My First Flight – PAA, LAX-HNL

It's just days now before Marijke takes off in her "Loki" and experiences her first Powder Puff Derby race. This event, along with my son emailing me a picture of some Pan American Airlines memorabilia where he recalled his early trips to Hawaii in 1960's, made me think of my own very first air flight.

It was December 1954 and my parents had planned this wonderful trip to Hawaii during my Christmas vacation break from school. Our plans were to fly to Honolulu from Los Angeles and then return home via Matson's cruise ship the SS Lurline. Prior to this new adventure my vacations were mostly spend at the beach house or the occasional driving vacation that would leave me pouty and grumpy, kicking and carsick in the backseat of the family car.

I was quite excited about taking this first flight never having been up in any type of plane before. I had heard wonderful and exciting stories about flying, sometimes scary ones, but it never deterred my own desire to want to do this. Certainly people flew in the 1950's but not with such regularity and casualness as they do today. I don't know what it cost back then but I image it was a pretty expensive option.

We boarded our Pan Am flight to Honolulu around midnight at LAX. My best guess is that the plane was probably a Boeing 377 Stratocruiser, this model featured a lower-deck lounge and bar, an innovation which, combined with a long range and high speed, made the Stratocruiser a very popular airliner. We were given a nice midnight snack and then settled in for a good night's sleep. Some of the adults would venture down to the lower-deck lounge for drinks and chit-chat.

Around eight hours later we would be awaken and handed a nice fresh hot towel for our face, give a little stretch and be served a delicious breakfast on china plates, and juice in a real glass. There was even a small baby Orchid on the plate for decoration. We had just enough time to enjoy all of this before it was time to land in Honolulu.

Imagine, Los Angeles to Honolulu in a mere nine hours, it couldn't get any better than this.

A Cloak of Sadness

A cloak of sadness hangs over me today, like a great shroud saturated and heavy with the tears of a lifetime.

A sadness that comes from being there close and seeing the gun pulled free, watching the fingers as they squeeze against the trigger and doing nothing to stop it.

Sometimes the bang is heard only by a very few or no one at all.

But the shockwaves from this action continue to move forward, silently through time and space, leaving marks upon those in its path.

A cloak of sadness hangs over me today; much like the way fogs clings to the rocks on a June morning.

A sadness veiled in heavy air, waiting for the warmth of the sun to breakthrough and dry up all the dampness.

This cloud of fog obscures one's vision, the dreams and desires that lie just up ahead.

So close within reach while at the same moment totally unattainable.

A cloak of sadness hangs over me today, it's heavy and uncomfortable, and doesn't serve a purpose.

It's not a cloak of comfort; it's not a cloak of warmth.

Just a cloak of sadness for the way things are and the way things might have been.

Going Home Again – China Cove 1968- 1972

If you have ever driven down to China Cove you will certainly remember this sign. Despite its simplistic message that surly could be easily understood, the Newport Beach Police Department made frequent visits to ticket violators. Even in the early days the sign loomed large, when there was probably more sand than there were cars around. Later illegal parking did become a nuisance, but you know that just one of many pleasures of living on the beach.

You will know from my Prequel, the family beach house was built in 1939, I was just a year old, and thirty years later I would move my family into that house and call it home. The house, remodeled in the 50's, was pretty utilitarian, an extended box form, with four bedrooms, three baths and the smallest kitchen around. I think it must have been designed after a ship's galley, but you know it worked. You could stand in the center of it and reach everything without having to take a single step.

Of course the best part wasn't the house but rather the front yard. Sand and sea, except for one small strip of grass that rivaled the kitchen in size. It was that tough Bermuda grass, I think that's what it's called, that stuff was indestructible and it made a great doormat to use to wipe off the tar from your feet.

We had a community sand volleyball court on the upper part of the beach, which took quite a lot of work to finally get approval from the City of Newport Beach. Volleyball players thought it was the best thing since sliced bread but the sun worshippers took exception to being pelted by errant v-balls. A compromise was finally reached whereby no volleyball would be played during peak beach time. Wilt (Wooden Hands) Chamberlin even played on our court once.

For several years we held an annual clam bake. A huge pit was dug in the sand, and then lined with stones that came from Laguna Canyon, a roaring fire was built, wet burlap sacks and seaweed piled on, and delicious food ultimately came out of the pit. While all this was going on underground, we would crank up the old ice cream maker and make flavors that included fresh peach, peppermint, chocolate chip and fresh strawberry. The first few years it was fun and our next door neighbor joined in and co-hosted with us. Then one year the neighbor and I looked at each other and both said, "Who are these people?" Seems word of the event had finally reached out to great unknowns, affectionately called Freeloaders. That may have been the last year for the party as we knew it.

Early mornings were spent cleaning the sea air off the front windows that had accumulated during the previous day. Certainly having a water view is good incentive to have sparkling clean windows. It never seemed like a chore at all. Another almost daily routine was hosing off the sand from the steps and sidewalks which was constantly being tracked in from the beach.

I suppose, some thirty years after selling the China Cove house, I will have to put that event in My Life's Regrets column. Because now it is there in that house I would like to spend my remaining days, just sitting and looking out at the water, walking along the shore and feeling the tickle of sand crabs under my feet and hearing that moan of the fog horn on early mornings in June. But that is not to be because the really sad thing is the house no longer exists, torn down to a enormous hole in the ground and rebuilt bigger and bolder than before.

If I ever win the lottery I am going to buy that house on Way Lane and tear it down again. Then I will rebuild just as it was built in 1939. I know my neighbor, Dickie, will be happy to have his view back.