders and I started processing out the next day. With getting all my shots and turning stuff in it took 2-3 days before I could leave. I spent the last night at Rucker trying to sleep in a chair. I was sicker than a dog from all my shots, fever, chills and blowing chunks. When you get your orders for Vietnam, they had to give you a leave and since I was leaving for Vietnam from Oakland Army Terminal, they paid me enough money to fly back to California. I had been gone 8-days and my dad's greeting was what are you doing here? Through gritted teeth, I explained.

First thing I did was call Carol and see if she was free for the evening. We spent all my time at home together. While she was in school, I would be surfing and after school, I would pick her up and try to wear her lips out. We talked about the future, our future, I would have bought a ring, but cash was tight and I had to make sure I had enough left to have fun on the rest of my leave. We made promises that we would marry when I got home. I told her to date after all she was a senior and I didn't want her to miss out on any of the activities. But she declined and said she had the man she wanted already and saw no need to date. Frankly, I was relieved. I had a going away party with some friends and in the back of my mind, I wondered if I would make it home again. Saying goodbye to Carol hurt, but to her credit, she was a writing machine and soaked her letters in perfume that I could smell from 100 meters.

My parents drove me the 300-plus miles to Oakland Army Terminal. Saying bye was hard-- my mom cried and even my dad seemed nice. Once I checked in, I found out that you would be put on some work detail until your flight unless you donated blood. So, I chose the latter. After that, we were supposed to turn in all our uniforms that we wouldn't need over there, like our sets of dress greens and such. Heck, I left all that stuff at home. When it was time for our flight to board, we had a slight delay. I watched the lifers try and talk this Private First Class E-3 into getting on the plane. He decided at the last minute, he didn't want to go. The major problem was he was a Green Beret armed with a big Puma Bowie Knife. I was amused watching this, he must have finally figured out what his fate was going to be in Vietnam. We had a Green Beret Unit near us when we were at Hue and they were replaced about every 3 months, because that seemed to be their lifespan.

Chapter 9

Vietnam here I come

The lifers finally got that Green Beret on board and we were off. Destination Bien Hoa, 90th Replacement Battalion. Vietnam was half way around the world, with a flight time of about 21 hours. We got there during mid afternoon. It was almost a day later here than it was in the states. Tuesday here was Monday in the States. The first night I was shot at, the bullets tearing into the tent missing me by millimeters. I thought this was going to be one long bad year. Over there you called the United States the World. On average you spent 5-7 days at the replacement battalion being processed and getting your orders. Of course like any other Army base while you waited you did work details, mostly KP which lasted about 14 or 15 hours.

No one wanted one detail. However, it only took about an hour or two. Burning human waste, the latrines were plywood with doors behind each stall, with a cut in half 55-gallon drum underneath the hole in the plywood. It caught the waste and it had to be burned. It was disgusting, but better than KP, I thought. You would lift those containers out and mix diesel fuel and gasoline light it and stir with a stick till it was all burned. The thing I didn't know was that they didn't supply showers to the people just passing through. The one advantage to that was people got out of your way, when you went to the mess hall.

A few days later, I was sent to Na Trang, it wasn't much, but I thought maybe I could stand it for a year. They said no you are going north. The next stop was Qui Nhon, this was way better
than Na Trang. There was a Rosie's Bar right outside the gate, there was a Rosie's bar everywhere in Vietnam. I never found out if it was a chain or not. They said no you are going north; I was getting tired of hearing that. Next stop Da Nang, you guessed it, no you are going north. Hue Phu Bai here I come. Way up in "I" Corps some of the cruddiest places in Vietnam. The third Marine Division was responsible for "I" Corps, although there were several Amy Units there, two Aviation Companies and a Medical Unit. I'll never forget when the rear ramp went down on that C-123 Air Force Cargo Plane at Phu Bai and the scorching afternoon heat rushed in, it took your breath away. What a bleak, miserable, place, this was and you guessed it, this was home.

I reported to the orderly room was assigned a hooch and sent to supply to draw bedding and towels. Rules I had already learned, you make friends with the company clerk, he actually runs the company not the commanding officer, the mailroom guy and the supply Sergeant. I left with way more than bedding and towels, pairs of jungle boots and jungle fatigues.

By the way, a hooch is a wood frame with a corrugated tin roof, screened in with wood slats on the sides to keep the rain out. But, it had about 4 inch spaces between the slants so, the heat wouldn't get trapped in. With a screen door on each end and 2-man bunkers at each corner for mortar attacks, which happened way too often.

The next day I was assigned to a platoon and you will never guess what. My platoon Sergeant was that 200 pound over weight instructor, that I messed with at Fort Rucker and boy did he remember me. My big mouth had bought me the farm again. I was a Crew chief, but all the ships already had crew chiefs. So, until they were rotated home or lost you worked on a Preventative Maintenance Crew. We did the 100-hour inspections, where every inspection panel has to come off and you look for leaks or seeps and start replacing parts. In addition to this, since he liked me

so much, he put me in charge of the flight line ¾-ton truck. I had to do all the maintenance on it in addition to keeping up with my other duties. He said he was trying to make me into a soldier. I was more of a soldier than he ever was.

One morning he sent me out to retrieve the truck someone had gotten a flat and got it stuck way out in the sand, near the perimeter, where we got our sand for sandbags. I spent the day digging it out and getting the tire changed. It got hot out on the sand because it reflected the heat. I finally got it back in sometime near dinnertime and he accused me of screwing off all day. The gloves were off, I called him names I didn't even know the meaning of, I told him he was a fat old lady and a disgrace to the Army uniform. He didn't seem to take it very well, go figure. Bright and early the next day I was called into the Commanding Officer's Office. Like being sent to the vice principals office, not a place you want to be. That Sergeant had put me in for an article 15 which is disciplinary action resulting in reduction in rank and forfeiture of pay for a length of time to be determined by the severity of the infraction. The major said he was signing papers and as he was signing, he thought that he had seen my name before. So, he dug through the stack, sure enough 2 papers with my name on them. The first one was a promotion to Specialist 4 E-4 and the next was an article 15 for reduction in rank. Here is what I am going to do, he ripped up both papers so I didn't get promoted, but I didn't have any disciplinary action on my record. In the meantime, another Sergeant who had been witnessing my treatment by this fat blowhard went and had a talk with him. I have no idea what he said to him, but I was transferred to his section where I was now a crew chief with my own ship. Actually, our section had 2 "C" models, so 3 crew chiefs for 2 aircraft and I had no extra duty. My hero's name was Staff Sergeant Mozema and he was one of the nicest and fairest men I have ever known. I blossomed under his leadership and would do way more than he asked or expected of me.

Important question, did I learn to keep my mouth shut? No, but if you didn't mess with me I wouldn't mess with you.

The aircraft we had were OV-1A, B and C Models, they were made by Grumman. They had two Lycoming turbine engines, which produced 1175 horse power each. The ship had triple vertical stabilizers (tails). The cockpit had bubble Plexiglas and looked kind of like a dragonfly. They were called Mohawks, also nicknamed the widow maker. Because they had such short, wings and they weighed so much they only had a 10 to 1 glide ratio. Meaning for every ten feet of altitude they would only glide one foot. In other words, they dropped like a rock. You couldn't parachute out of them, the engine were just behind the cockpit and if you blew the top canopy you couldn't jump because the three tails would slice and dice you. Eventually they added ejection seats, they had artillery charges in them and you could safely eject at 90 knots when you were still on the runway. The only problem with this system is that if you weren't flying level they at times ejected the crewmembers into the ground. They could take off and land on a football field. They were sturdy workhorses and could take a beating.

One pilot got on the ground and didn't realize he had been hit by a surface to air missile, you could crawl through the hole, but the ship got him home. The A models, were armed with rockets, and 50 caliber machineguns. And flew day missions, they were visual reconnaissance. The B models were side looking aerial radar and flew at night. The C models were infrared they also flew at night. Thus the nickname of our company the Night Hawks, we gathered intelligence about enemy troop movement and called in airstrikes. They were so efficient that there was a bounty on them. One of the months I was there our unit was responsible for more death and destruction than any other company in Vietnam. The whole company was there to support the pilots, crew chiefs and the observers. Having your aircraft crewman wings made you feel special.

We got hit often the mortar rounds would start exploding and we would run for the bunkers at the corners of the hooch. With four bunkers and eight guys living in the hooch the math wasn't hard, but somehow we almost always ended up in the same bunker. The top four guys basically unprotected. Every attack you would hear everyone sending up prayers, get me out of this and I'll be good the rest of my life. The there are no atheists in foxholes saying is true. After it was over, we seemed to forget all the promises we made. Sometimes we would have to go out and man the secondary perimeter just in case they over ran the main perimeter. I never figured out when or how they made this decision. During the attacks most of the motor rounds were walking down the flight line trying to take out the aircraft, of course they would lob a few into our living area, one time they blew the crap out of the hooch next to us. One night after it was over, I went up to the flight line to check the ships out. Everything looked all right, I looked over our two ships and noticed one was leaking like a sieve. A mortar round had hit right next to it. Barely denting the heavy PSP (perforated steel planking). But, it put a bunch of holes in and all over the aircraft. One ship left in our section with three crew chiefs.

Soon after this, the battalion we were in was asking for help, they had lost half a platoon of their perimeter defense unit. I looked into it and was told it was straight up infantry duty and who ever went would earn their Combat Infantry Badge. Here was my chance, I pleaded my case with our line Captain, luckily for me he was an infantry officer. We were told to box up all the stuff we weren't taking, mark it TDY infantry (tdy, means temporary duty). We were supposed to be gone 60 days, but the 60 turned to 90. We caught a C-123 to Da Nang it was dark when we got there. We looked for a unit where we could spend the night and ended up with the Marines. They were showing a movie on a sheet, so we sat in the sand and started watching it. Over the loud speaker, I heard Sergeant Bates report to the orderly room. My first cousin was a Marine and he was in "I" Corps somewhere. I found the orderly room and they were looking for my cousin, but he never showed up.

The Marines were great to us but when it comes to food you want to find an Air Force Unit. On a base, this size this shouldn't be a problem. After a 20-minute walk there, it was a red brick mess hall and a long line of clean Air Force guys. We got in line; we were dirty, needed a shave and had weapons and ammo bandoleers hanging off us. Up from there was a sergeant doing a head count as they enter the mess hall. He saw us and took us to the front of the line. Walking by this well groomed group the looks we got were saying I glad I'm not in the army. The food was four star and we got all we could eat.

We then caught a flight to Qui Nhon. We were picked up at battalion headquarters and trucked to Lane Army Heliport, An Son, Vietnam. This was the home of the 129th Assault Helicopter Company and the 196th Aviation Company, which was a Chinook Company, both attached to the First Aviation Brigade. We checked in and they set us up in hooches and the next day we were given the lay of the land. They worked a lot with the Korean Tiger and Tropical Divisions. Who were encamped close by. It took two platoons to man the perimeter with bunkers every 100 meters and having overlapping fields of fire. Each bunker was set up for certain weapons, riflemen, machineguns (m-60's) and M-79 grenade launchers. One platoon was provided by the Koreans and the other by the U S Army. We would be trucked out before dusk and picked up after dawn. The nights were long, there were two men per bunker. In theory you could take turns sleeping, but we found it easier to both just stay awake all night. With a little help from the magic pills the medic would give us. Half of the Army guys were from other infantry units and had already done their year then, extended for 6 months to ride guns on a Huey and then got stuck on the perimeter. Others had extended for 6 months just to get out of the field and be a door gunner and they also were put on the perimeter. Usually promises from the Army didn't mean squat. My best friend there was from the First Infantry Division and had extended 6 months just to get aircraft crewman wings. He had been stationed in Germany and volunteered for Vietnam, but they wouldn't let him go, so he had to re-enlist just to get to Nam. I have no idea how many years he owed the army and didn't want to ask. Some things were better left unsaid.

People seemed to have problems getting along so if we had a guy we could cope with they let us stay together. The guy from the Big Red One and I hooked up and became a team. He was cool, but you could tell he had seen heavy action. He had the thousand yard stare, his piercing eyes seemed to look right through you at times. But, it didn't bother me, we were comfortable around each other.

Everything is about timing, sometimes you go somewhere and you will see a lot of action. At the same place and a different time it maybe just plain boring. I have no idea how they lost half a platoon, if it was true or not, I didn't ask because it just didn't matter to me.

While I was down there they were looking for volunteers for taking airborne training in Vietnam, a few of us volunteered but they wouldn't let us go, said we were critical to their defense. I still have my copy of the 1049 (a 1049 is a request for transfer).

We got shot at some, mostly by snipers or just for harassment. A few probes now and then and brief firefights, when bored you make your own games. They would assign a different officer every night to be in charge of the perimeter usually a warrant officer (they flew the helicopters). They would just drive by in a jeep with their lights off. Every once in a while you would get some gung ho jerk trying to sneak up behind you. We all decided they needed to be

trained. You take apart a parachute flair and remove the parachute, it makes an awesome, you better not mess around here device. We heard a noise, my friend accidently set off the flare it scared the heck out of the guy and didn't miss him by much, oh well accidents happen. That ended the sneaking around episodes. After that they started bringing us coffee, they would yell down to us from the road and one of us would take our tin cups up and get the coffee.

When we got hungry, we would help ourselves to c rations off the hueys. The reason we did that was the mess hall was closed before we got in, when we complained to the orderly room they fed us leftover crap. So, we fended for ourselves. We slept or tried to during the day or wrote letters, listened to music, read or just went to the enlisted men's club. If it hadn't been for my Red One friend I would have gone bonkers, by the way his name was Richard F. He had about 90 days to go and I had just broke 6 months.

This place had the most concentrated numbers of bamboo vipers I had ever seen and a cobra now and then. They warned us about packs of dogs they said the VC would inject them with all kinds of diseases, but fact or fiction I don't know. I have to tell you, about my pack of dogs, two snake stories and the lifer that opened up on our position from inside the compound. This happened before Richard was my partner; he would have had my back. What the other person was doing when this happened I don't know, because I was busy. When we got dropped off we would throw our gear on or around generally not in the bunker and then go down and walk the wire. Making sure everything was intact. We had rolls of that razor wire, trip flares, claymores, tin cans with pebbles in them, which sounded like wind chimes when the breeze kicked up and other dirty secrets. I was watching a pack of dogs several hundred meters out. They seemed to be running in the general direction of myself. This amused me to no end, keep coming I was thinking. I want to see you try and get through all this we have here. There were five dogs, not

huge, not small, they kept coming and they were coming at me. They went through the rolls of wire, they weren't even slowed down. They didn't set anything off, not even a trip flare. They were right on top of me now; I pulled my bowie knife from its sheath. And decided running for my rifle at the bunker was a better idea. I broke some land speed records just getting to my rifle before they chewed me up. I ripped off a burst and the dust was so thick I couldn't see a thing. As it cleared, they looked at me and I at them and then they looked at each other. And they turned and ran out through the wire they way they had come in. Only losing one who got caught and shot on the wire, there we several blood trails so I know several were hit but all but one got away. Maybe the VC did shoot them up with something. It all happened so fast, I never had time to get scared I just got a huge rush of adrenaline, mortar attacks were a rush and getting shot at was a high too. Maybe I was starting to go off the deep end a little.

One day we were setting up our M-60 machinegun, it was still light and we ripped off a burst to test fire it. We were leaning against the bunker and bullets started to whiz by our heads and then kicking up dirt. The fire was coming from inside the compound. I grabbed my rifle and ran toward the fire zigzagging as I crossed the open ground with bullets kicking up dirt all around me, I reached cover, brought my rifle to my shoulder and watched for a muzzle flash. A jeep zoomed up with a moron warrant officer in it (OD, officer of the day).He shouted what do you think you are doing? I said I know what I'm doing; when I spot the muzzle flash, I'm going to smoke the dude. He said you can't do that it's coming from inside the wire. I Basically told him I didn't care who was shooting at me, my rules were that you shoot at me and I'll shoot back. As I turned toward him, he seemed to freak, I told him you have 5 minutes to fix this thing or we turn our M-60 on the place and we will light it up, I knew Richard had my back. They caught the guy he was a drunk lifer and the machinegun blast made him think there were gooks in the wire. At any rate, they transferred him for his protection. The Army had a thing about protecting the lifers. Did any of these things we did ever come back to haunt us? No.

I was the only crew chief on the perimeter that was brought into, and accepted by the battle hardened grunts (infantrymen). The units we protected seemed to think we were nuts, not that we tried to correct them. We had a Buck Sergeant from the Ist Cav who had been in the Ia Drang Valley in 1965, a young lifer, but he took care of us. We would pray to Odin the Viking God of War to send war tonight, this was right near the officers showers. We knew some cool officers that were in on the game. The new warrant officers would say those guys are nuts, who are they? They would tell them they are the ones who keep you alive at night, when you are tucked into your little bed. We would laugh so hard, till it hurt. Some of the guys were nuts, but I was fine.

Did you ever walk into one of those plywood out houses and have a King Cobra looking at you at eye level with his hood fully opened? I have, I just backed up, turned around and walked away. I thought about tossing in a grenade, but I would probably get in trouble, besides why spoil the surprise for the next guy? Sometimes you would walk down to the next bunker and shoot the breeze before it got dark. One guy was new meat (fresh in country), he was playing with a pair of bamboo vipers and he became a smart ass and said they don't have fangs so they aren't poisonous. I said grab that one behind its head and squeeze, he did, the fangs dripping with venom popped out; we laughed and walked back to our bunker. We would have helped, but not after being disrespected, besides its better to die earlier in your tour than later. The night of the snake was coming!

One night I sat up the M-60 in the firing slit and suspended it from a rope. It was cold that night and we huddled into the small bunker. The bunker only about three feet from ground to ceiling and we both just barely fit in. It was near full moon, but inside the bunker was pitch

black. The only way into the bunker was a small crawl hole. We heard some noise and both of us had our eyes focused on the bunker entrance. We saw a snake crawl in and all the snakes in this region were poisonous. In addition, the fact if bitten we probably couldn't get to medical help soon enough. They liked body heat so to keep it from trying to cuddle with us. We had our backs against the ceiling and our toes on the ground. Try that for 10-12 hours and we didn't move a muscle. When light came we still couldn't see inside the bunker so we threw up a quick prayer wished each other luck and he dove out first with me right behind landing on him. We had the Vietnamese that worked on base tear it apart, and rebuild it. But, neither Richard nor I would ever go in one of those bunkers again. We would set the machinegun up on top of the bunker.

We the gang (all the infantrymen) usually hung out together after catching a few Z's (sleep).

We were sitting on top of this sandbag wall, when this jerk came along that none of us liked. He was on his second enlistment so he was a lifer in our book. He had been busted from a Sergeant down to a Spec. 4 E-4, for what I don't know. He fancied himself a boxer and he liked to challenge people to box with him, but he tried to hurt people and did on occasion. He walked the wall asking anyone. And he got to me and I said why not. I had no boxing skills, just experience in a few bar fights. Our ring was made from sandbags. I started moving in on him with my right arm cocked and he was snapping my head back with jabs. I swear if he hit me once more it may have been lights out for me. But, he got cocky thinking he had me and dropped his guard. I caught him with a haymaker and he spun in a circle. I hit him again in the temple, his arms dropped to his side, one more for good measure, and he collapsed across the sandbags. I hit him again with his head on a sandbag, a cheap shot, but I was pumped with adrenaline and it was hard to stop. I shook him and said are you ok, with blood flowing from a cut in his head he nodded, he was all right and so I looked to the guys and shrugged my shoulders and dropped the

gloves in the dirt as I walked away. This same person a few days later beat a guy who we all liked and was smaller than he. The kid he beat was hospitalized and we were deciding just what kind of justice we were going to serve up to this guy. All of a sudden, he was transferred out, we were ticked, we had big plans for him. The army had saved another lifer.

While down at An son I saw things happen to people that I still have problems with, you know man's inhumanity to man. I feel bad and although I wasn't directly involved, I didn't try to stop some things either. Some things I feel guilty over just seeing them happen. But, the first rule I was told was, whatever happens in the field stays in the field and payback was a given if you broke that rule.

The day came when our company up north the 131st Aviation Company A/S requested some of us back. They wanted me back; they had a ship ready for me. Some people had gotten in trouble down there and they did not want them back. But, I had been promoted to Specialist 4 E-4. I talked with Richard and said I would request staying here. He said," when I leave you will have 3 months left, so don't stay". His talking me out of staying probably saved my life. When we were first send down to the 196th, seventeen of us went down I think. Fifteen of us E-4 and below and two E-6 lifers, one was close to having his twenty years in and the other may have had that much or more. The fifteen of us were all crew chiefs with no ships and the lifers, the one with almost 20 was a motor pool Sergeant, the other I am not sure what he did. I was the only volunteer, the lifers were never going to be called back, they were unwanted. I figure if you are only an E-6 after 20 years, you don't have much going for you. The two lifers left for An Son a few days before the rest of us. The old motor pool Sergeant was supposed to be our platoon Sergeant. He wasn't very good at it, he looked out for himself, he never straightened out the mess hall problem. We were too late for chow when we got back in and were sleeping when the

noon meal was served and were out on the perimeter when dinner was served. We pretty much felt like illegitimate children. And they wondered why half of us had volunteered for airborne duty to get out of there.

Less than half of us were to return to our original company. The one's that stayed were killed in action, all of them. This is how that happened, they were flown back to the 131st by Chinook, to turn in their weapons, since they had been permanently transferred to the 196th. The Chinook went down with engine trouble outside of Da Nang, somewhere around red beach. While the crew chief worked on it, they set up a defensive perimeter and they were over ran and lost their lives. Anyway, that is what we were told. Many years later, I looked into this, but by

then many names had been erased from my memory. I did remember that old sergeant's name. Staff Sergeant James R., I did find him on the virtual wall online. I was amazed to see that he had his MOS Changed to 11B40 and he had gotten a CIB. He never had once been on the line with us, he sat on his butt and never looked out for his men. He was a waste of good air. The Army cheated me out of my CIB, because my platoon Sergeant took care of himself and screwed over the rest of us.

Over this issue, I fought with the Army Board for Correction of Military Records for five years until I got a hearing. At the hearing they said I had filed past the deadline and they didn't think it was important enough to deal with it. In 2011, I got new evidence proving all my allegations. Their answer was that I had a hearing years before and they disregarded the new evidence. My only recourse, they said was to sue them in the appropriate court, where ever that is. During the time I was fighting with the Army Records Board, I went to the Army Reserve and Army National Guard. I talked to the Sergeant Majors (highest enlisted rank E-9) of both Battalions. They both agreed I got screwed, if fact they both said they would authorize me to wear my CIB, if I wanted to join their units. I chose the Guard and spent from 84-87 in it, with my CIB on my uniform. But, it is you can see, still an open wound for me. I want it added on to my regular Army Record. Even my Veterans Administration Psychologist, who I have to see because of my PTSD said I should feel validated by being given my CIB from a machine gunner from the First Infantry Division, plus recognition from the Army Reserve and National Guard. I still want it in writing. I apologize for the delay, now back to where I was leaving the Perimeter Defense Unit.

Going back to my old unit, saying goodbye was hard. Richard said," I have a present for you". He said this was the first Combat Infantry Badge he was issued and he pinned it on my jungle fatigues right above my wings. We hugged and I left, we kept in contact by mail until he rotated back to the states.

I was offered a direct flight to Hue Phu Bai by Chinook helicopter, but I opted to kill a couple days by bumming rides with the Air Force because I had some friends in Da Nang I wanted to stop and see. I reported to my unit about 3 days later. I was assigned a hooch with other crew chiefs, most I knew and drew my stuff that I had stored out of supply. It was good to be home.

One thing about being up where we were, was that you couldn't leave the base unless you were on a mission. It was all hostile country (called Indian country). So, we didn't have the rest and relaxation of a Rosie's Bar. So, instead of three R&R's we were given five. The R&R stood for rest and recuperation, a mini vacation, usually 3-5 days and you could go almost anywhere in country or places like Hawaii, Thailand, Taiwan, Australia, Japan wouldn't let us animals in. I never took even one, two reasons I was saving all my money to get married when I got home and I wasn't sure I could make myself go back if I left. I only kept $50 a month the rest I sent home to be put in the bank. Which we will find out later was a stupid mistake on my part. I soon got back into the swing of things and my mail from my girl started getting to me again. She wrote almost daily and would visit my parents often. I was issued a "B" model Mohawk, side looking aerial radar, my name was already painted on it. You see the ship was mine, different pilots flew it but it was mine, not like helicopters where the same pilot flew the same ship every day.

Something new had been added while I was gone, besides mortars they were also shooting airburst rockets at us, which sucked because our hooch bunkers did not have tops.

During my day-to-day duties of taking care of my ship, I read in the logbook that a pilot had used the blow down bottle. This was used when the landing gear didn't read that it was down and locked. Ordinarily, I would recommend that the pilot bring up and put it down again before using the blow down bottle. The main reason for this is that the aircraft is immediately red Xed, meaning it can't be flown until the bottle is refilled. Which was the main problem; we didn't have an air compressor. I checked with the Marines and they had bottles of compressed air, although not having enough pressure to fill the blow down bottle. It would fill it enough to be in the safe range. They were on the other side of the airfield and you had to drive to the end of the runway and wait for the tower to give you a green light to cross. I did and got what I needed from the Marines. Sitting at the end of the runway, for at least half an hour and getting no green light. With no approaching aircraft in sight, I said heck with it and crossed the runway anyway Within minutes, I was summoned to the orderly room and told to report to the air traffic control tower. I'm thinking Oh, no! I reported as ordered, Marines, three old lifers, ran the tower, and they all had so many stripes on their arms they looked like zebras. All were at least E-8's or E-9's.These are high enlisted men who you would prefer not to deal with. They immediately started reading me the riot act. I said but, I did wait for the green light. One said come here, he said what color is that, I said green and it was. Next, he said what color is this, I said green, when it actually was red. He put his arm on my shoulder and said son you are color blind, so next time take someone with you to tell you the colors, I was dismissed , no problem. What's the saying, a sucker is born every minute, try three.

So, a couple of days later when someone from the orderly room came out and said a Marine Sergeant was in the orderly room and he wanted to see me. I was thinking, this can't be good. It was my first cousin (father's side) and we were finally reunited; he was a Sergeant in the Marine Corps. Do you know how good it was to see family in Nam.

We had always been close even after we moved to Santa Barbara. Often we would go to Oregon during the summer. He would teach me useful things, like pushing shopping carts from the second floor Fred Meyer parking lot, down the ramp and into oncoming traffic and then you run like the dogs of hell were after you. Or going to the liquor store with our grandfather and he would buy us each a quart of Olympia beer. That was a buzz at out age. Or him giving us illegal fireworks to set off. That was grandpa Del, my dad's father. He was quite a character along with

our poker playing grandma. She taught us all cards before we could walk and she would play penny poker all day long. She would wear her green visor and have an unfiltered cigarette hanging out the corner of her mouth. At my grandparent's house there was always a fresh pot of coffee brewing, probably the reason the Bates family was so hyper. Every morning my grandpa Del would get up, and put on a suit and say I'm off to the office. I didn't find out until after I was grown, that he was retired. The office was the name of the local tavern, where he would spend his whole day.

Off and on, my cousin was assigned to the Marine Unit right next door to my Army Unit. We had some good times, but he was sometimes a bad influence on me, forcing me to drink large quantities of alcohol and then making me participate in making tape recordings and sending them home to our families. I tried to resist, but he was older and at the time, out ranked me so, I had no choice but to follow orders (much to my dismay). He even once cut we with his Ka-bar (a Marine issue combat knife), it was an accident, but his fault. If, he hadn't made me drink so much I would have grabbed the handle instead of the blade. He then grabbed the handle and pulled the knife out of the table, thus cutting my hand. When you got an open wound, it could get infected fast. So having always liked experiments, I didn't clean it or treat it for a week, by then it had changed to a dark color and I couldn't use my arm. My cousin calling me a moron or something along those lines dragged me to the Marine Medical Unit where they treated it and gave me a shot. Why don't people understand scientific experiments?

My cousin and I were sitting on the steps of a hooch late one night. Just talking and joking, I have no clue if we were sober or not. This guy walked up, he was one of the company cooks. I remembered him, he was a kid who enlisted to be a cook and had a big death before dishonor tattoo on his forearm, which on a cook seems out of place. One of my best friends in Basic had

KP about a hundred times and couldn't wait to get out of there and go to A.I.T. He got his orders, they were making him a cook, it would have been funny, if it wasn't so sad. Granted someone has to cook, but I would have done an extra year rather than be a cook. I wasn't going to tell my kids that I was a cook in the war. Well, back to the issue at hand.

This kid was afraid for his life, so much so that he was packing a .45 auto hidden in his pants. He said he had been in another unit down south before being sent up here. He had taken an in country R&R (mini-vacation) and visited his friends at his previous unit. He had told them a story about how our unit was almost wiped out and he was wounded and got a bronze star for valor. They treated him like a king at his old unit. He returned to his current unit. To his dismay one of his buddies from his old unit was transferred to our company. Soon, he found out all this kids stories were lies. He said this guy told all his cook friends and they told him they were going to kill him. They had him convinced, but my cousin and I were having a little trouble understanding all this macho cook crap. I convinced him that he needed to talk with a chaplain. Next door at the Marine Medical unit they had a bunch of them. It was late, but we felt it was kind of an emergency. So, I woke up a chaplain. Wow! I would never do that again and I wondered where he learned how to cuss like that. I explained what was going on, this guy had the compassion of a stepped on rattlesnake. He called the MP's and had the kid arrested, the only stockade in the area was a Marine Stockade. One place no one wants to be is in a Marine Stockade, those guys are brutal. The kid tried to escape and was shot dead, so much for death before dishonor. I think that chaplain needed a good working over.

Nothing conjures up good thoughts in a veterans head like these two words, Care Packages. These were packages sent from home, cookies, other goodies and miscellaneous sundries like mouthwash and Kool-Aid. The water tasted so bad that we always asked for Kool-

aid to be sent and we didn't have a PX, so mouthwash was also requested (later the Marines finally opened a small PX). I was reading the alcohol content of Listerine, it was impressive and I had all this Kool-Aid. I came up with Listerine and Kool-Aid highballs and I even got people to drink with me. I think I had a quart of Listerine. It didn't win any prizes for flavor, but it did have positive side effects. It got you drunk in a hurry, it did make you barf, but your breath was still fresh. 

Soon after this I got a letter from my sweetie, the same old love and kissy stuff, but you can never get enough of it. I got another the next day, dated a day apart. This one was different, she said she had fallen in love with another guy and goodbye. I was destroyed and took the letters to my Captain. He read them and asked me when my last R&R was. I said I never had one. He said where would you like to go, I explained all my money, except $50 a month was being sent home. He said you could go to a R&R Center in country, I didn't want to, so he ordered me to take a week off and take an in company R&R. Sleep, relax, get drunk, so I did. With my cousins help I didn't draw a sober breath for a week. By this time I was convinced she must have dated and felt guilty about it. And when I got home we would straighten it out and be back together.

I was promoted to Specialist 5 E-5, much later with my 11 series ( infantry) MOS being awarded. My grade was laterally converted to Sergeant E-5. and that was in 1984, when I actually earned it in 1967. Now, (back to 1967) with the same rank as my cousin we could go to the NCO club, which was recently built. A nice place, we would spend some time there. It was near Christmas now and I avoided all holiday meals, I didn't want to think about it being Christmas and I was in Vietnam.

I have seen medals that the person really deserved and I have witnessed the devaluation of medals by the higher up enlisted and officer lifers. One medal ceremony a Specialist 4 was awarded a Distinguished Flying Cross. With his pilot wounded and unconscious, he had safely

returned to base, he earned it. Then the First Sergeant and the Commanding Officer were each awarded the Bronze Star with the V for valor for their action above and beyond the call of duty during an attack against our company. The only problem was that during that incident they were the only ones who were noticeably not present. They were probably hiding in the command bunker with 3 feet thick walls and roof. You see a First Sergeant could put the Major in for a medal and the Major could put The First Sergeant in for one, it stunk. We did find out that they both had gotten STD from the same hooch maid, (that must have been the above and beyond the call of duty) so we called it their Bronze Star STD Medal. That same Sergeant made Sergeant major E-9 while I was there, he was only 32 and had only been in 13 years. He could suck chrome off a doorknob from 100-meters, meaning he sucked up to all his superiors, to make it to the top.

I'm not saying you ever get used to constant mortar and rocket attacks, but after a while, they become part of the daily ritual. They really had our aircraft bracketed in; we kept them in 3-sided bunkers for maximum protection. Because of all this they told us crew chiefs we had to always be armed. We all had colt .45 caliber 1911 semi-automatic pistols, a fine weapon. I think mine had seen action in WWI, it was extremely used looking, but functioned satisfactorily. One afternoon while working on my ship, I noticed a Vietnamese carefully pacing off the distances along our flight line. I quietly followed him and each pace was a measured step. When fully sure of his intentions, I stuck my .45 in his ear, searched him, and then took him to the orderly room and he was picked up for interrogation. After turning him in I knew I had screwed up, the First Sergeant would probably put themselves in for another Bronze Star for capturing an enemy combatant and saving the company. I should have turned him in to my boss the Line Captain; he

would have made sure I got credit for it. All I am sure of is that I never heard a word about it, not even a well done.

It was into January and I was so short I could dangle my legs off a dime (being short meant you tour of duty was almost up; I was slated to leave mid-February). January 31st, 1968 the Crap hit the fan. The 1968 Tet Offensive started. At Hue Phu Bai 15- battalions of NVA's surrounded our 5-battalions. We were dug in on the secondary perimeter and each troop was issued a case of hand grenades. This was totally for self preservation. We couldn't even think of offense until we were reinforced. They evacuated all our aircraft, all officers except our Captain and All enlisted above the rank of E-5 to Thailand. They didn't want to lose them or all the lifers, but we didn't matter. Other E-5's and I were the highest ranking Noncommissioned Officers left in the company. I'm glad they left my Captain, he was one officer I really respected, Capt. Tucker. I still laugh when I remember that lame speech our Commanding Officer gave before he left for a vacation in Thailand. He said I quote "Fight for the glory of the 131st", easy for him to say he was leaving and I had 2-weeks left in country. The captain made me follow him around like a puppy, always wearing my helmet and flak jacket and carrying my rifle and pistol. You see it was a bad thing for a short timer to get killed, it had a bad psychological effect on people, especially new meat. They would think if, I'm going to die, better sooner than later, the fact that you would suffer less. I got tired of this and told him I belonged on the line, he relented and let me go. He said all right, but keep your head down and be careful, I said yes Sir. The following days were hell, attacks all day and night, but it wasn't boring. Not as relaxing as I had hoped my last few days would be. Puff the Magic Dragon gave us constant light shows (puff was a C-47, an old cargo plane, civilian model was a passenger plane the DC-3, it was out fitted with mini-guns and could put a amour piercing round into every square yard of a football sized field, in 3-seconds). Down the way next to the Marine Medical Unit was a Graves Registration Unit. The body bags were stacked like firewood, not being disrespectful, just that there was so many of them, that there was no room without piling them up.

The Marines were overwhelmed, Hue was a bloody mess. Civilians were being murdered by the NVA and the VC by the thousands. It was street to street and door to door fighting. We took many casualties. The South Vietnamese Government didn't want us using air raids and artillery at first. They didn't want their beautiful ex-provincial capital destroyed. They later relented and we were able to use our firepower to regain control of the city. The 101st Airborne came up to reinforce us and never left. Activity was at a fever pitch, gunships filled the air, and it seemed the helicopters never quit coming or going. I think at least 3-Medals of Honor were awarded at the battle for Hue.

It was my time to leave, I said my goodbyes and turned in all my gear. I didn't like being unarmed, I boarded the ship and sat on a flak vest to keep from getting shot in the behind. We flew at treetop level to stay safe. If you flew low, usually they didn't hear you from the ground until you already had passed by and you were a target for only a brief time. I spent the night with friends at Da Nang ( guys that used to be in our unit, that had been transferred to start a new unit). The next day I was flown to Cam Rahn Bay, an R&R Center and a place lots of guys left from. They started processing us out, we all felt uneasy because we could hear the automatic weapons and artillery in the distance and none of us were used to being without weapons. We were there 2-3 days, this time no extra duty for me, and I was too high in rank.

We left on a commercial airliner just a year before I had flown in on a cargo military jet. There were very pretty flight attendants. Well, they seemed pretty, up where we were, we didn't get those big USO shows, it was too dangerous. The most famous USO performer we got was billed as Michael Landon's Sister, she was pretty and we did appreciate her, but her billing was unfair to her. I don't remember if she sang or danced, I just remember enjoying the fact that she was a sweet and cute American girl, who thought enough of us to come up to our little piece of hell. The pilot announced when we left Vietnam airspace and a cheer went up. I was so nervous that when we stopped in the Philippines to refuel, I ran off and threw up in the bushes. This was a bit embarrassing since I had wings on my chest. Over the year fantasies about the United States

built up in your mind. It was imagined that it was perfect and that we were coming home to a hero's welcome. You have to remember we were isolated for the last year and we only knew what the military wanted us to know.

Chapter 10

I was Home

We arrived at Fort Lewis Washington about twenty some hours after leaving Vietnam, not much time to adjust, they never even talked to us. There was snow on the ground, we were made to stand outside for two hours, and we wear wearing our tropical dress uniform. They measured us and threw together uniforms and we were sent home on a thirty-day leave. I flew from Fort Lewis to Portland International. I was tempted to stop and see both sets of my grandparents, but I wanted to go home. One very cool thing my dad did for me was hold Christmas for me until mid-February, that included my parents and my brother and his family. They didn't know when exactly I would be home. I bought some gifts for them at the big PX in Cam Rahn Bay and some more at the Portland Airport. I flew from there to the small Santa Barbara Airport. I got a cab and I had it take me all the way to my house. First thing I wanted was home cooked food and a few cold Coors beers. My niece was three and she loved me unconditionally, that helped, my spirit seemed wounded. I had lost friends and I felt guilty for surviving. We had Christmas the next day, I couldn't tell you one thing I got, but I will always cherish my family having waited to have Christmas until I got home.

The next day I checked my 57 Chevy. My dad had told me he would take care of it and drive it weekly. He had parked it under an evergreen tree and the dried pitch took off the paint, all four tires were flat and it hadn't been started in over a year. It just wasn't worth putting the money into it to get it back on the road. I asked to borrow his car so I could go surfing, he said while I was gone my surfboard had been stolen. It kept getting better, I said lend me your car and I can go to Jeff White and buy a board, he said ok. I also said I'll go look at cars, can you give me my bankbook.

He looked kind of pained when I asked for it. He got it and handed it to me, I had only $800 in my account and I had sent thousands home. He said he only took what I owed him, granted I had borrowed a few hundred for my 57 Chevy, which was now a piece of junk because of him. And I had borrowed money for car insurance, maybe I owed him a grand. I asked did you charge me for raising me too? I said you should have banked all the money and then we could sit down and go over what I owed him and settle up, not just help yourself to all of it. He had bought the house next door, so my niece would be close and he had bought a nice truck, or let's say I bought the house and truck. I went and bought a board and a sports car.

That night I went to patch things up with my girl. Her parents had liked me very much. I got dressed in my uniform and drove to her house. Her mom answered the door and acted as if she had seen a ghost. I asked for Carol and she said she was here with her husband, I just turned and walked away. What a homecoming, I wanted to get on an airplane and go back to Vietnam. My friends treated me as if I was a leper or a madman and asked dumb questions like did you kill babies and women. I said only when there was no one else to shoot. So, looking back that probably didn't help put them at ease. Years later I was told that people were really scared of me. My response to that is, three days before I got home I was at Hue during the "68" Tet Offensive. Also, the fact that my friends at home were still acting like children. The only family I knew that wanted to see me and treated me well was the family of that girl I had ran away from when I was 18. she had announced her parents would support us, so we could get married right away and help with college. Besides, having a job waiting for me with his firm. I started dating her again a little, because the girls I knew in Carp. didn't seem very interested, baby killers weren't on their agenda. No one ever spit on me, lucky for them I would have killed them. I surfed everyday, drank everyday and felt bad everyday. I would hit the ground if I heard a sudden loud noise, that happened when my family took me out to dinner and my dad had requested I wear my uniform. During that period during the war if you had less than 90 days left in the service, they discharged you as soon as you hit American soil. I had just over 100 days left so I had one more duty station. In Colorado home of Fort Carson 5th Infantry Division, later on in the war they let you out if you had 6 months or less. They had found out Vietnam Vets didn't play well with others and we didn't want to train or play Army anymore. My leave was up, and without fanfare, I left for Colorado.

Upon, reporting to the officer of the day, he said I needed a haircut and to draw a new dress uniform from supply. Mine, that I got from Fort Lewis was tailored, but the coat hung down past where it should. I told him I had around 80 days left and I really didn't give a flying (you know the word). To my pleasant surprise instead of being stationed at Carson, our Aviation Detachment was at the Air Force Academy, Ent Air Force base. So, they billeted us with the Air Force, no barracks, 4 bedroom apartments. We lived like civilians. And we just had to walk across the street to be off base and no gates to go through and no signing out. We even ate with them and the food was good and went to their PX where I bought a bunch of firearms.

Reporting into my new unit a small Aviation Detachment with a Light Colonel as the commanding officer and a Chief Warrant WO-4 as executive officer and a First Sergeant, we had a lot of rank for only having two aircraft. The colonel wanted to see me, he told me what he expected from me and I told him what he was going to get from me. He wanted me to Crew Chief an aircraft and I said I was too short and didn't want the responsibility. So, I was the detail Sergeant, I would report to the First Sergeant everyday and he would give me a list of things needing done and a squad of guys to do the work. My last platoon Sergeant was there also, but this one I had never done anything to, so he wasn't a problem.I did manage to get there before the First Sergeant everyday and just to start his day off right, I would be sitting in his chair, with my feet on his desk. He would say Bates get your feet off my desk and get out of my chair. He would then give me the duty roster, I would collect the people on it and we would accomplish what needed doing. When the chores were done, we were done for the day. I would tell them do it right, do it fast and then we will go to the club and drink beer, I would help so we got done faster. Twice the colonel called me in to give me re-enlistment talks, he was a Ranger so I played to his weakness. The first time I told him I wanted to be an Airborne (his eyes lit up) Garbage man. He threw me out of his office. The next time I told him I wanted to be a Green Beret (his eyes again lit up) Cook. Again, he kicked me out of his office, go figure. He was a great guy though, he would call me son. I would run errands for him and help his wife move furniture around when she was inclined to do so. He also had me over for dinner a few times.

I had another friend at the unit, we were both from the 131st. We hadn't known each other very well, but he had a wife and small child and they had me over often. I would babysit for them sometimes and his wife was a sweet lady and would say you are going to make a great husband and father. I said I don't seem to have a line of girls waiting. She said that I would find the right girl when the time came. She was right it only took six more years.

I finally got tired of being on post and since I was an E-5, I could live off base. I moved in with three other E-5's in an apartment not far off base, but the important thing it was off base. One of them was at the same unit I was, so I caught a ride with him. We took turns cooking and we all kept the place clean, they had to teach me to cook, they were all older than I was. I had just turned 21 and they were all 26 and 27. There were two schoolteachers in the complex that

we would all go out together with, I had a slight crush on one of them, but it never amounted to anything.

My friends and I would spend our weekends going to movies in Colorado Springs, or go shooting and investigating abandoned gold mines up in the Cripple Creek area. We had the movie theaters rated by the quality of their popcorn. So, sometimes a lesser movie would win out if, that theater had four star popcorn. I drank almost daily, but I rarely got drunk.

When I had 18 days left the colonel called me into his office and I reported and he said Bates go away, I said pardon me. He repeated just go away, I said, I can't, I had 18 days left. He said some of the men that worked for me had years to go and were starting to get my attitude. He said just stay home or go play or whatever, just do me one favor and I said that would be what? He said before I went home just stop by and tell him goodbye, I said it would be my pleasure.

I was just about free, they had tempted me with lots of money to re-enlist, but I didn't really care much for the Army. They offered me enough where I could buy a new house in Carp. And buy a new car, but they wanted six more years. That would mean two more years in Vietnam, the price was way more than I was willing to pay. The 18 days flew by, mainly because I was drunk most of the time. I cleared post and had all my paperwork, I just had to go to Fort Carson, where about 500 of us had to sit in an auditorium and listen to one last re-enlistment talk. The officer was booed and he laughed and said he was just doing his job. I was free. I went to the airport and flew to LAX, from there to Santa Barbara. And then I caught a ride home.
Chapter 11

A civilian Again

The first thing I did was go down and sign up for unemployment. Remember, I had promised myself a summer of surfing and fun if the Army didn't kill me. I got fifty some bucks a week on unemployment and I turned down a few jobs, but they didn't report me, the summer was mine. I surfed everyday and I got rid of the sports car, it had problems and traded it in on a like new VW bug, I loved that car, never had a problem with it. I visited my friend and his wife, the ones who hooked me up with Carol. Now they were trying to hook me up with her sister. They had started a small ranch in San Miguel, north of Paso Robles, he had wanted me to come up there and work with him. There was nothing to do up there and it got very hot. But, I did date her little sister for a while, she had no problems with me being a Vietnam Vet. I think she expected that she could get me to marry her. That wasn't going to happen.

During the summer I met this sweet young thing Paula C. from the San Fernando Valley, her father had money ( he owned the International Harvester Dealership in Northridge) and they would rent a place near the beach for the summer every year. I dated her all summer and after the summer, I would spend the weekends with her family and her staying at their house. By this time I was working at the Telephone Company as a lineman, it was a career job. My girl and her mom had their sights on me, I over heard them planning my future, which kind of rubbed me the wrong way. At least I was finally wanted. They were devout Roman Catholic and I would go to mass with them every week. She and I met with a priest and he gave me a ton of books to read because it was important to her that I convert, so she and her mom could get on with the

marriage plans. I don't recall ever asking her, but we were always together so I guess they figured it was a given and I never said anything to the contrary. Two things broke us up, she asked me if I was ready to convert and I said sure why not, she didn't like that answer. And the biggest thing was she wanted to live in the San Fernando Valley. I only tolerated it to see her, I hated it there, too many people and the traffic was terrible. I bailed and never saw her again. I thought about this overnight, she was a terrific lady, but I already had some issues about Vietnam. I hated crowds, was anti- social and I didn't really much like being places that were strange to me. So, what I'm saying is she was blessed to have gotten away from me during that time of my life and at that time she was too good for me. And I actually tried to see her again, the next summer I ran into her dad, but he said she hadn't come up to Carp.

Somewhere after this a friend of mine from the phone company who was engaged to a girl I knew from school, hooked me up with her younger sister. We got along great I thought and she became my girl, I thought. Just like always her parents loved me in fact they told me I was too good for her, this was a first for me. Later on, when I found out what they meant, I wished they had just come out and told me. Several of us line crews were working in Carp. Putting up wire for a new tract of homes that were going to be built. I was working on the pole and looking down. When my girlfriend drove by in a convertible with a guy and she was almost sitting on his lap. After work, I talked to some of my friends and found out where he lived and I went to pay him a visit. He still lived at home, by this time I already had a place of my own in Serena Park, a motel converted to apartments. I went up and asked to talk to Larry S., he came out and I introduced myself. He seemed a little nervous, I calmly explained that this was about Francine and I had come over to hurt him bad. After to talking to him and comparing notes, he had been dating her longer and she was using me to make him jealous. I found I actually liked this guy and

we became long time friends. We both decided to dump her, but we had to make it painful and teach her a lesson. I had a plan, there was only one 24-hour restaurant in Carp. I told him to have her there that night and I would show up, and to just follow my lead. I came into the restaurant and went to the booth where they were with some friends. I started talking to him accusing him of sneaking behind my back with my girl and we should settle it once and for all, if he wasn't a coward. He said whatever you want bring it on. Oh, this got good! I said do you have a gun? He said yes, I said this is an easy game. Do you know the avocado orchard on Foothill Road? And he said yes. I said be there tomorrow at 4:30 PM and come in from the south, I'll come in from the north. The object of the game is to make it out of the other end of the orchard, he said he would be there. I meet with him later and I had friends calling me and they said that she was freaking out. She even called the cops, but they said there had been no crime yet. Larry and I had a good laugh, we came in together at the restaurant the next afternoon, and we both broke up with her in front of her friends. She had liked him and was using me.

After the Dear John in Vietnam and this relationship I vowed I would never be used again. And if, anyone I was in a relationship with was going to get hurt, it wasn't going to be me. I started becoming a bad boy and treating girls not so well, to my surprise, I had more girls than ever before. They lined up to be mistreated (they had low self worth), or were stupid, maybe both. My next-door neighbors at the apartment were two girls around my age, one liked me and I liked her. We dated and she was a lady and sweet and I swear she would never mess over me, but she met me in the phase of my life were I was becoming less nice. She was over watching TV with me once night and she looked into my eyes and said I love you, I had no clue what to say I just hugged her. It was a very awkward moment for me. If I had met here a couple of months before or years later, it may have turned out different. I had never cheated on a girl before, but

with my new attitude, I cheated on this poor girl more than I wish to admit, but she remained true to me (I'm really sorry Doreen). Years later, after I had got myself together I tried to get back with her, but I had hurt her so bad. She said she just could never trust me again, without trust a relationship has no future, so that was that.

I had always liked motorcycles and I started to get into them. First, of course, a Honda 350, then I bought a triumph 650 which had been painted by Von Dutch a famous painter of the time. I then, tore it down, added lots of chrome, extended the forks and made it into a chopper. Several of my friends followed suit and we hung out together. We would spend hours sitting on the wall in front of the Safeway in Carp with our choppers parked in a row. With us wearing cutoff levi jackets, fully thinking we were bikers and that we were cool. Me, I began to get bored, during those last 18 days I was on vacation in the Army I had read a book about outlaw motorcycle clubs. I began to think about what I had read months before and my interest son begin to peak. There was an old established outlaw club in Santa Barbara, was this what I was lacking? I wondered. I would find out sooner than I thought.

Chapter 12

The Birth of a legend, Outlaw Biker

Before, I go into the outlaw life I want to tell you some guidelines I am going to follow. I will not use club names. Women involved with outlaw clubs were considered property, either of the club or an individual. I don't think it is necessary to go into the issue of sex. I will probably not mention any specific crimes that may or may not have happened. Being a member of an outlaw club is called a death trip, in quite a few cases this is how your life may end. We had a much higher percentages of death in the club that we did in Vietnam. Probably the number one cause of death is riding your motorcycle being drunk and or stoned. The second leading cause of death would probably being an act of violence against you. It's not hard to make lots of enemies while in a club and they always remember you, but you have done so many things to so many people, you don't remember them and there are disputes with other clubs.

I had affiliations and or friends with more clubs than I can recall, upwards of thirty maybe more. I am a retired member of my club having been voted on unanimously to retain my colors, when my health forced me into an early retirement.

When I got out of the Army, I remained relatively normal for about 6 months, other than a few quirks from Vietnam that remain with me till this very day. All I know is I started spiraling out of control. It wasn't just the drinking or the Benzedrine that the Army had got me on, I had turned into the some of all my experiences. We all have a choice how we respond to what happens to us, this is how I responded or coped, I turned outlaw. You start to turn meaner, your hygiene slides a little, drug and alcohol help you hold it together (or so you think). Before long,

you know members of outlaw clubs and you begin to ponder the idea of becoming a Prospect (a prospective member of an outlaw club).

I still had my job, apartment and my girlfriend Doreen. Eventually, they would all be gone and or replaced. I decided to go for it and became a Prospect. The club agreed to see if, I fit and put a patch on my back, the top rocker was the club name, then it said prospect. Outlaw clubs generally have 3-patch systems, but I have seen some well-respected and scary clubs that only had one big patch. A word of advice, if there is an outlaw club around, LEAVE! When they deem you club material and bring you up for a vote, you have to have a unanimous vote. If that doesn't happen you stay a prospect or ask your sponsor who might be holding you back, so you can do a favor for that member. It's all politics, unless you happen to be the best prospect they ever have seen. Generally, club members had nicknames, some members even after years, I didn't know their real names. I had a nickname before I was a member. Baja a big hulk of a man and tough ex-Marine who loved to fight, named me Filthy Craig, I guess he didn't consider me good looking enough to be on the cover of GQ. The name stuck, another nickname was added after being a member for a while and setting high standards for being depraved and crazy. To make it in the club there were some standards all prospects had to reach. You had to be on a certain number of runs, always do as you are told and the faster the better. And you had to bring respect to the patch you had on your back, you always had to wear it when you were on your bike and win over all the members. First and foremost you had to prove you weren't law enforcement, and how that would be done, I will have to leave to your imagination. One run I went on, was just down the road to Ventura, it was a all day and all night party held in an empty warehouse. As most prospects from other clubs slept I found and cleaned large cans and filled them with beer and kept all patch holders in beer, no matter which club they were in (and there were many clubs). That brought honor to my club and the presidents of other clubs were telling my president that they wished they had me. That did not hurt my chances for membership.

As in Basic Training in the Army, I excelled. After a short while, I was brought up for membership. They would give each member a black pea and a white pea, then pass around this container with a tiny opening. Then one of the club officers would shake them out on a table in front of everyone, one black ball and you were still a prospect. There it stood out in a sea of white, one black pea. I was crushed The V.P. and other members had to talk me out of quitting, I had laid it all out, held nothing back and if that wasn't good enough, I was done. Bird the Vice President told me that no one had ever even been brought up for a vote anywhere as early as this and to hang in there that I would make it, so I stayed. Even before I was a full member, I had made friends, Sod the President was like a father being ten years older, as was Bird. Baja was a friend as was dog man, wolf man, daffy duck, Henry D., Muggs, Bill my sponsor, and a few others. This Club usually had twenty Plus to thirty members. Twenty to thirty may not seem like a large club, but it was in those days and still is. Even some of the huge clubs have chapters that are less than one-third that size. Adding the hang arounds, prospects and friends, there could be double or triple the number, when we went on runs.

My day came and I was voted in. The bylaws of our club only allowed colors to be sown on new Levi cutoffs (Levi denim jackets with the sleeve removed). So, I quickly aged them by rolling in the dirt. Colors, they could never be washed or cleaned, Riding in rain was ok and swimming with them on was allowed. I had made it, after the weekly club meeting we would go to our bar. We usually contracted with a bar owner and guaranteed him we would spend X amount of dollars. That would go by the boards after the bar may be broken up a time or two, so we were always looking ahead.

My home life was heading south as was my job. I had let a guy, I knew from school move in and share the rent because he begged to. He said he had nowhere to go, his wife was divorcing him, It, turned out to be a big mistake. He had been into Harley's forever and his nickname Pigpen was well earned. I had kept my place nice, but he was a one man wrecking crew. The places were usually furnished, but this place had a fire and all the furniture was removed. My parents were friends of the landlords and I told them I would clean it up and repaint it because I needed a place of my own. And that I had all my own furniture. I loved it there until he moved in, besides being a pig, his presence affected my relationship with my girlfriend.

Work had taken a turn for the worse also. There was a shake up at the phone company and there were too many linemen and too few operators. Average seniority in S.B. was 20 years, I had 20 months. I was given two choices, my own crew in Santa Monica, seniority there was probably 6 months, because there was so much work down there. They would get hired and then quit when they found a job that paid more. I couldn't more there and live on what the phone company paid. The other choice was to go to the telephone operator's school, there were three of us guys they forced into doing this. I already had the other guys going along with my plan. The school was 3-weeks and we had one teacher. We were going to do the impossible, flunk the school; that was fun. We didn't just flunk, it we hosed it. When we would go out on the boards and take real calls, we went so slow taking down the billing number that the long distance call was free. The phone company hates free. One time a male customer said are you free tonight, I said sure, just give me your address and I'll come over and beat you up. I didn't realize or care that a lady supervisor had plugged in behind me. She cut me off and was apologizing and saying this was hard on the guys too, they were linemen and had to do this until other jobs opened up. I
was reprimanded and told to behave, I said under the same circumstances I would do it again. This was an Alpha Male thing, I had just become a member of an outlaw club and they throw this girly stuff at me. I looked around and knew that it would be awesome staying her, three guys with all these young ladies, but I couldn't force myself to do it. They sent us to the class again, this time we each had our own teacher. I had that girl, I went to school with, the one who was engaged to a friend of mine, she had that cheating sister. She was a sweet girl, there was no way to tank the school this time. We finished the school and were to report to the boards the following Monday. We had to wear slacks and dress nice, I wore my Levi's and colors, then changed once I got there, I was going to try it. We walked into the room and had an audience of about 50 women, I looked around and wanted to stay, but it was too emasculating. I told the lady Supervisor that I quit, she took me to the coffee room and tried to talk me out of it to no avail. She called Human Resources and seriously, they didn't know what to do, no one ever quit. They even tried to talk me into staying. I just said pay me what you owe me plus my vacation. After a few hours they produced a check and I got into my grubby clothes and colors, hopped onto my bike and rode home.

I knew a guy he did scrap metal, he would drive around and salvage scrap, sometimes buying old equipment with copper windings. He had his scrap metal license, so he was paid top dollar at the scrap yards. I was actually making more money, the work wasn't bad, but he was a drunk so I never knew when we were going to work next. I finally got tired of him and quit. My roommate was building a Harley in the living room. He got if together and got it running; it had an intermittent generator problem. Sometimes the lights would go out for a second or two riding at night. He was hit by a car and nearly killed one night, they didn't know if he was going to make it. By this time, my parent's friends had left the employ of the property management

company and they had hired a super redneck to replace them. He didn't like long hair or bikers and came in with his pass key. He saw the greasy carpet, which wasn't his anyway and I was given 30-days notice.

I was weighing my options and the way I looked, people hiring didn't seem to want me. I bought a 1947 Chevy, no window panel truck it had two doors and the one door in the back for $125. It only needed a battery and it ran like a watch. I started fixing it up to live in it. I stored my extra furniture with Doreen, but before I left I threw a club party that had that moronic redneck seeing red. He hid during the party, I wish he would have shown up, I would have given him a beer, it most likely would have been his last. I had worked it out with a club member Roland, that I could park by his house in S.B. and use the facilities as I needed and he had room in his shed for my bike and his. I said goodbye to Doreen, I would come to Carp, now and then to see her. She was a Waitress at Loop's that 24-hour restaurant in Carp. Our relationship was pretty much history as I got deeper into the club.

The club was now my family and would do anything for me, as I would for them. Another club member, dog man and his girlfriend lived in vans behind another club member's house. One van was their bedroom the other was the kitchen and living space. I would go over there for tea in the evening on a semi- regular basis, they were only four blocks from were I parked. Most of the club members lived on the Westside were I had finished first grade. I'm not sure how long I lived in that van, but it seemed like a longtime.

A member who wasn't married said he had room, his name was Little Jake, I moved up to the Mesa, it was a nice area and a nice place. The family were hippies, even the parents and we all shared meals together around a large dining room table. They had several guesthouses so there were quite a number of people, but they were all harmless.

Many of the club members worked at this tiffany lamp-making place and they got me on, minimum wage, but a paycheck nonetheless. It was nice to have money again and the work was satisfactory, but the best part was strengthening the ties with my club brothers. I started as a janitor and kept getting promoted. This job had it's perks, college girls worked here during the summer months. And the lunch truck, I had seen them before, just had never eaten off them before, Yum! The work was a no brainer and I was used to the smell of resin, because of all my years of surfing. And yes I still had a surfboard.

Jake moved out to Isla Vista, I tried it for a while, but I couldn't handle being around all the hippies and anti-war protests (they made me crazy). I moved into Baja's dad's wine cellar (on the Westside of course). It wasn't bad there, a little chilly, but pretty private and it was close to many member's houses, also it had a garage for our bike's. Besides Baja, Dog man and bird the V.P. Chuckie (dog man) was a half block away and Bird's was about the same distance. So, I would have my tea and then stop by Bird's and spend the evening watching TV with his family. He had three sweet little girls who would climb over me like a jungle gym. His wife was born in Germany and was polite to me, but she had nothing to do with the club. He could do what he wanted but she said he better never bring anything home (I believed her). I loved kids, especially someone else's, you could wind them up, then leave if they got too out of control.

The president and I were close, I would work on his sportster with him. He would lightly bolt something on his bike and I would then tighten it down. This guy was big and when he tightened parts down he would often snap the heads of the bolts, hence me ( never could figure why he didn't use a torque wrench), probably because I was such great company. He had a garage full of parts and he used to ride triumphs. He said let's make your bike fast. He pulled out
new heads and pistons and we started tearing into it. A few hours later I had one fast triumph, he had added about 100cc's and much more torque and horsepower. We went for a wild ride and his sportster couldn't shake my triumph. Triumph's had one major flaw they would overheat and when they did, they would seize up. You would be hauling down the highway and the bike would lock up and start to skid. If, you pulled in the clutch quick the transmission would disengage and you could coast off the road safely. After waiting until it cooled down, 20-30 minutes, it would fire back up no worse for the wear. Sod and I were on our way to a bar one night to meet with the rest of the club, he had his girl on the back of his bike and I had a girl I met at work on the back of mine. My bike locked up, I said no problem, I'll meet you there, the girl and I talked as we waited for the bike to cool down. It was chilly that night and the bike cooled down quickly. I climbed on and tried to kick it over, no luck it was still locked up. I didn't have a flashlight, so I couldn't check it out further. I said when we don't show up soon, they will sent a pick-up out to get us. Generally, when lots of bikes traveled somewhere, some would break down and we always had a pick-up or two on hand. Sure enough a little while later a pick-up showed up, we loaded the bike and went to the bar to party. Later we dropped the girl off and I was dropped off with my bike at Baja's. The next morning I got up and I couldn't believe my eyes. There was a connecting rod sticking through the side of the barrel, the lower end had let go and basically the engine had blown up, major problem and major money. I would be without a motorcycle for a while. I knew the owner of the Triumph dealership, I borrowed a pick-up and dropped it off. He called me later with the bad news that he couldn't even get some of the parts in the states they had to be ordered from England. Yes, the engine blew because it couldn't hold up to the horsepower we gave it. You win some and you lose some (months later when I got it back, I sold it and bought a nice Harley).

When my bike was down we had a run scheduled for the Sequoia National Forest. A run is usually mandatory for all club members. There were legitimate excuses, but you had to make so many a year (I cannot remember how many). I also don't know why we went there so often, Kern County and the surrounding area sucked. It was hot, barren except for scrub oak and lots of dirt. The only pluses were the river that ran through it and no one bothered us. There was a little Cowboy bar in Springville that wasn't too bad.

It sucked not having my bike there. I talked duck into letting me borrow his sportster . I cruised back and forth between the bar and the campsite all day. There was this turn that was a sweeping curve of about 180 degrees. Going uphill it wasn't much of a big deal. Coming downhill and not being under power it was quite a bit hairier. Well. I am not sure what happened, but I crashed coming down the hill that I had safely made 100 times before. Somehow I also broke a water main and I was laying in the middle of the road. My pockets were filled with bottles of beer, didn't break a single one. People carried me out of the roadway and I started giving away the beer, because I knew the Highway Patrol would be there soon. I was hurt and couldn't walk or even get up. I declined medical treatment, heck we were leaving tomorrow and I didn't want to be stuck up there in a hospital. I told the cops where the club was camped and they came down with the cops and a pick-up truck.

They threw me, and the bike in the back of the truck. I was in much pain, so, they drugged me and all was well. I was really bummed about crashing Duck's bike, because it was bad, I had cracked both of his engine cases. It does not get much worse or expensive than that. On the way home I had them drop me off at my parent's house and since I was all banged up, they had mercy on me. I was there a week or two before I was able to get around. I was in enough accidents and fights that the doctors told me when I got older that arthritis would be a severe problem for me. One thing about riding, you are going to crash (just a matter of time).

Well, I still had my 1947 Chevy van. I decided to go on a roadtrip J down to Carp, one night. I stopped at a bar on Linden, I don't think I had ever been there before. I walked in and recognized quite a few people from the past. Kevin S. was with a few of his friends. There was this German bartender and she was hot and had a cool accent. She was probably late 20's and very friendly at least to me. After talking to her for a few minutes, I had a date with her after she got off at 2AM. Problem was this one annoying guy, kept hitting on her, I had known and disliked this guy since high school. And to make him even more annoying, he thought he was a tough guy. He had just gotten out of the joint (prison) for a drug charge. Not a very scary charge as far as I was concerned. We had members who had spent half their lives in prison for violent crimes. Me feeling very, very, kind that night, I warned him to leave her alone twice. Generally, I just would have started hitting him, but like I said I cut him some slack. His ignoring me was to the point of disrespecting my patch and me, so, I beat the ever-loving snot out of him. Then I went to my van got my knife and stuck it in the waistband of my pants. Kevin asked what that was for, I explained it was late and I was tired and the guy I pounded had several friends with him. I was too tired to beat up all of his friends, so, if they bothered me I said with a smile, I'll just have to gut them. He squirmed in his chair when he knew I was serious.

Time was moving slow and after a while, I figured that she wouldn't want to be with me after what I had done, I was wrong! Leaving Carp the next morning the local pigs (I mean Policemen) pulled me over and gave me a ration of crap over a few minor fix-it violations. And told me not to bring my van back to town. They banned my van, what cruel brutes, I swear you give some guys a badge and they are like Barney Fife on steroids, they might even have two

bullets. My rule of thumb at that point in my life was, if they just are hassling you, talk back to the morons even if they may not understand you. But, if they catch you doing something wrong, BE POLITE UNTIL IT HURTS AND USE YES SIR AND NO SIR and ask how is their mom. Example: I spent the evening in a bar just up from the Palms, it was like a pool hall. When I left, I got on it and was heading up Linden going the wrong way for the lane I was in. I got pulled over and I parked at the gas station at the corner of Linden and Carpinteria Avenue. I was so drunk I had to hold onto my sissy bar to keep from falling down. They wrote me up for driving in the wrong lane, exhibition of speed, going 60 in a 25 and reckless driving, but that's all. I used the yes sir and no sir in almost every sentence, probably why I wasn't arrested right then. They asked me if I was able to ride home, I said yes thank you, when I get some wind, I will be fine. But, of course they didn't care if I made it home alive or not.

Getting a ticket in Carp was serious, I went to school with the granddaughter of the judge, I didn't think dropping her name was going to help, he was known as the hanging judge. Also, I had a heap of tickets on my driving record, the only reason they hadn't pulled my license was that I had a class one drivers license and truckers since they were on the road so much were bound to get a few tickets ( although all of mine were motorcycle related). Pigpen when he was my roommate had gotten a ticket for going 40 in a 25 and was fined $250 and probation for 3 years. Day of my court appearance I had a club member ride on the back of my bike down there, so when I took the jail time instead of the fine, he could ride my bike back to the club house and lock it up.

I was called to the bench and to my surprise, it was Judge Lodge, I had been before him dozens of times. And he always was fair and called me by my first name, He I believe actually liked me, I always showed him respect. He started reading off the long list of charges; I just

hoped, I made it to jail in time for lunch. He said it says here that the officers said, you were very courteous and cooperative, (damn they had written that on the ticket). He said, Craig how much money do you have on you? I said I have $20 your honor, he said $19 fine that gives you a dollar to get back to Santa Barbara and slammed the gavel. That was more than amazing, the hanging judge was on vacation, and I got my favorite judge and he even cut me more slack than usual.

Getting my first Harley was just by luck. A friend of the club was a smuggler, he had one of those cigar shaped racing boats and he would smuggle drugs from Mexico into the States, until that is, he was caught. At the height of his business, he was part owner of The Chart House a fine restaurant on Cabrillo Blvd. across the street from the beach. He had a crew of five guys that just worked oh his toys. He had that boat, numerous chopped Harley's, a funny car that held a record in it's class, you name it he had it and he spent money like it was water. In those days they didn't have that law where they seized all your assets. He was selling off his assets to try and stay out of prison and of course his lawyers were bleeding him dry.

We were at his shop and he pointed to a sweet 1949 chopped pan head, it was a honey, all the aluminum had already been chromed which is expensive and it had a bow and arrow front end from Scotland ( very rare), it was in the family line of being an exotic springer front end. He asked me if I wanted it and I said heck yes, he said $900 and it's yours. I said I would have to sell my triumph first, he said just give me a down payment and take it now. I gave him a $100 and rode it home. The Triumph with a new engine and paperwork to prove it, it sold for $900 in a couple of days to a Sheriff no less. The first night I had that Harley on the road was meeting night.

After the meeting, we headed to the bar. Tim and I were the lead bikes and I threw him a rev and asked if he wanted to go for it, he nodded yes. We were at the traffic lights at Chapala

and Highway 101, waiting for a green light so we could cross the highway. The light turned green and I popped the clutch and beat him out of the hole by several bike lengths. Just in time to be hit by a car that had ran the red light. I heard the screeching tires as he locked his brakes and I looked up and saw him coming. I had just enough time to jump up onto the seat so he wouldn't take off my left leg, then the impact. I was thrown a long way, my passenger was lucky, the car had struck the bike right in front of where he was. The club surrounded the car, so he couldn't drive off. I told one of the members to get my bike out of there and put it in Baja's garage, you see I had no paperwork on it and I was running a phony license plate. The bike was bent, but still ran. My passenger and I were taken to the hospital to be checked out, we were treated and released with cuts and bruises.

The problem I had now was the highway patrol kept coming by to check the paperwork on the bike, the smuggler was in jail by this time and had put one of his friends in charge of all his personal affairs. I tracked him down and got about a four-inch thick stack of paperwork on the bike. I took it to the DMV and was issued a pink slip and license plate, which got the CHP off my back.

Now to get the guy to pay for the damage to my bike. I had to get an accident report to get the name and address of the guy, not good he lived in Calexico, right on the Mexican border. We got a phone number and he spoke no English. So, I had Baja's wife call him, she was Hispanic. He said he had insurance and we got the name of the company in LA, but they stoned walled us and said they knew nothing about it. In the meantime I took it to our head mechanic who had a shop in his garage, he also had a business license and he wrote up every scratch from stem to stern on the bike and it was well over a thousand dollars damage. Maybe some of those scratches were already there, maybe not. I had known that the bike needed engine and transmission work

even before I got it, but it was still a good deal. Finally, a couple of months later I get a call from the insurance company, they had misplaced the papers and they wanted to settle, so I got a ride to LA. They didn't blink over the inflated bills I gave them, plus all the hospital bills, they cut me a check on the spot. We stopped at the Harley Shop in Ventura where I bought every part I needed for a complete engine and transmission rebuild, which was $500 plus and that was lots of money in 1970. The cheap suckers wouldn't even throw in a free $5 tee shirt after spending all that money.

A few days at our mechanics shop (grandpa, a club member worked for Bill B. at his shop). Grandpa did all the engine and transmission work, thanks gramps. He put in a FLH cam and solid lifters and it was a runner, even a souped up sportster couldn't out run it and as a bonus it had no leaks and not even a seep of oil, which was rare for a Harley. So, as I was saying a few days in the shop and I had a new bike. You might find this amusing Bill B. was the Head Harley Police Mechanic in S.B.

The Art of Bar Fighting: at the start of my membership in the club I had much to learn, thanks mainly to watching Baja I learned much, a little I gathered through experience. I used to keep a tally of how many fights I got in, but that became difficult through the sheer numbers and also a lack of interest in doing it. Sometimes I would have multiple fights in a night, we would party Friday, and Saturday night, times 52 weeks a year times 3 years. Just to be on the conservative side I'll give it an even number of 500 wins, 1 tie and 1 loss. The loss was my first fight as a member, I made a lot of mistakes, I still fought like it was the Marquess of Queensbury's Rules. In other words I hadn't learned to fight dirty yet. But, don't worry another member beat him senseless. Learning the tricks came naturally, at first it didn't seem right kicking a guy when he was knocked down, but I soon learned if you knock a guy down never let him get up. If he gets up again you may get injured. We were usually out numbered, but our heart was in it and we were more experienced, so in the end we always won. A good rule, when you can, always hit first and hit hard, this can end a fight quick. Steel toed boots, a taped up roll of coins, get any edge you can, remember winning is all that matters. Cue sticks and pool balls are excellent tools.

One night the Club destroyed two bars and a house where there was a party and I actually only started two of the three incidents, ok maybe I provoked the third a little. The one fight I remember the most was at a club up De La Vina Street in S.B. A usual bar brawl, I think when we went in and were waiting for a pool table, Baja told the guys in the pool room that he and I were going to kick all their butts sometime during the evening. So, maybe into the night he started the fight. At any rate, when a bar fight starts you grab the first citizen (non outlaw) you can get your hands on and beat the heck out of them and so on and so on.... The last guy I got my hands on could take a beating like no one I had ever seen before. I would knock him down and kick the stuffing out of him and he kept getting up. It was kind of disconcerting. I beat that guy like I never beat any one before or since and he still came after me. I even busted things over his head, still no effect.

The cops finally got there and to my disappointment, he seemed to be friends with the two cops. He told them I started the brawl, I'm not sure if I did or not, but they arrested me. Each cop had one of my arms and this guy was still trying to get at me. I told the cops to tell him to back off, but they didn't. To my advantage with them holding me up, I could kick this guy with both feet. I accidently kicked one cop in his family jewels and he dropped, then I shook off the other cop. He started to reach for his gun, but the club started to tighten their circle around the cops. They evidently decided I was a high risk target and pulled out their clubs and started beating the hell out of their friend. I casually walked a way and got the heck out of there. A couple of days later I could hardly walk. I think Baja gave me a ride to the county hospital. The doctor said one of my testicles had been either kicked really hard or stepped on and suffered severe damage. The doctor said it would just shrink and then they would remove it. He asked me why I put my body through so much and I said because it was fun.

Funny thing another member (nicknamed grandpa) at the same time had to have a testicle removed. So, his wife (nicknamed grandma, even though she was in her 20's) said for me to come stay with them because she was already waiting on one cripple, another wouldn't be that much more work. I was there a week, eventually it fully healed, the doctor had been wrong.

Things to NEVER FORGET about an outlaw club, mess with one and you mess with all. We were family, we watched each other's backs and we were a military type unit and disciplined as any I was ever in. For example: let's say an enemy soldier shot at you and some of your fellow soldiers were there, was it just between him and you, or did you all shoot him? Also let's say a citizen (that's what we called ordinary people) thought, I bet I could kick that club members butt and maybe he could. So, would we let him? He could just pick a little one and he could say I kicked an outlaw's butt. Nope doesn't work that way, they maybe able to say I beat one up, but from their hospital bed they could attest to the fact that this was the consequence of their actions.

We went on a bunch of runs to the Kern County Area, so we had been in many cowboy bars. Cowboys seemed to have the hardest time of anyone understanding that their actions were going to lead to extremely painful consequences. So, be advised even if you are as tough as Tyson was in his prime, you will lose and it is fair. Also in regards to fighting, I learned how to work myself up into a frenzy and let the adrenaline flow, hard to beat someone having an adrenaline rush. Bar fights were just for fun nobody hopefully died. If you weren't the member who started the fight,

you just grabbed the first citizen you could get your hands on and start beating on him and this continued until all the male citizens were down or had bailed. Simple right?

Next topic, did you ever just do something for the heck of it? One evening I was returning from a party and it was almost 2AM. So, I stopped at a liquor store to buy a six-pack of beer. I had this strong desire, something that I had wanted to do for years, ride my motorcycle on the sidewalk. So, I did, much to my dismay a squad car pulled up next to me with two officers in it and they were laughing hard. Finally, when they could talk they asked what are you doing? And I answered, well I had determined I was too drunk to drive on the street. They broke into laughter again. And I inserted, it just seemed like the right thing to do at the time.

I found out early that if you went to court you generally only paid about half the going fine. My name was called and I told the judge my story, he wasn't amused but everyone else in court was cracking up (this wasn't Judge Lodge, this was the S.B. version of the Carp hanging judge). The jerk fined me $50.

I spent a lot of time in traffic court. I didn't want to live in Isla Vista, but there were plenty of parties there. If you weren't invited to one ,you just had to ride around and follow the noise, then invite yourself. No one ever seemed to care. I was coming home at about 3am out of Goleta, traveling down Hollister Avenue. There was a red light at an intersection that changed when the weight of a vehicle was on it. My Harley did not weigh enough for the light to change. There was nowhere to turn around and no crosswalk buttons to go push. So, after weighing all my options I safely went through the red light. I have no idea where the cops had been hiding. Even after explaining the situation to them I got a ticket anyway. With colors on your back you actually got away with fewer traffic violations than regular people. The next week I was out there partying again and coming home I didn't even slow down for the red light. I figured I had

already paid for running it. Wrong, the cops came out of nowhere again, another ticket. The third weekend in a row, 3 or 4am , surely I would get away with it this time. Nope, I was busted again. I curtained going to Isla Vista for a time and also found a safer way home.

Try this one, I parked at a fast food place at the corner of State Street and Cabrillo Blvd. A cop came up and said my bike was parked on the sidewalk and wrote me a ticket. I argued with him, my tire was not on the sidewalk, he said if you put a vertical line up from the edge of the sidewalk it would hit about an inch of your tire. I called him a few names and he gave me a ticket. I said wait, before you leave, I tore the ticket up into small pieces as he fumed and he said I would get into trouble for that. I said, I best not litter and carefully deposited them in the trashcan. The next day I went down to the clerk's office. And said I misplaced a parking ticket I had gotten the day before, I paid the fine. See you can obey the law and still have fun doing it.

Sometimes, I would ride down to Carp and see friends and go to Loop's and hang out drinking coffee. We would vegetate and take up space for hours. Or, go to the tavern and have a few beers and shoot pool. Sometimes I would cruise down Linden and Park at the beach and remember old times. And marvel that the tradition of sitting on the wall was still going on. I would stop at Tim B's house and visit and he would show me what car he was working on now. Also, Armbeck was an old friend, I would take beer over there to protect myself from his exploding homebrew. Charlie Armbeck was a friend of my older brother, but I had also been friends with him a longtime. Charlie and I had some wild adventures together. One time we decided to go shooting, so we loaded up an arsenal and headed to Lodi. I brought an old Calvary issue 45-70 Govt., it had an octagon barrel and kicked like a mule. When you lit off a round it sounded like a freight train, it was a blast to shoot. After, our shoulders were sore enough, we packed up and found the nearest bar in Ojai.

A typical cowboy bar, I asked Charlie if he wanted to mess the cowboys, he said sure. I had just gotten out of the hospital. I had two black eyes and my nose was packed with gauze, I was a sight. I laid out my plan, we would go into the bar and he would casually spread the word that he was my manager and were on our way home from a fight at the Olympic in LA. Even looking like I had been pounded, only a moron would mess with a professional fighter. I gave the rumor a little while to get passed around. Then I started to hit on everyone's wife and or girlfriend. Nobody looked cross eyed at me and Charlie and I never had to pay for another drink the rest of the night.

When we left, it was closing time and we got down to highway 101. It was one lane in each direction then. Somewhere before Stanley's Diner, Charlie fell asleep at the wheel and went across the other lane and hit and jumped the guardrail. Believe it or not, one of the leaf springs had gotten caught on the guardrail. Otherwise the Datsun Pick-up would have plunked about 30 feet into the rocks and the water below. I don't think we would have survived that. We climbed up the side of the truck, looking down I could see the trucks headlights shining into the water and the rocks, scary. Charlie had a minor cut, on his nose from it hitting, the steering wheel, I was unhurt. We sat there on the guardrail for quite a while because only the trucks taillights were visible, so it was hard to see there had been an accident. Finally, a Highway Patrolman stopped, he called a tow truck, the tow truck driver got the pick-up back on the road. The only damage to the truck was the valance under the front bumper was all bent up. We both blew off work the next day, recovering from our experience.

On another occasion we got drunk at his house and I was doing wheel stands up and down the road in front of his house on my Harley. I found out if I hit it hard enough, when I was
on one wheel that I could shift my weight and lean and when the front tire hit the ground, I would be going the opposite way. That worked 2 out of 3 times, the last time I crashed. He called my girlfriend to give me a ride home, thinking I was too drunk to ride home. When she got there, she threw her little hissy fit about me being a moron and stuff along that line. I said just follow me home, I'm ok.

I got on the freeway with her following me, I was going 75-80 MPH and I had to pull off a Summerland for gas. My Harley had a rear brake only and it was an old mechanical brake. They had a tendency to fade at high speed and lock up at lower speeds. So, the way you used them, you would just start taping them and when you were going slow enough you used your transmission to slow you down. I taped my brake pedal and heard a ping and the brake rod flew by my ear. I only had time to react not think, I laid it down at about 70 and slid into the ice plant and then into the chain link fence. I was more angry than hurt, I had to call for a pick-up to come and get my bike. The fun times never ended at Charlie's. I, always went to Carp when I needed a night off, you know a relaxing evening. :)

It was Fiesta time in Santa Barbara, people came from all over the world to take in the sight, sounds and smells of the awesome food. A few of us club members where having a good time, when I ran into a member of a huge club out of LA. I said he could hang out with us and we would put him up for the night at our clubhouse. He, another member and myself where sitting under a tree at the post office. We were smoking a joint our guest had rolled about the size of a cigar. And up walked two cops while I was smoking on it, I shoved it in my mouth and choked it down. I didn't even have a beer to chase it with. We were searched and luckily there wasn't enough residue in the bag to charge us with anything. One cop was cool and the other was a butthead. So, naturally me and my silver tongue started messing with him. As we were about to come to blows, his partner restrained him, as I pulled out a pen and wrote his badge number down. That always ticks them off. They left and we went sightseeing.

A guy and his girl or wife parked a brand new sportster across the street. A few minutes later, the cops put up signs marking it as a tow away zone. I thought it over and being a nice neighbor, I was pushing the bike down the street to where our bikes were parked in an alley. Behind me, I heard a voice and turned, there was the couple with a cop in tow. I thought fast, explained how it was now a tow away zone, and was moving it to safety. I told them a tow truck would come and just throw a chain around it and haul it off with no particular worries about its condition. I turned to the policeman and said isn't that right? He told them that it would happen that way. I was moving your bike to where it was safe. And left a prospect to watch for you. So, he could take you to your bike. I said isn't that so prospect and he said yes it was. And they apologized and thanked me and the cop left. I thought if they were that stupid I would invite them to the clubhouse for a party, but they declined and said they had prior commitments ( was worth a try).

Next, we went to a dance near the Marina where a guy ticked me off and I worked him over, the police asked us to leave. Now it was time to meet the club at a bar and have a few beers. We got there to a crowded loud bar with dog man hitting on a seventy year old lady. I said can I talk to you a minute and I pulled him aside and asked him if he had recently had a head injury, he said he hadn't. I said then you know that this lady is older then dirt, he said yup and I couldn't stop laughing. He later took her for a motorcycle ride and they hung out in the back of the bar kissing and holding hands. The girl he lived with was pretty and nineteen. He deserved some kind of award, but I wasn't sure what.

I went back to the clubhouse and the guest patch holder and I slept in sleeping bags in the back yard because it was a nice night. The next day we went out to eat and he left to meet his

club in Lompoc. It was a run we were going on also, the annual flower festival, lots of clubs would be there and our club left for Lompoc early that evening. We arrived at a big bar and hugged many members we knew from different clubs. We drank and caught up on the old times and then we went down to the riverbed where we would camp and party the rest of the night.

Usually when a bunch of clubs got together we would have contests to see whose prospects were better, this evening was no different. We kept piling, more wood on the bonfire, it was huge. And we started having our prospects walk through it. Not like walking barefoot on coals just climbing over burning logs. On a bonfire about six feet high and twice again as wide. I think we won when our prospect went through the last time and fell in. We sent him in a pick-up with another prospect to a hospital in Lompoc, he came back a few hours later with several impressive bandages. So, we gave him the rest of the night off. We also won by having the oldest and ugliest prospect and ours was all rolled into one body, his name was Tiger, he later was murdered by one of our other prospects in a fight over the ugliest and dirtiest woman I had ever seen.

The next day bodies were lying all over the place passed out, I had been up all night and was tired and hungry. We were going to a restaurant in town that had good food, but I couldn't get my bike started. Tim's old lady Marsha (the girl he lived with) came over, she was slender and averaged sized and asked if she could try, she kick it once and it started. The guys mocked me, I smiled and said yeah, yuck it up. We went, ate, and headed back to S.B. I went to a friends house I knew and put my bike in her apartment, got cleaned up and slept till the next day.

We partied with many different clubs, sometimes on our turf, or their turf, or in a neutral zone. When you were a guest of another club on their turf, you didn't act like you did at home, no getting out of line or tearing down bars, unless that is what they wanted you to join in doing. That is where I came in I was the Enforcer, the lowest of the four club officers. My job was to

keep the animals in line until I deemed it was time to turn them loose. I could reprimand other club members through fines and it was my job on runs to protect the president. The one minor problem was the fact I usually started the trouble. So, I was reduced in rank and after a time when I saved the president's bacon on a run I was again re-instated to the rank of Enforcer.

We had one large club come up and visit quite often, we would usually party at the bar and then finish the party at the beach across from the Bird Refuge. I had become friends with the president and a few other members. This club was not friendly and possibly at war with other clubs that we had relationships with, But it never became a problem.

As time passed, I was invited to join a club inside the club, it was called the Secret Society and counting myself there were four members, Henry D. (a former president and one of the club founders, Chuck, Tim and myself. We steered the path of the club by only allowing people into the club that fit our agenda. And we made alliances with some of the major players (you know THE BIG CLUB). The Society was only rumored to exit, no one knew for sure and if it did exist, no one knew who was in it. There in every club is an inner core, they are 24/7 club members, we had a few and our goal was to bring more of those types into the club. Not knocking some of the other members, but they way have wives and families which understandably kept them from becoming deeper involved with the club. You have to remember at this point in my life the club was my life, my family and I thought I would be in it the rest of my life and I wanted it hardcore.

By this time I was always carried a colt- auto and really was going off the deep end. I was getting dangerous to everyone and myself. I had began snorting a lot of crank (crystal meth) which some were dealing, but not me of course and I always had a beer in my hand, maybe that and all the anti-war crap and the government turning their backs on us Vets was finally driving me over the edge, or damn close to it.

I was still working at Machet's and came in one morning and part of it had burned down, including the department where I worked at. We were told we be called back to work when repairs were made, never happened. Every time that guy got into a financial bind a fire broke out and he would probably claim that he lost a bunch of non-existing inventory. Oh, It was a relief being out of there, besides I had other sources of money coming in.

The smuggler now serving time had left an old moving van with had been made into an RV (and this was before RV's) in Henry's care. He parked it behind the clubhouse and he lived in it and said he had plenty of room, so I moved in also. It was nice there and very convenient living close to the clubhouse. Henry didn't have a typical day job either. We would usually get up and go near the beach to this place that had breakfast for a dollar. Play cards with other members and drink and do whatever came up. Don't worry there were lots of visitors and we never got bored or lonely.

We had this member who had been an unusual pain in the butt. He had been fined for not participating in a bar brawl, when every other member was actively engaged. And he lived in Lompoc, which was the home to another outlaw club, which we got along very well with. He would call almost every Friday night that something was coming down with the other club and we would jump on our bikes and rush up there. And nothing ever seemed to be wrong. I brought this topic up at a club meeting and said I don't know about anyone else, but I'm tired of all these false alarms and riding up to Lompoc. Others agreed (plenty of others), I put it on the table that we require him to move back to S.B. and see if that solves the problem. He said he couldn't, rent was too high, then I filed a motion that in light of this, we can solve the problem by lifting
his patch and we did. It's not often you get to lift the patch of your sponsor. I derived no pleasure in this and I gave him a way to keep his patch, but it had become an issue that had to be addressed. We lifted a couple other patches while we were at it, a kind of cleaning house.

Sometimes we would get a prospect in that had everything we were looking for in a member and time and again they would still get one black pea. What could possibly be going on? Well the answer was me, they hadn't addressed my issue I had with them. It was what could they do for me. I was in an outlaw club, don't expect me to be above bribery. After talking with them we would come up with something that would probably help me put the white pea in the container and that is the way that was. After a while sponsors would have their prospects bribe me before they came up for a vote, but I never would vote for anyone that I didn't think would further the shaping of the club along the guidelines of the Secret Society. I had my dignity and honor to consider, my legacy. J

We went on a run to San Francisco, to party with the BIG DOG CLUB and a few others. I loved my bike, but it was hardly built for long trips. It had a gas tank with a thirty mile range and a rigid frame that shook you to death. Well once there, we discovered they owned their own bar, awesome, they didn't have to keep finding new bars like we did. And they owned their clubhouse too. Money definitely has its advantages. That night we had an outstanding time at their bar. There just had been a movie made about them and people came to their bar out of curiosity. Not a brilliant thing to do, but most people are stupid. Look at some of the presidents they have elected.

The party was moved to the clubhouse, great evening and we were treated well. The next day we left with them to go to Big Sur where they would meet up with a bunch of their chapters from all over California (Northern Ca. mainly) I think. They were given a whole section of the park where they would be left alone and outsiders wouldn't be allowed access. The whole event was very impressive. The next morning I had breakfast with a group of retired members ( meaning they were still patch holders, but didn't have to meet the requirements of an active member, they had done their time). These guys were great to listen and talk to. They were some of the original members that were with the club at the start, a couple years after the end of WWII). These guys were like gurus or a Yoda, very wise and mellow. They called us younger patch holders, the young lions and that it was our time.

One asked if I liked reds and I said I had never tried them. He dropped a bunch in my hand. I asked him how many was enough, he said one or two. So, naturally I took ten. We were making the right friends and connections, the inner circle had the club's direction well in hand. After dropping ten reds the trip back to S.B. seemed very short, probably because I passed out and rode home asleep in the back of a pick-up truck. I only took reds one more time. I had dinner several times a week at a family tavern, that Baja had showed me. They had the best burgers and fries in town. I was eating dinner there, next thing I remember was waking up in my bed. I got up and checked. My bike was safely locked in the shed. I remember nothing, I had passed out face first into my meal, the owner didn't know what to do, so he called Baja. My bike was rode home and I was put to bed. No more reds for me, I seemed to have a hard time getting the dose right.

One night Henry and two girls and I were watching a movie in the RV, it was Dr. Strangelove we all had taken mescaline. When the cowboy jumped on that bomb, it blew my mind and I ran screaming from the RV. They all were laughing, but it wasn't funny to me. That was the first hallucinogen I had taken since Vietnam, so I guess after Nam I couldn't do them anymore either and mentally crossed then of my list. I would stick to snorting crank and drinking beer.

We had been having on going problems with the police. My idea was to wait for shift change, follow them blatantly home, and make a point of writing down their addresses. We would only do this as harassment nothing else. I even followed one all over town when he was on duty till he freaked and I had to get the heck out of there. This seemed to work the Police Chief called a meeting with the officers of our club (me included) and he asked for a truce, they would back off and asked for the same. We agreed and thought that all the unnecessary bull would stop, we were wrong it got worse. They started to plant undercover cops in the bars we went to. A member was playing pool with a guy, when the member leaned over for his pool shot his shoulder holster was visible. The next thing we know every cop car on duty answered the call and they we smacking people even our girls as we were up against the wall. I was carrying a Puma hunting knife, it had been concealed, but when it hit the fan I flicked it out so it was visible and no longer illegal.

I was up against the wall and I could see a cop was reaching for his club to give me a whack, which was never going to happen, I would have made him eat it. Just then I heard a voice yell out saying stop, he is ok. The cop who had me stopped going for his club. I didn't know what happened until later. This may seem hard to believe, but I was up against that wall for what seemed like hours. I didn't hear any sounds and I slowly looked around, I was the only one there. All the cops were gone and all the other people were arrested. I found out later that one of my older brother's friends who was a cop had saved my bacon. I knew the guy and he, my brother and I had a few beers together before and we got a long all right. It took guts for him to side with me in front of the other cops, but he was just one of those few, that you find that their badge hadn't gone to their head. Just one tiny problem, they took my knife and this was like a hundred dollar knife in the late 60's. I got on my bike and went to the police station. I asked the duty officer for my knife back. The guy said that the report said I was arrested. I said does it look like I'm arrested? He called around until he found out who had my knife and they brought it in and returned it to me.

Next, and this is according to guys that were there. A woman showed up at the clubhouse one night and wanted to be let's say friendly with all who were there. I didn't happen to be around that night. She left then the cops immediately showed up and charged all the guys with rape. It was later learned she was a hooker, but that didn't matter all the guys were sent to prison, some were still there seven or eight years later. Does it seem like a set-up to anyone else but me? We, the inner circle met and decided we had to put out ties with the BIG DOG on the fast track. We met a chapter of their club up in (I'm looking back 40 years, but I believe it was the Vallejo Chapter) Lompoc; they were picking up a member being released from the federal Prison there. We invited them to come down to S.B. to party. Coming off highway 1 onto 101, riding two bikes abreast a couple of the outside bikes were squeezed into the wall. One of their members was killed the other had at least a broken nose. I rode to the gas station at Gaviota, an ambulance was already dispatched and had a club member from S.B. bring the pick-up to gather the two wrecked bikes. I got back to the pack and took the other injured member to the hospital in Santa Ynez, one of his members followed along on his bike. Dennis was the name of the injured guy and we became good friends and he would come down to our clubhouse and visit often. He did his job, he got his fallen brothers colors and then was treated for a broken nose. We stopped at a local drugstore to get his pain meds filled, I just sat there and watched people, and how they acted when they say the Famous Winged Skull. We got to the clubhouse and started to party, we called all our club members to come. It lasted all night and we went to breakfast, some cops were
following and seemed to disappear when they saw the famous patch. The police were definitely not excited about our new friends and we never bothered to meet with the police chief again after the lies that he told us the last time. We raised the stakes in the game and put them back on their heels. More chapters followed and came to party with us. Let's see how many I can remember. Of course, Vallejo, Daly City, San Jose and Richmond those are the ones I remember. We were friends of San Francisco, but they never came down.

I was offered a chance to get in the Ironworkers Union and even the starting pay was good. The work was hard, but I was young and having a good-sized paycheck and a steady income felt good. I moved out of the clubhouse to an apartment at a member's house. It was kind of an attached apartment, not big, but my own space, a kitchen sink, a hotplate and a refrigerator, bathroom and bedroom/living room. But, it was my personal space. I bought a pick-up and it also had a shed to lock up my bike. Tim and Marsha (my motorcycle starter) lived just a house away and of course, it was in the Westside. I liked it there, I could get away from people, and I even bought a TV.

Around this time I met and started dating Dorothy, it was a blind date. We got along good from the start. I met some of her friends Todd and Kathy, they were married with two kids. They lived on the mesa in a nice house that had a view of the ocean. They had a one bedroom cottage in the back and asked if I would like to rent it. It was a palace, with a bedroom and kitchen, nice bath and nice neighborhood and an ocean view. They gave me a great deal, it was about the same as I was paying so I moved again. Todd and Kathy accepted me like family. During the week when there was no club business I would visit and watch TV with them and their two boys. And Todd shared his carport with me. I was able to get all my furniture and belongings out of storage, that I hadn't seen in years, it was great.

My family, Dad, Mom, Niece and Sister-in-law had moved to Oregon after my dad had to retire from work. He had cancer, he was maybe 51, almost 52. I used to visit them so I felt a little abandoned. He died just after his 53rd birthday.

I had entered into a period in my life where I was conflicted. This was very confusing for me, I had always been goal oriented. I am not saying that my goals were right, or well thought out, decent, humane or anything. I just usually said that's what I want, lowered my head and went for it and pretty much always succeeded. I was in a realm that I was a stranger to. I was starting to question is this all there is to life? Hate had taken its toll on me, it eats you form the inside out. If, you ever hate someone, they win, they own you, because you hating them makes you suffer not them. Of course, there are exceptions, in my line of work (the club). If I hated someone, they hurt more than I did. But, still you pay a price. I decided I needed to make a list starting with things I knew mattered to me. Well I could never picture my life without the club. These guys were my family and they had proved it over and over. To this day I can picture some of my closer brothers, Bird, Baja, Henry (was killed in an accident in 1979), Sod, Tim, Chuck, Dog man, Hippie Dickie ( I think he was killed in The mid-70's), TR, Muggs, DJ, Duck, Sweet Gary, Roland, Grandpa and Jake. I laugh when I remember how Bird used to talk in his pirate voice and He would say,"Arrrrrrrrr, there's Craig the living legend", (he gave me that second nickname). I knew that the life span for an outlaw is short, so I never worried about getting old. Wow! Now that's a short list. An old sage once advised me, don't come out of the gate too fast it's a long race. I think I gave the club abut 40 hours a day and maybe the 2-3 days of parties every weekend, would have to be curtailed. I started to believe I was burning out, but I kept pushing.

I started to reflect back on some things that either amused or ticked me off, since I had become a member. I remember getting this notice from the Department of Motor Vehicles, saying show up at this particular office on a Saturday, or else. I showed up, they called off the names on the list, and they said everyone who hadn't shown up would have their drivers licenses Suspended. But, the rest of us were going to be given a second chance. I raised my hand and they said yes? I said that sounds good, but What if you got a ticket since I got the notice? He said they would forgive that, hmmm, I said what if it's more than one, he said how many, four I think I said. He grimaced and said we will excuse those also. Anyone get more than four he joked, I said why is there a prize? Everyone cracked up. We were told to somehow stop getting tickets.

Also having to do with the DMV, when the law was passed that you had to take a motorcycle-driving test. I went in and took the written test and then a DMV tester came out with a clipboard. We walked up to my bike and he started asking questions. He said where is the starter, I pointed to the kick starter, the horn, I had an old style bulb horn, I squeezed it twice. The clutch, brakes etcetera. Ride that straight line shifting up as you go, turn around and come back while you are downshifting. Now the circle, I had seen cops falling all the time on this part and their bikes were way shorter than mine. I pulled onto the circle, my bike being about the same length as the diameter. He said go 3-times around left and turn around and go three times right. I said you are kidding right and he said no. I grabbed a handful of throttle and popped the clutch and burned rubber 3-times around going left and turned around and burned the rear tire 3-times right. That was it I had my motorcycle license.

Then there was the time we had about two other clubs visiting us and we were going down Cabrillo Blvd. The first bunch of bikes were going through green lights, the last half through red

lights. The cops stopped us right before we got on the highway. Nineteen cop cars, they were in hog heaven writing a truckload of tickets. I was the second bike in the pack, I said how the heck do you think I ran any red lights? My license was hanging by a thread. We went to court and I was acting as our club member's attorney. Out of the gate, I caught the court trying to cut corners. They said the State of California against the Outlaw Motorcycle Club (thought I would drop a name? nope). I said we are individual taxpayers and believe we have the right to be tried as such. I won that round, which would waste more of their time. I asked to talk to my clients, one of them being me. I said as you each are called up request a jury trial. They court squealed like a stuck pig. They said it would cost about $1500 per trial (now we were costing them money). The Judge called a recess to talk with the asst. DA. When court convened, they said if 2-guys would accept running one red light each all the charges would be dropped against everyone else. I asked the judge to speak with my clients. We went into the hall and found two that had the cleanest driving records and paid their fines. Then the case was dismissed. Those two things stuck in my mind.

In a couple of days the Daly city Chapter was going to be down, we were going to a party. Friday came and early evening their club and ours went to the party. I was in a strange mood and felt like getting drunk and or stoned. I ended up doing both, but to a degree, I had never reached before. I was taking every pill or snort of whatever was going around and not asking what it was, a huge mistake. Do you remember the time I took the hallucinogenic? I decided to sit on a couch, standing up had become an issue with the room spinning and everything looking so distorted. When I sat on the couch it started breathing, seriously in my mind it was, it would lift my feet off the ground with each breath. There was a fireplace and as plain as day, I can remember the fish swimming through the flames. Let's mildly say I started to freak out. Club members took me

outside for fresh air and a Daly City Member said don't let him fall asleep tonight or he may not wake up. They took turns walking me all night and then took me back to the clubhouse where the guy's old ladies would take turns babysitting me. They were holding my head in their laps. They told me in a quiet soothing maternal voice that I was going to be all right.

That didn't turn out to be the case though. I have no clue how long I was taken care of at the clubhouse. It seemed like three weeks, but probably was a few days. I do remember the weekly business meeting, I was sitting on the floor in the corner. I was convinced everyone was staring at me and talking about me. I jumped up and said I'll do you all, if you mess with me. Tim took me to one of the back bedrooms where Marsha and another old lady were and they talked to me and calmed me down. The next day I decided to ride my bike out to Isla Vista and eat lunch at Taco Bell, I loved that food. And I thought seeing all those hippies would amuse me. Guess who sat at the table next to me, two cops. In Isla Vista they did foot patrol, because the cop cars alienated the people. I just sat there freaked out. They finally left and so did I.

I went home and got cleaned up, then I called my girlfriend to come over. I hadn't wanted anyone to call her I thought this would pass. I started having rushes of adrenaline for no reason at all. I had never heard of panic attacks, but I was having them on a regular basis. I never had the nerve to touch drugs again. I wouldn't even take aspirin for a headache, but I drank more. I had horrible dreams and slept with my .45 pistol under my pillow. Not for protection, but to blow out my brains, if I just couldn't take anymore. I used to ride like a maniac with his hair on fire, no more, I felt like, everyone was after me, I had extreme paranoia. Riding my bike, even thinking of riding it gave me panic attacks. My last run (not knowing it was going to be my last run), my girlfriend drove me up in her car. I managed to make it through the weekend; I even managed to watch the presidents back.

I started going to doctors and they checked me out. One took out my tonsils and fixed my nose that had been broken numerous times. They put me on meds to calm me down, none of them pointed me to a shrink. I good somewhat better, but found out that I couldn't do the things to people that had once come so easily (you know unfriendly things). I asked the club for a little time off to try and regroup, my request was granted (heck I was a walking disaster). My career was done and I didn't even know it, I was smart I thought I'll be able to figure something out.

Chapter 13

Jesus is not my Crutch, he is my Stretcher

( a phrase borrowed from a friend)

One day as I was going through a drawer I found an old Bible, I must have accidently packed when I lived at that club member's apartment. It had his name written in it, in the handwriting of a child. I found when I held it or had it on my person that I was almost normal, but when I put it down the panic would start to creep in again. Some things I'm curious about some not. I never thought when I hit a light switch, how does it do that, as long as it worked it was cool. That was my opinion of carrying that Bible, It works and I don't care how. And if you had been through what I had you would have felt the same way. I sewed a pocket inside my colors to have a place to carry my secret weapon. I wasn't back to active duty with the club, but I would visit once in a while and my colors meant a lot to me. My parents had made me go to Sunday school and church until I was about 12 and I never went again, they were Southern Baptists, like that guy Bill Graham. I still thought I was going to die, but the suicidal thoughts had gone away.

As time passed bits and pieces of what I had been taught as a child returned to my memory. The memorized verses and the children's songs, Like Jesus loves me this I know for the Bible tells me so. I started getting curious, and I begin to read and that brought more memories to the surface. I believed in Heaven and Hell. And about Eternity, I knew what I deserved, but I didn't want to go to Hell. I started asking Jesus to forgive my sins and come into my heart. But, as soon as I did my mind would become flooded with all the bad things that I had done. Sensing that my time was running out, I had to make sure this Salvation thing was done right. I called the

Minister of a Sothern Baptist Church in Carp and made an appointment to meet with him. He had no idea who was coming. I rode my Harley and flew my colors (flying your colors is wearing them). I rode up and got of my bike, he was a small man with a big Bible. I told him here is the way it's going to be. I tell you what I want, we do that, then don't talk anymore to me unless I request it. He showed me how to accept Jesus as my Lord and Savior and I did it then. I felt good leaving. In my broken mind I was still clinging to the hope that this would get me well and I could return to the club. Jesus knew what I needed and he let me know that I needed to start going to church to learn more about him. No, he didn't audibly speak to me but he impressed on my heart what I needed to do and I knew it was him. I started to go once a week to that small church and sitting there listening was like being scrubbed with a wire brush. But, I sensed it was cleaning the crud out of me.

At first the people didn't know what to think of this dirty outlaw in their midst. But, I guessed God must have talked to them also, because they started to become friendly. It was beginning to be easier to go to church now. So, God added the Sunday night service, then Sunday school and the Wednesday night service. He started to put Christian people in my life, mainly couples. I tested the Christian love by being stubborn and a hardhead at times, but the people kept on loving me. God finally let me know that there was no turning back and my life as an outlaw legend was over. I went to a club meeting and said I loved them and the club, but I would never be the person I once was. They unanimously voted me to the status of a retired member and my colors would always be mine. I had the goodwill, friendship and protection of the club. Word had spread about me going to church and stuff, some or most were sure that I indeed had lost my mind.

I continued to get better and stronger in the lord and was unafraid to share my faith. Hippie Dickie was trying to get himself together for his wife and child. I would talk with him weekly, and he came close to believing several times, but ended up running into an oak tree when he was stoned. There wasn't even a scratch on the bike, but he was dead. I took my girlfriend to church and she eventually accepted Christ, but she didn't put much effort into her new faith and we parted company.

A Christian girl named Gloria started to go out with me and she made me tow the line, you know how to treat a lady and all that good stuff. She would call me on the carpet when I got out of line. I assumed we were dating, but I think it turned out I was more of an assignment to her than a potential relationship. That was all right, she was a blonde in every sense of the dingy definition. And I would never have been able to tolerate having less than intelligent kids of my own. Besides as word in the Christian community spread there was an over abundance of nice Christian girls wanting to date me. I re-read that last rant about Gloria, it was mean and possibly uncalled for. But, I have reasons for leaving it in there. Well, I think she led me on and used me, plus she wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer. Last, but not least, I went from being an outlaw biker to being a Christian in a short length of time. So, you don't become like being a super sweet Christian instantaneously. The Christian walk is a lifetime thing and I have known some loving compassionately people, but I am not one of them. If you want to judge a person, you had better know their background, maybe I have come further in changing for the better than that person who is really a shining example. At least I will no longer gut or shoot you, unless you break into my house. So, we will leave it as I was and am a work in progress.

As stated earlier I quit using drugs immediately (being scared to death has a way of getting your attention). Alcohol on the other hand was a much more difficult problem for me. It was a two-step forward and one-step back process for me. Sometimes one-step forward and two steps back. During this time, my job was going well. So, I treated myself and I bought a new MG-Midget. I wrecked it severely within two days, having fallen off the wagon. It should have been totaled, it had frame damage and I ripped the rack and pinion steering off the car. The steering assembly broke in half leaving a wheel with part of it still attached on the freeway. I was going 85 miles per hour on 101 through the lower section of S.B. where there were traffic lights to cross the highway. I was coming up fast behind a car and when I was going to pass it there was a car in the way on the left. There was a tiny opening, I cranked the steering wheel to the left and shoved the gas pedal to the floor. I some how missed both cars, but when I tried to get the car back under control, I pulled too hard and with it having rack and pinion steering it didn't like that. So, I let go of the steering wheel and with the hammer still down, I hoped it would come back into control. Before that happened, I hit the bridge abutment at the start of the overpass, the car sailed and was sliding along the top of the guardrail. I could see the long drop of about 40-50 feet, someone had died going off that a week or two before. I only had time to say "Jesus", then the left front wheel and a bunch of other stuff attached to it broke off and my car dropped back down onto the highway. I slid off into the ice plant on the right side of the road near the Milpas turn lane.

The Highway Patrol was there almost at once. One of the cars I almost hit had stopped and the driver came running up the freeway. He got to where the CHP and I were and he was yelling, how I was driving like a bat out of hell and I almost hit several cars. The CHP looked at him and

said did he hit you? The guy said, "No, but", the CHP said since he didn't hit you get the heck out of here. The officer asked me if I had been drinking and I said yes. He said did I need medical attention, no, I said I didn't have a scratch. He said I'll give you a ride home, I said thanks, but just drop me off at that restaurant, and I can get a ride, no ticket, no problem or anything.

I called my landlord and he came and collected me. We went to look at my car the next day. This was a reputable shop and they said it was totaled, but I had Insurance through the dealer and they wouldn't total it. This was only the start of mishaps I would have whenever I would have a few drinks. It was months before I got my car back. I would catch a ride down there and there would be an inch of dust on my car and nothing done to it. After a few tries I found the right motivation to get them going. One was I said I would quit making the payments on it and I made them give me a free rental. By the time, I got My MG back I think I was pretty much done with drinking. Except, for a couple of times or three, but I managed not to break, or bend anything. Finally being sober, my Christian walk was progressing better and it was a relief having transportation again.

Christmas of 1972 I flew up to Oregon to see my family. I finally got to reconcile with my dad. That was good because it would be the last time I saw him. I didn't realize how far his Cancer had progressed, because he looked pretty good to me. Looking back I can see that he was getting prepared to die. He always had the Christian Radio Station on, or Christian Music, or his Bible on records playing. Before I left he asked for a favor, I said sure. He said promise you will come to my funeral, I promised. I had no idea it was going to be soon.

I got a call on March 25, 1973 that my dad had passed away, my mom had called me. It really broke me up and I cried, after all these years when I finally loved him, he up and died on

me. My mom gave me the funeral details, I told her that it would be too hard for me emotionally to go to the funeral. I guess my dad had told her, she said you promised your dad you would come. I said give me a little time to think I'll call you back. I was thinking hard when God impressed upon my heart, that if I went to the funeral my Brother and my Sister-in law would both accept him as their Lord and Savior. I called my Mom back and told her I was coming. God wanted me to do something first for him, give my colors back to the club. I didn't want to, but they had been a problem for me. Every now and then I would put them on and think, how cool am I (not exactly what a Christian should be doing). I asked God to give me the words to say. I went to the clubhouse, and ran into Tim, he was now an officer, and I asked him for the club to be the caretaker of my colors. Yes, they were still mine, but at this time, I needed the club to hold them for me. He understood, we hugged and I left, I later on attended his wedding to Marsha.

Off to Oregon for the funeral. My niece was impacted most by his death, she was only eight and grandpa had always been there for her and to play with her. I had never been to a funeral before that I can recall. I avoided funerals and weddings, in my opinion, at the time, one being about the same as the other. There was singing his favorite songs and a brief message from the minister that my dad wanted delivered. We then all went to my Mom's house and visited. Some of my cousins I hadn't seen since I was a little kid.

For the next three evenings in a row, I read 20 chapters a night from the Bible to my brother and his wife. Then I felt God say that was enough, I said to them, that they could get down on their knees and accept Christ into their hearts and they did. They have been walking with Christ ever since (about 39 years). I have loved my Brother and Anna for a long time I wish they lived closer. And I haven't seen my niece since her teens. She is now 46, but she lives in Chicago, kind of off my grid.

I continued to grow in the Lord and I spent just about every night at some church or having fellowship with other Christians. I met and became friends with Pastor Cortez, Don Beckman the Director of DAPC (Drug Abuse Prevention Center) where they had like a 95% success rate of getting and keeping people off drugs including heroin. And last but not least Dr. Reeves the pastor who I went to see in Carp, who helped to show me how to become a Christian. The Southern Baptist Church in Carp wanted to license me to preach, but there was some division amongst the Elders of the church, so that never happened.

Around this time Melodyland Christian Center opened up in S.B. It was non-denominational (meaning Christians from any church); Christians from all churches came for the special speakers and Christian bands. The big Melodyland in Anaheim started it. It wasn't meant to take you out of the church that you were going to, just a fun supplement to your Christian life. I loved that place and soon became involved and made many new friends, especially many who were going to Westmont a Christian College in Montecito, just outside S.B. The Melodyland in Anaheim had an accredited Bible school and they soon opened classes up here. I started attending Bible classes and was soon in a student minister program. I had a couple of close friends, Mike S. and Dan B. As you might expect there were a bunch of nice Christian young ladies. Mike was taking a break from college and had the niece of the pastor of S.B. Melodyland out to catch him and she did. Dan B. was dating a cute little Westmont student Lisa D. He was already a Westmont graduate and was working as a schoolteacher. He didn't earn much money and the fact that her family had money seemed to keep him from even attempting to close the deal with her. What Dan didn't seem to get was that she didn't care about money. In fact I asked her once, if I happen to ask her out what would she say, she said she would say yes. Poor Dan, it was my friendship for him that kept me from taking her out, but eventually through sitting on his hands, he did lose her to some one else.

Not before they set me up and ambushed me though. They invited me to Lisa's house for dinner. I dressed nice, but I wasn't prepared for what was waiting for me. There were seven girls, Dan and myself. Six to meet me and one of them being Lisa's sister, who I already knew a little bit. The other five were all Westmont students. I felt like I was being served for dinner. I believe most of the girls were just innocent victims as I was, but I knew a set up when I saw one. Four of the six I got along with, two of them absolutely not. I had a good time after the shock had worn off. Before I left, that was when I asked Lisa out and she said yes. I don't know if that was payback or what, but it seemed like the thing to do at the time. I really didn't need help finding a date or a girlfriend, there were plenty to choose from.

The next service at Melodyland I sat within striking range of a girl I had not met before. Then some one sat down next to me, it was one of the young ladies from the dinner. We talked after the service and I asked her out. And then I drove up to Westmont so she could show me were to pick her up. Not realizing at the time, that she had a new car at the church( she denies this version of the story). And had to get a ride, to go pick it up after I left. I picked her up the next night and we went to a good Chinese food restaurant and then to a drive-in movie. We talked through most of the two movies, Soyent Green and West World. I remember asking her birth date, she told me and I said, that's funny that's mine too. She said yeah right, like I was giving her some kind of line. So, I produced my driver's license and when she saw that it was true she had a different attitude. This was around Thanksgiving and she invited me to her home, but it was way up north and at the time, I didn't really want to meet a girl's family. I missed her when she was gone and she missed me. I had already bought an engagement ring and I proposed on our second date. According to her she said she would need time to think it over, I don't remember that. Anyway, sometime close to that we got engaged and got married right after she graduated six months later. And she has put up with me for 38 years. This is where I close this book. I want you to remember one thing if nothing else. God can save anyone.

Chapter 14

Epilog

Since finishing this, I have recalled things that happened during the time frame of this book. I suppose this endeavor brought them back to mind.

A few things I want to elaborate on. Since I was about 16 or 17 my brother and I have gotten along very well. I love and respect my brother very much. He is not the same person that taunted me when I was younger, and either am I. With that said, I want to briefly talk about my dad. We butted heads for years, which made me forget about the good things he had done for me.

He basically raised me the best he could. When I was younger he did spend time with me. He used to read my brother and I bedtime stories when we were young. I also had forgotten about all the family camping trips we went on. The trout fishing in the Oregon streams when we would visit our family in the summers. Those were great times and I got to know my Aunts, Uncles and especially my First Cousins on those camping trips to Oregon.

I'm not excusing him from some of the injustices I feel he did to me, but all in all I could have done much worse than having him as my dad.

I hope you the reader enjoyed this book. I look forward to entertaining you with projects in the future.

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