Wanna Smoke?: "The Adventures of a Storyteller"

By TiPi Paul

My story starts during the Summer of Love August 1967. Fired from my corporate job on the Friday my summer vacation was to start, I decided to go to Haight/Ashbury and check it out. The six days I spent there aroused the hidden desire to do something Id always wanted to do-work my way around the world.

With Merchant Seaman papers, a passport, a duffel bag full of clothes and $125, I set sail from San Pedro, California, at the age of 26. My voyage ended three years later in Tucson, Arizona, $10 in my pocket, a backpack full of clothes, and 2000 miles short of circumnavigating the world

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 19, 2005
• ISBN: 9781463451813

TiPi Paul

After completing his trip around the world, the author bought some land in the Tucson, Arizona desert and moved into a Tipi. Hence the nickname TiPi Paul. For two years he lived without electricity and water. It took thirty one years and eight months to get water. Says the author "I’m a decadent Hippie now. I have a masonry house, electricity, water, a flush toilet and a telephone." The authors given name is Paul Haid III. Born in Tucson, in 1941, he graduated from Rincon highschool, class of ‘60 and the University of Arizona, class of ‘66. Claims he’s part of the BC generation. "The before computers generation. When I graduated in ‘66 we were still using slide rules. TiPi also served in the US Navy, 6/61-6/63. "Working my way around the world was an education in itself," says TiPi. "That’s why I encourage young people to travel if they can. Get out of town and see what the rest of the world is like."

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© 2004, 2006, 2014 TiPi Paul. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/29/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4208-8509-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-5181-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2005908891

Cover photo: Babe Nicolay

Illustrations: Jerry Pfaffl

CONTENTS

I    THE BEGINNING

II    SHIPS AHOY

III   OFF TO EUROPE

IV   FUN IN ITALY

V   HEADING TO AFRICA

VI   THE ROAD TO MARRAKECH

VII   BACK TO EUROPE

VIII   FOUR MONTHS IN DENMARK

IX   INDIA BECKONS

X   ACROSS INDIA

XI   TWO MONTHS IN NEPAL

XII   BACK TO BHAGWANPURA

XIII   LIFE IN RURAL INDIA

XIV   SUMMER IN THE PUNJAB

XV   THE JOURNEY BACK HOME

Dedicated to my parents who brought me into this

world to enjoy being a human.

Special thanks to all those who helped me through the many years it took to write this book.

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AUGUST ‘67

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AUGUST ‘70

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August 2005

THE BEGINNING

My story starts during the Summer of Love August 1967. Fired from my corporate job on the Friday my summer vacation was to start, I decided to go to Haight/Ashbury and check it out. The six days I spent there aroused the hidden desire to do something I’d always wanted to do-work my way around the world.

With Merchant Seaman papers, a passport, a duffel bag full of clothes and $125, I set sail from San Pedro, California, at the age of 26. My voyage ended three years later in Tucson, Arizona, $10 in my pocket, a backpack full of clothes, and 2000 miles short of circumnavigating the world.

The official reason for my dismissal was that I did not fit Fred Harvey’s, [the hotel/restaurant chain], corporate image. The real reason was, I refused to obey one of the Vice-Presidents’ orders.

While working as an assistant manager in the Grand Canyon during the Winter of’‘66, I was dating a Navajo woman. One day I was working in the Bright Angel Lodge kitchen when Chef Gomez came up to me.

Paul, he said, Troy wants to see you. Troy was the general manager.

What’s up? I asked.

I don’t know, but he says it is important, replied the chef.

Paul, close the door and please sit down, said Troy when I walked into his office. He usually kept his door open when talking to someone, so I knew something was up.

The Vice-President says you are throwing a road block into your life and to stop dating the Indian. The Indian. He knew her name.

Troy, I said. The Vice-President is throwing a road block in his life and I won’t stop dating Margie. I’m paid for forty hours a week but work sixty. What I do with my off hours is my business.

I know, he said, and I don’t like having to tell you to stop dating her. My daughter has an Indian boyfriend, but she doesn’t work in the corporate world. I can’t protect you, but I’ll do what I can. How’s the new menu project going?

I finished cost accounting the old menu and I’m in the process of drafting a new menu.

Good, keep up the good work and I’ll see you later.

Two days later, I walked into the Bright Angel’s kitchen. Troy was talking to Chef Gomez.

Paul, said Troy. The Chef thinks you’re ready for an advancement. How would you like to be an assistant manager of a Harvey House in Ontario, California?

When do I leave? I was tired of the cold and snow and sunny California sounded great.

ASAP, he said with a smile. It took me two days to get it togther.

The night before I left, Margie and I went to the Bright Angel for drinks and dinner. While having a drink in the bar, the VP came in and sat down and ordered his usual, I. W. Harpers on the rocks. He did not see us.

I put my arm around Margie’s shoulder. Out of the corner of my eye, I waited for him to see us. When he did, I kissed Margie on the cheek and looked him in the eye. His eyes got as big as silver dollars. Margie and I got up and walked into the dining room.

Margie, I want to make a toast. We were drinking a bottle of Rose and I topped off our glasses. Thanks for your friendship. It’s been a pleasure knowing you.

The feeling is mutual, she replied. We touched our glasses, she winked and rubbed her foot on my leg. We both had a tear in our eye.

I never told Margie what happened. We knew our relationship was temporary. She would never leave her people and the Navajo Nation. If I wanted to go up the corporate ladder, I had to be willing to move.

The following day, with my possessions in my ‘57 Olds convertible, I headed for Tucson and my family. I gave the Olds to my brother. With my father cosigning, I bought a ‘67 Camaro. It cost $3100-$300 down $90 a month payments. The car had a 327 engine with a two-barrel carburetor, four on the floor and bucket seats. It was painted fawn with deep gold interior. A new car, the ocean on the horizon, I was pumped.

The Harvey House I went to work in was managed by a guy named Jerry. He had been hired to turn the restaurant around as it was losing money. He was sharp, knew good fast food and taught me a lot.

We got the place turned around and as a team were transferred to a Harvey House in Loma Linda, just east of Ontario. It, too, was losing money. Unbeknownst to me, at the same time the Vice-President I had defied at the Grand Caynon was transferred to our district.

Loma Linda was a quiet town but next to it was San Bernardino. Not far from the Harvey House was a go-go bar called Saints and Sinners. After finishing my night shift, I would go there for beers and watch the Go-Go dancers. While they danced up on stage, I danced by the bar. When the girls got to know me, they let me on stage with them. Jerry went with me one night and was surprised when one of the girls asked me to come on stage.

That was great! he said when I got off the stage. But don’t let the new Vice-President see you do that.

Who is the new VP? I asked.

Fred Whitabourg.

Oh! Shit! He’s an asshole. I worked under him at the Canyon. I wondered how long it would be before he came after me.

Jerry and I worked well together, but we did have one altercation. He caught me sleeping with one of the waitresses he was sleeping with. He had me and I had him-he was married. Worried I might tell his wife if he fired me, we came to a gentleman’s agreement and we both slept with her. However, the circumstances were soon to change.

What did you do to piss off the Vice-President? asked Jerry. I was eating lunch getting ready for the evening shift.

Why? I had a feeling the VP was coming after me.

He wants me to fire you.

He had orders passed down to me to stop dating an Indian woman and I refused to do so.

I told him I couldn’t fire you, he said. You’re too good a worker.

Thanks, I appreciate that.

However, he said, He is transferring you to Valencia, California, to work for Walt Lindborg.

"Great, I’ve known Walt for twenty years. He got me the job with Fred Harvey in the first place.

The Vice-President transferred me three times before he could find a manager who would fire me. As it turned out, he and that manager-I called him Grump- did me a favor.

The last move sent me to Huntington Beach, CA. and the McDonnell-Douglas plant. They were building the second stage of the moon rocket. The plant had a cafeteria and Fred Harvey had the contract. I was the afternoon Asst. Manager Monday through Friday. The cafeteria was closed on the weekends.

I moved into a new apartment complex that had four different living environments. My complex was up on stilts and surrounded the other three environments. We parked our cars underneath and walked up a spiral metal and concrete staircase to our rooms. There were four rooms per staircase. Across from my room was an electrical engineer named Wayne. He was doing system checks on the wiring of the rocket. That summer, he became an ally and a friend as my life started to unravel.

LIFE magazine had published an issue that covered the scene in Haight/Ashbury. My only experiences with drugs were alcohol, tobacco and legal weight loss pills used for late night cram sessions in college. I never gave it a thought to use the pills to party with. Also, I thought marijuana was equal to heroin. Psychedelics- I did not know what the word meant.

"Did you read LIFE’S article about Haight/Ashbury?" I asked Wayne. We were headed for the beach in my Camaro.

I read it. What about it?

Well, I don’t understand why somebody would smoke something that’s equal to heroin, I said.

You mean marijuana? he replied mockingly.

Yes, and what does ‘psychedelic’ mean?

I don’t know about psychedelic but pot is not equal to heroin, he said.

Look. What I know about drugs comes from a two-day drug awareness program in high school in 1957. I said.

In high school? he asked surprised.

Right. The first day we went to a class room where there was a long table with different drugs and paraphernalia on it.

You’re kidding! he said shaking his head.

"No, I’m serious. There was pot, heroin, pills, spoons, needles, I don’t remember it all. One of the instructors lit a joint and walked around the room blowing smoke in the air saying, ‘If you smell this, get away.’ With the joint in his mouth, he put a brown grocery bag over his head and said, ‘If you see somebody doing this, turn him in!’ We then watched the movie Reefer Madness."

That was a funny movie, he said. What happened the second day?

"We watched the movie The Man With The Golden Arm. That movie scared the shit out of me."

That was a powerful movie. You trust me?

Yes.

Well, let’s get some pot, he suggested.

One of our friends in the apartment complex got us a four-finger, ten-dollar ounce. Neither of us knew how to roll a joint. My brother, Dennis, was in town and for some reason, as he did not smoke, knew how to roll one. We sat on the floor and passed a couple of joints. With my back against the wall, my eyes closed, I raced on a sled around stars and moons. Then, I spiraled up and down shafts of colors. Jimmy Hendrix was playing on my reel-to-reel tape deck. The music vibrated every cell in my body. For the first time, I felt the way a musician must feel while playing. Organic, the music possessing him as he lets his spirit ride the waves of his feelings, taking him to uncharted spaces. Hendrix was a master of uncharted spaces. The experience was a carom shot for my mind as I bounced off a ball of reality.

That summer, Wayne’s friendship was invaluable. There were long rap sessions drinking beer and smoking pot, and plenty of $5 concerts to attend. I bought some hip-hugger bell bottoms with a pattern that looked like a ledger sheet. With two cans of spray paint, I painted a blue work shirt and I started to let my hair grow.

We went to the Monterey Pop Festival where Hendrix set his guitar on fire. The WHO followed and destroyed their equipment. Their performance lacked the spiritual quality of Hendrix’s.

My job sucked! It was boring and routine. Much to the Grump’s credit, he had the routine down to a science. He had a large schedule board posted. It listed the duties that were to be done and who was to do them. The tasks were broken down to, daily, weekly, bi-weekly and monthly.

Though I was the afternoon Assistant Manager, in reality at $800 a month plus what I could eat, I was a well-paid bus boy. At the end of the week, I took enough leftovers home to last me through the weekend. The kitchen ran so smoothly, there was nothing for me to do. There were two sources of relief. One was picking up coffee carts the morning assistant manager had delivered throughout the plant. The carts hooked up to each other like a train.

The chore allowed me to train throughout the facilities and see the various steps in designing and building a rocket. One place I couldn’t wander around in was the secure room. It was electrically locked and guarded on both sides. Five feet

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inside was as far as I was allowed. One of the guards would pick up the carts and bring them to me. The task was fun and I looked forward to each station where a cart was to be picked up.

So what’s new today? I’d ask, hoping to hear or overhear some tidbit of gossip. Rumors abounded. So-and-so was sleeping with so-and-so. Cut backs are coming. Mr. Who-Thinks-He’s- So Big is going to be canned." As far as the Grump was concerned, I took too long to do the job.

The second source of relief was pushing a portable bar to the Executive dining room. There, I served drinks to the various dignitaries the plant was wooing. Investors, politicians, sympathetic press and astronauts. The first black astronaut came through one afternoon while I was serving drinks. As they bullshitted and paid no attention to me, I poured my self a Vodka & 7. This chore pissed off the Grump even more, as I had to stay as long as I was needed.

One afternoon I had to pick up a cart where Wayne worked. He was bent over looking at a detailed schematic.

Hey, man. How you doing? I asked

Busy.

Where’s the coffee cart?

Over in the corner, he said pointing and not looking up. I got the cart and started to leave.

Hey! You want to look at the rocket? he asked standing up. I need a break. This test I’m running isn’t working.

We walked out onto a landing that was at the top of the rocket. You could look down into the guts of the rocket. There were miles of wiring, all color-coded and canisters of various sizes. They, too, were color-coded and connected to piping that was the same color as the canister. I don’t know how high up we were, but the people walking around the base of the rocket looked like large ants.

So. Just what do you do? I asked.

This rocket is hooked up to the computer inside. We continually run systems checks to make sure the wiring is done right.

Sounds interesting. I gotta go. The Grump gets pissed if I’m gone too long. See you tonight. As I pulled the coffee cart out the door, Wayne was back bending over looking at his schematic.

I did have a problem-the Morning Asst. Manager. Rumor had it the Harvey Corporation was bidding on another cafeteria site. It was possible that either he or I would get the managing position. He had just turned forty, was out of shape, overweight and wanted the job. He saw me as a threat and set about to sabotage me.

Together, we were responsible for taking a weekly inventory. I did the counting while he sat writing down the numbers.

What are these figures? asked the Grump, when I came to work after we had done an inventory. There’s never been this many cans of tomatoes in inventory and we have plenty of peas. According to you, we have none.

I never said those figures. The other asst. had purposely falsified the figures and no matter what I said, the Grump didn’t believe me.

I’ll go on record, I overheard the Grump say while talking on the phone one mid-July afternoon. We were in the office. He had his back to me, his feet on the window sill, looking out into the kitchen. I was totaling lunch receipts. I had a hunch I knew what he was talking about, but blanked it out, more concerned with my up coming summer vacation the first part of August. I didn’t know what I was going to do but I knew I wanted to do something exciting.

The Friday I was to start my vacation, I was eating lunch in the cafeteria.

Here’s your vacation check and your severance check. You’re fired, said the Grump, not looking at me. He sat down on the other side of the table and starting eating his lunch.

No more was said. He ate his lunch and never looked at me. My breath was gone. Now what? My exciting vacation looked bleak.

I had my rent paid to the end of September and had enough money to last two months. So, I decided to take a vacation anyway and go to Haight/Ashbury. On the Sunday morning after my firing, Wayne drove me to LAX. The following weekend, Wayne, his brother and one of our friends were to drive to San Francisco and bring me back.

As I boarded the plane, I looked more like I was going to a party than to live on the streets. Black turtle T-shirt; light yellow Arrow, long sleeve shirt; light blue, high water, hip-hugger bell bottom pants with a three-inch-wide black belt with brass buckle. To complete the costume, I added black round toe boots and love beads. The love beads had been made by a sixteen-year-old girl living in the apartments. She also made me a pair of yellow, fuchsia and orange floral patterned surfer jammies, but I didn’t take them. With a borrowed sleeping bag and a small pack and some changes of underwear, toiletries sans razor and seven cans each of pork-n-beans and Vienna sausages, I was ready.

From the San Francisco airport I took a bus. By mid-morning, I was walking down Haight Street. The area was just coming to life. The smell of incense, fresh coffee, freshly baked bread and the slightest whiff of pot floated down the street.

From second story windows, people lowered small baskets as though they were fishing, begging for money. The fish below looked as though they were going to a masquerade. There were people with gayly painted faces, a strand of small bells around their ankles. Their loose, brightly colored clothes waved in the soft breeze. The atmosphere vibrated with love and fun.

I headed for Golden Gate Park, buying an order of fish and chips along the way. It was served in a coned page of the daily newspaper and splashed with vinegar and salt. The rhythm of drums off in the distance penetrated my ears as I walked into the park. Here and there, sitting under the trees, were small groups of people smoking pot. Some were tripping.

The trees surrounded an open area were people were flying kites. Others were throwing frisbees or footballs. At the bottom of a tree-covered hill, conga players were talking with their drums. Two flute players and a tambourine player accompanied them. When I finished my lunch, I stretched out using the sleeping bag for a pillow and took a nap.

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The morning fog had burned off leaving a clear blue sky. The rhythms of the drums vibrated through my body and pushed my worries away. When I woke, finding a place to crash became my next objective.

You have a place I could crash? I asked as I walked up and down Haight Street.

No man. Sorry, they said, looking at me as though I was not to be trusted. I was a freak among freaks, just the wrong kind of freak. It took a couple of hours before somebody befriended me.

Hey man, you have a place to sleep? I said in desperation to a tall guy walking by. I’ll share my pork-n-beans and Vienna sausages.

Okay, he said after looking at me for a moment. My name is Steve.

Mine is Paul, I said as we shook hands.

He was staying in a run down, small two-story hotel. There were eight rooms and one communal bath room. The rooms were simple with a small kitchen and a little bit bigger living area. Four of us shared his place.

That evening I cooked us some beans and sausages. Along with a loaf of bread and a gallon of Red Mountain wine, we got are engines going. A couple of joints for dessert and we were off to the Fillmore West.

The red brick building that housed the Fillmore vibrated as we walked up to it. When we climbed the stairs to the dance floor, the music coming from above pushed against my chest. The place was pulsating with light. Strobes were blinking. A crystal ball hung from the ceiling. It slowly turned, its reflected light bouncing off the walls and the people. On one wall there was an undulating, melting light show. Blue amoebas oozed across the screen, chased by red blood cells. At the dark end of the dance floor, there were couches occupied with couples making love or smoking dope.

The first group was just finishing their last song. The GRATEFUL DEAD were next. Steve took me over to the stage during intermission. At one corner of the stage was a punch bowl.      Want a cup? asked Steve handing me a small paper cup.

What is it?

LSD, he said smiling

Na, I’m not ready for that yet. What’s it like?

A little bit stronger than pot, he said, toasting me and downing the contents of the cup.

The mood and atmosphere changed as the DEAD started one of their notoriously long songs. Everybody started to dance. Those against the walled flowed with the music, as the light from the crystal ball waffled across their bodies. By the time they had finished their first song, I had a contact high and merely joined the dancers for the rest of the night. That night evolved into a flowing, liquid plastic dream as I crawled into my sleeping bag.

In the morning I decided to take a shower. Horror! The tub was so dirty the bottom was black. The sink was crusty and the toilet looked like it wanted to walk out. From then on I used the toilets in the park and just sponged-bathed in the crusty sink.

For the next six days I drifted in and out of the crash pad. As it turned out, the place was full of junkies. The room next door was a shooting gallery. Late at night there were urgent warnings for someone who had overdosed to walk.

What amazed me, was that the hotel was across from the back of the San Francisco Police Department.

You want to come with me and meet an up and coming band? Steve asked one morning.

"Sure. What’s up and who’s the band?

Their name is BIG BROTHER AND THE HOLDING COMPANY and I have to tell them I was not able to get the heroin they wanted.

The band lived on the second floor of a two-story apartment house on Ashbury just off Haight. The place was full of instruments. The air was thick with smoke from pot and incense.

I couldn’t score, said Steve as we walked in.

Oh shit, said one of the band members. He sat there for a few moments, staring off into space.

Well, shit. Let’s get a works, fill it full of water and get a needle fix, he spouted out. A shiver went over my body.

We stayed for a while bullshitting and smoking pot. The main topic was Jimi and how did three guys make so much sound.

We have more equipment and will blow them out of the water, boasted the guy who wanted a needle fix.

That night a group of us went to the Avalon Ballroom. The scene was similar to the Fillmore but not as mellow. QUICKSILVER was playing their high amperage music. A group of people was drawing a mandala with day glow chalk on the floor.

The decibels of the audience increased as BIG BROTHER came on. The crowd rushed the stage in anticipation. Janice Joplin was the lead singer and she knew how to work them. With no respect for her vocal cords, she belted out each song, while the crowd hooted and hollered. With the intensity that she sang, it was a wonder that she had any vocal cords. I was so wound up that night it was hard for me to go to sleep.

In the area that is Haight/Ashbury, there was a lot going on-so much so there was a constant flow of tourist buses driving through. Around sunset, in a neighborhood park, a soup kitchen was set up. Beans and bread were served up. Bands from the area played. The scene was magical and peaceful. In less than a year it would all be over.

You got any acid? I asked Steve, finally deciding to try a hit.

Sure, some purple Owlsley.

How much?

A buck. I paid him, downed the LSD and took off for Golden Gate Park.

He said Just a little bit stronger than pot. It was like adding a shot of nitrous to a hot rod engine!

It was mid-morning and the overcast was starting to burn off. Day trippers like myself were coming out, smiles on their faces. We acknowledged each other as we passed, our psychic worlds touching.

My senses were wide open. There was the essence of oneness with all that was around me. The trees were breathing. The birds left trails of colors as they glided from tree to tree.

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As I began to peak, I laid down on the grass and closed my eyes. The sun warmed my body. Worlds melted in and out as I flew through them. When I entered one world, I saw a meat grinder. A butcher was putting pieces of my body in it and grinding me into bloodless hamburger. I watched until he finished and flew on. The park was alive when I opened my eyes.

Hope you had pleasant dreams, brother, said a fellow day tripper walking by.

When I stood up, my left thumb fell off my hand. I picked it up, put it back on and laughed at myself. It would fall off several times that day.

The desire to talk had left me, so I spent the rest of the day walking in silence. The world around me pulsated and undulated. The abstract art in an art museum was even more so, as the art was alive and liquid. With each breath, my surroundings breathed with me. The ocean waves moved in slow motion. For the first time in my life, I felt plugged into the universe.

The musicians were jamming and the sun was setting when I returned to the park. My thumb fell off for the last time as I sat down on the grass. This time however, when I put it back on, an eye appeared on the thumb nail and winked at me. I finished off the night sitting on the floor of the Fillmore, listing to the DEAD and watching the light show.

For the rest of the time I was in Haight/Ashbury, I immersed myself into the fluid happenings. I drank from the Punch Bowl and bought another hit from Steve. The experience in Haight/Ashbury was a breath of fresh air for every pore in my body. By the time my friends came to pick me up, I was revitalized.

Our plan was to meet Saturday at the NE corner of Haight and Ashbury between noon and two. I bought an order of fish and chips and went to the corner to wait for them. While I ate my lunch, I watched the parade of people passing by.

There were people from around the world. Two books I read as a teenager floated into my conscious view; Two Years Before The Mast by Dana and On The Road by Kerouac. They were sugar and yeast for my mind and started the fermentation of the desire to travel around the world. That desire was bottled and put on

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the back shelf of my mind to age, while I pursued the career my parents wanted me to follow. It was time to open that bottle.

Look at him, said Wayne laughing, seeing my disheveled appearance. He’s been out of the corporate world for a week and already he looks like a skid row bum.

Maybe so, I said, but this ‘skid row bum’ is going to fly away.

Whatya you going to do? asked Wayne.

Work my way around the world.

How? asked Wayne’s brother.

I was in the Navy and had a deck rating. That qualifies me for merchant seaman papers. I’ll go to the Coast Guard in San Pedro, get the necessary papers and ship out. I’ve had enough of the coat and tie world.

I wish I could go with you, said Wayne.

We drove to where I was staying. I put my belongings together, bought an ounce of pot and some acid from Steve and thanked him for his hospitality. Then we headed back to Huntington.

Monday morning I started the ball rolling. At the Coast Guard offices in San Pedro I got a physical, mug shot and finger prints. They told me it would take thirty to ninety days to get my papers. I’d hoped for sooner. I also applied for a passport.

My father had recently moved to Westwood, next to UCLA, and had taken a job as an executive resume writer. He said I could move in if need be, but I did not look forward to that scenario.

With still some rent time left, I drove to Tucson to see my mother and brother and some friends. Mother was going to move to L. A. as soon as Dad was settled in his new job. There was a place in particular I wanted to visit-the Poco Loco Bar.

I had worked there from ‘64 to ‘66 while attending the University of Arizona. A college

beer bar, it attracted a diverse clientele. Judges, pimps, lawyers, teachers, hookers, gays, bookies, drug dealers, rip off artists, and college students all mingled in a haze that skirted the law. In its heyday, it was known from coast to coast.

How you doing today? What’s been going on? I was asked as I walked up to the bar. I felt like I was in a Star Trek time warp and I was going to work. At the end of the bar were six of my friends playing cribbage. They were regulars and talked to me as though they had just seen me a few days ago.

Not much, I said. Just got fired from my job.

No kidding! What are you going to do now? asked one of them.

Work my way around the world. No comment, they just kept playing. For a couple of hours, while they slapped their cards on the bar and counted their points, I told them what I had been doing and what I was going to try and do.

Take it easy, don’t work too hard, they said as I left. They had not heard what I had said and I wondered if they would still be there when I returned from my adventures.

My visit finished, I made arrangements to have my brother take over the payments on the Camaro when the time came. Then I headed back to Huntington.

Neither of my parents approved of my plans but I pushed on. I took scissors to my ties and credit cards. I never cared for ties. They are symbols of subjugation to me. Out went the hair spray, after-shave lotion and the deodorant. When I closed my checking account, I found there was $100 more than I thought. With my affairs in order, I jumped into the rest of the summer of ‘67.

Wayne and I tripped together but this time it was a disaster for me. We were in Penney’s looking at TV’s when I started to peak.

May I help you? asked a salesman, coming up behind me. I was mesmerized by the melting TV I was watching. A wave of panic went through my body. I thought the salesman was a cop. I gave him a quick glance and got the hell out of there.

One side of me knew that in a few hours the effects of the acid would wear off. However, the other side would not let me get my composure back. The two sides were fighting inside my head. A tennis ball came across my path. I picked it up, centered my concentration on it and walked around Seal Beach bouncing the ball. It was a scary experience and a warning when taking LSD-hidden agendas, i.e., paranoia, were a recipe for disaster.

By the end of September my papers had not come so I moved in with my father. We did not get along from the get-go. I found a job as a bus boy in a small restaurant.

It was a split shift job, ten to two P.M. and four to six P.M., Monday through Friday. In between shifts I walked around the UCLA campus or smoked a joint at the apartment. Because of my dad’s constant badgering, I did not spent much time there.

One afternoon between shifts, while I was smoking a joint at the apartment and dreaming of being out at sea, a ghostly hallucination appeared at one corner of the ceiling. There were ten or so, human figures sitting at a judicial bench.

What do you want to do with your life? asked a voice in my head.

Make people laugh, I said aloud.

What would do with it? asked the voice in my head.

Give it away, I said aloud again. The hallucination evaporated.

After work, I frequented a bar named Mother’s. It was on the second floor of a two-story building. The store on the bottom was a thrift shop. I drank beer until my father went to bed. On the weekends I drove to Wayne’s.

My seaman’s papers and passport came at the end of November. I called my brother and he and our foster brother from Italy, Tony, drove from Tucson to pick up the car. While they were there, I took them to the bar. Poor Tony, he almost had a heart attack. One of the coeds, drunk, had taken off her panties and was lying on the dance floor in front of us undulating, her pussy opening and closing as though it was saying Feed me, feed me.

Oh my God! said Tony clutching his heart. As we left, the same coed was squatted on the steps taking a piss. From the sublime to the ridiculous, Tony was dumfounded.

After Tony and Dennis left, my father drove me to San Pedro. He was so mad at me, we hardly spoke. As far as he was concerned I was throwing my life away. As far as I was concerned, he was too uptight. He never let me be me and he was always right. We stopped at an $8 a week, roach infested hotel.

Good luck, said my father as he shook my hand. Then, he got back in his car and drove off.

I watched him drive off and was determined to succeed. With my duffel bag of clothes, seaman papers, passport and $125, $25 of it from my dad, I checked into the Roach Hotel, starting my adventure on shaky legs.

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II

SHIPS AHOY

The Roach Hotel-a sleaze-bag of a place to stay. It was a two-story dilapidated building, with ten rooms, a common large dirty bathroom and plenty of cockroaches. The renters were retired seaman living off Social Security. Some were alcoholics, others were sickly. The only woman in residence was the manager’s wife.

My room was at the end of the hallway on the second floor. The first night, in an effort to avoid the cockroaches, I moved the bed into the center of the room and got in bed. A creepy feeling came over me. I squirmed out of bed, turned on the light and pulled the covers off the bed with haste, but found no roaches. When I looked up at the ceiling, a chill went through my body. It was a sea of cockroaches. I got dressed and went to the corner Stop and Rob. I bought a can of Black Flag, returned to my room, and engaged in pesticide war.

I stood up on a chair and let loose with the spray. Much to my dismay, the roaches started falling off the ceiling onto me. The can emptied, I went outside.

When I returned to the hotel, roaches were running up and down the hall. My room was a graveyard of dead roaches. The guy below was pounding on his ceiling yelling something. You leave them alone, they’ll leave you alone, the guy next to me was yelling, while pounding his wall.

I cleaned up the roaches, and went to bed.

On December 4 1967, I joined the National Maritime Union. Most of my time was spent waiting at the union hall to catch a ship.

Each seaman had a time card. The earliest time and date went first. There were four groups. Group A, those who had 300 days or more at sea; Group B, those working toward a year; Group C, were those from another union waiting to get their first ship; Group D, were new members waiting to get their first ship and would become a group B as soon as they did. Group A had seniority and could bump a lower group at any port of call in the US. I was in group D.

Twice a day, openings went up on the call board. However, jobs could go up at any time. To guarantee I caught a ship, I had to stay at the hall all day. It was mind-numbing. There were the same endless conversations every day-the constant rumors of this or that ship was coming in and so and so was getting off.

One of the seamen turned me onto four books. The Hobbit and the trilogy Lord of the Rings. If it had not been for J.R.R. Tolkien, I might have gone mad waiting for my first ship. Instead, I escaped into the world of Bilbo, Frodo, Strider and Gandalf, waiting for my magic ship to take me off on a voyage full of adventure.

When not at the union hall, I went to the Episcopal Seamen’s Center. It was over seen by Father Art and his wife. Father Art had dedicated his life to helping seamen. He felt society cast them aside when they were no longer useful.

The center was a community affair. We all helped in the cooking, washing the dishes and the cleaning. There were two meals a day, lunch and dinner. There was a small charge, but you could eat if you didn’t have it. There was a TV room and a small bathroom with a shower.

Father Art and I had long talks on a variety of subjects. He was very supportive of my quest and felt it was very important for youth to travel.

He loved to get together with some of the seamen at his house. Over a bottle of wine or beers and cheese and crackers, we had fluid debates on all sorts of subjects.

As to clergy, Father Art was a breath of fresh air for me. He did not mind having his faith challenged from diverse points of view. Nor did he throw the Bible in your face in rebuttal. He used the Bible, as well as other informed writings on the existence/nonexistence of God to debate his point.

In my late teens, I became disenchanted with religion and the Catholic Church. I could not trust in a God that believed in a Human sacrifice. Then, too venerated that sacrifice in an act of symbolic cannibalism by symbolically eating and drinking the body and blood of that sacrifice. I felt there was a power greater than I and that Jesus had said some powerful words. I disagreed with what I was being taught about that power and Jesus.

To accept the fact that God only created Adam and Eve meant that the rest of us are the result of incest. No way. Incest weakens the species.

The God I learned about was so disgusting to me that just to use the word angered me. As far as I was concerned, God had/has been raped, sliced and diced by the various religions, each professing their piece to be the right piece. Thus, they turned Man against Man and Man from God. If God is a universal concept, then nobody has the right piece, just a piece. To quell the anger, I started calling God, Door Knob. I came to that name, as each new experience I had was a new door of perception as to what Creation might be.

Turning my back on church and religion, I commenced an internal dialogue with myself, as to what a God is. Is God anthropomorphic? Does God take sides? "Oh, I’ll Let the Raiders win this Sunday and while I’m at it, I’ll let the Cubs win the World Series. Heaven knows I’d like those things to happen, but I’m a human being, I can take sides. Can a God? The internal dialog became my church. Did not Jesus say something to the effect, Church is where the heart is?"

For six weeks, I lived in the Roach Hotel. I made peace with the roaches, even though it was unnerving to watch them scurry across the floor. When not eating at the seaman’s center, I heated cans of pork and beans in the sink in my room, letting the hot water run slowly. Beans, bread and a beer was dinner.

When I could no longer afford the hotel, Father Art let me keep my stuff at the center and I slept in the chapel. He also allowed a few of the old drunks to sleep in the chapel. One night, one of them took a shit on the floor. That was too much for Father Art.

Paul, said Father Art, as I was mopping the kitchen floor. We were the only two left.

What’s up?

Here’s a key to the chapel and the front gate. You can sleep in the chapel, just don’t let anybody see you.

Thank You, I said, glad to have a place to sleep.

And please, sleep up by the altar. That way nobody can see you through the door.

Too easy. I was relieved as I did not know where I was going to sleep.

For the first time since being on my own, I was broke. I didn’t even think of asking my father for money. He would have said, I told you, you would get no where, something I heard often from him.

The bohemian in Father Art encouraged me on.

Two days after Christmas, on a day when I decided to stay late at the Union Hall, a call came in. It was for a vacation relief in the Steward’s department on an oil tanker. As I was the only person in the Union Hall, the job was mine. The ship was in Long Beach.

Overjoyed, I ran the half a mile to the seaman’s center.

Father Art, I said, gasping for air, I got a ship.

Good for you. We hugged.

Here’s your keys. Thank you for your friendship.

You’re always welcome, he said shaking my hand.

I’ll see you when I come back. I grabbed my duffel bag and hustled to the bus stop.

When I got off the bus, it was the same bus stop I had gotten off when reporting for duty after Navy boot camp. That ship was the U.S.S. Estes AGC 12, this ship was the U.S. Monmouth.

She was an old coastal tanker that had seen her days. As I walked up the gang way, the smell of crude oil permeated the foggy, salty air. Off in the distance, a fog horn’s mournful voice bellowed away. The ship creaked and groaned under the eerily lit scene as she took on crude.

The crewmen were in a surrealistic dream, walking in slow motion as they moved about loading the crude. Heave ho! All hands on deck! Prepare to weigh anchor! spoke the voices from Two Years Before The Mast.

The ship stayed in port long just long enough to on-load or off-load, then set sail.

My billet was that of Officer’s Mess. Duties consisted of three times a day serving the officers their meals, washing the dishes and helping the Crews’ mess keep the galley clean. Each shift was two hours. The rest of the time was mine to read or get some overtime working for the boatswain mate. There is an old seaman’s saying, A ship is like a woman’s watch, it always needs repair.

At night I joined one of the crewmen to smoke a joint on the fantail. His name was Jeff

I need your help, he asked one night.

Sure.

I’m a diabetic and have to give my self shots daily.

"So what’s up?

Can you give shots?

Ah, yes, as long as it’s not in the vein. But why? I said a little concerned

I’d like to give the places I shoot myself a rest.

We went to his bunk.

It’s easy, he said as he prepared the shot. Slap the area where the shot is going a couple of times. Stick the needle into the muscle, hit the plunger, then pull the works out.

He wanted the shots in his back. His back was very muscular from doing deck work. By the end of my stay on the ship, his back was ready for a rest.

We sailed up and down the coasts of California, Oregon and Washington. The only time I got seasick was when we entered the Strait of Juan de Fuca on our way to Seattle. The ship entered the Strait while the tide was going in. Where the tide coming in met the river going out there were bucking waves causing the ship to bounce around. It was rough going-so much so that I collapsed on the mess hall deck, nauseous, and had to crawl back to my bunk laying there with my leg hanging out. By lunch time, we were up in the channel and I was fine.

When we pulled in only a few officers had signed up for dinner, so I finished early and went ashore with a couple