Some Very Friendly Christians

British Columbia, Canada
August, `73


I was tired of the tourist trip, the hippie trip, the hate haulie
trip, and my own trip. It was time to go to the mountains and clear my
head. I booked a flight out of Kauai bound for Vancouver, British
Colombia. I had never hitched across Canada before, so I thought this
would be a good time. I also wanted to explore the park above Glacier.
I passed through Waterton Lakes National Park last year, but I saw
only enough to make me want to return.

I booked my flight on Canadian Pacific Airways, but in San Francisco
they put me on a United plane bound for Seattle. That flight was
really nice. I had a good view of the coast. In Seattle, however,
another passenger had booked my Seattle to Vancouver seat, and since I
was flying on a United plane, the mistake was with my air carrier not
with United, so I was taken off the plane. Rather than go through the
red tape and delays of rescheduling (United was not helpful), I
decided to hitchhike to Vancouver.

I got good rides, and then Bill picked me up just before I arrived in
Vancouver. He had long blond hair, and he turned out to be a real nice
guy. He offered me a place to stay. I met his four brothers and
mother. They were very religious people. Bill's religious convictions,
no doubt, had something to do with the hospitality that I had
received. As it turned out, Bill was going to a revival meeting that
night, and he wanted me to go with him. It was going to be held in a
large tent somewhere out in the country. I had no problem with going,
so after an early dinner, Bill and I headed out.

Goodbye Hawaii

Lihue beach

Aug. ‘73

Two days after I twisted my ankle, I used the footpath to hike out of
Waimea canyon. After reaching the highway, I got a ride into Lihue.
Once there, I went to Lidgate, Lihue’s beach campground. I was surprised
to find Eddy, Gloria, and Greg, all old friends, camping on the beach. Apparently,
against the better judgment of the medical profession, Eddy went back
to living on the beach before he was fully recovered. He and his
girlfriend were enjoying Kauai so much that they had no intentions to
leave. That night I drank lots of beer and ate lots of Eddy's
mushrooms. The more things change the more they stay the same! I
needed an extra day to recover from that one. After I recovered, though,
I was more than ready to leave. During that extra day, I put the finishing touches
on my goodbye poem to Waimea. I hope it has more staying power than I do!

Waimea Canyon

Alone; hardly,
true, there are no distractions
save my own tangled mind.
An abundance of intimacy surrounds
my seclusion.
Sincerity dwells within these canyon walls.
Fellowship begins and ends
on the rock where I am sitting.
Beneath me, love is fluid
and flows with the river's current.
The surging waters
speak only gospel.

Don’t Read This Post

Philosophy Of Non-Drama
Waimea Canyon, Kauai

I was environment intoxicated when I wrote the below post, which
is a bit long and in need of editing. In future posts, however, I will reference
the non-drama philosophy discussed below,—and that’s why I’m adding
it to my postaday collection.

The Surging Waters Speak Only The Gospel

The river "rivered" while people "behaved." The river "swelled" while
people "behaved dramatically." The river flowed freely, while people
were situated and there was the rub. People got caught up in their own
dramas. In situations evincing need, greed, and hate, drama emerged.
Being human meant, on some level, -- always being dramatic.

If something is good because God says it is good than what I am about
to say won't work. But, if something is good or bad because Sammy Doeno
thinks it is (for whatever reason), than the practice of drama and non-drama,
I believe, has something important to tell us. At some critical level, drama
sends things askew as it disrupts harmony—just like when a river floods.
However, rivers don't worry about flood consequences. Extreme drama
creates extreme disharmony. At some point, we are confronted by two alternatives:
"Do we pursue drama or non-drama? Is it equanimity we desire or high emotion?"

On a personal level, or on the larger stage of socioeconomic levels,
extreme drama tends toward the pathological. Pursuing that kind of
drama requires security measures to protect and insure the
accumulation of wealth (and the freedom to accumulate that wealth).
Pursuing that kind of drama is not wrong. We read about that kind of
drama in history textbooks. Violence and aggression are simply the
"way things are." Now lets see what happens when instead of pursuing
drama, we pursue its opposite.

The interesting thing about non-drama is that it is not given as an
"absolute," so the cliché "it is right because God says it is" never
comes into play. God cannot be used to justify "cultural dos and
don'ts." Although "thou-shalt-not sanctions” may be perfectly
rational they still come from outside our experience, and, as such,
they compete with "thou-shalt-nots" from other cultures, which, to say
the least, wraps every "thou-shalt" in a cloud of skepticism. On the other
hand, ethical behavior follows naturally from the practice of non-drama,
and, best of all, the practice of non-drama is internally directed, it comes
to us through "free choice."

The practice of non-drama creates honest people. Telling a lie
creates drama. Deliberately being wrong in the face of what is right
births conflict and conflict raises the level of drama. Of course
there are always the gray areas where a small lie may get you past
dramatic situations; for instance, take the "white lie" that is used to
avoid hurting somebody's feelings. The "ought" here becomes,
"go with the flow, don't get caught, run smooth," a lesson taken directly
from the river. Behavior that is least dramatic is always determined
relative to the situation at hand, but such is the beauty of non-drama.
The aphorism, "Let your conscience be your guide," and Shakespeare's
Hamlet quote, "Be true to yourself, and you cannot be false to any other person,"
pretty much sums up both the means and the ends of the non-drama practice.

Conceptually, the practice of non-drama can be applied in many
different areas. I'm not advocating passive resistance. To be sure,
passive resistance can culminate in very dramatic ends. Non-drama has
to be digested by the individual and applied on an individual basis.
It's not as if "right choices" will always be made, but at least
"mistakes," when they are made, will fall within a consistent pattern
of error, and as such, the learning curve becomes much less dramatic.
"To let it be, to be calm, to just be"-- each person must accommodate
these behaviors for himself/herself. Progress will be made through
self-illumination. Less dramatic behavior (by degrees) will be the
result. You can study the process of non-drama, take advice from
others who have practiced it, even imitate non-dramatic behavior, but,
ultimately, benefits follow only from practicing it honestly. Here is
a case in point of non-drama in practice. The miser very dramatically
hoards wealth, and in so doing moves away from tranquility and harmony.

Non-drama practice requires that a rich person sever his "attachment
to wealth," but not become poor. His lifestyle would remain unchanged
(otherwise drama would result), but, no longer consumed by the need to
make more money (for himself at least), the exclusionary values of
privilege and class (the opposites of harmony and equanimity) would,
vis-à-vis the practice of non-drama, be transformed into more
inclusive values. The desire for consistency and inclusiveness would
overpower the desire for exclusivity and separateness; that is, if
non-drama was honestly practiced. I must reiterate, though, this
process would be very difficult (especially the part about the
redistribution of wealth).

This brings me to another interesting point, one that has bothered me
for a long time. If through the practice of non-drama, a miser's
behavior can be reversed, then people can change, I mean really
change. For a long time now, I had convinced myself that the "puffed
up" remained "puffed up," and there was no turning back for braggarts,
bullies, and warmongers, either. I have always believed that
disguising our demons is possible, but extinguishing them is not.
Sooner or later, they always reemerge and howl. But, real change is
allowed in the practice of non-drama. What changes is not the person;
it is the intensity of one's character. At the "center" everything stops. The farther
removed we are from this "center," the more dramatic our ego becomes.
A vain person, by practicing non-drama, moves toward the center.
Vanity cannot be turned into compassion, but at the "center,"
compassion and vanity become one.

We are already practicing drama and non-drama. Our knowledge lies in
the awareness of the two. Our freedom lies in choosing between the
two. Drama is not a bad thing; it is the only thing. It is "how we
live that matters.” We are continually integrating this "how" back into
our experience and proceeding from there. Some of us are not (and will
never be) ready to practice a life of non-drama, but for those that do
positive results will follow, both for the individual and society.

Thus Spoke The River To Me

Waimea Canyon, Kauai

"Be still, calm, at peace!" Of course, that message wasn’t new, but
the river put a different spin on it now, one that I was not aware of.
"To be at ease, to let it be," these were easy words to say, but difficult
to practice. In the past, I took them seriously, perhaps too seriously!
I went as far as to isolate myself on mountains and in dense swamps,
but the results were always less than satisfying. If fact, it got so bad
that upon hearing those words repeatedly, it got to a point where I simply
shrugged them off as just another "hip culture blurb."

When I came to this canyon I wanted to get away from life's everyday
distractions. I was pursuing my own self-interest. For me, sojourning
spiritually was not even a consideration. In the past year or so, my
religious quest had suffered a considerable loss of prestige. Now,
after hearing the river, I found myself back on track. According to
the river, "You flowed, but you didn't get caught. You accommodated,
but you didn't convert. You remained constant, yet you kept rolling
along. You were all you could be without being one barleycorn more,
and, as such, harmony was attained." Thus spoke the river to me.

Looking Up Into Quadrillions Of Tiny Points Of Light

Bridge Camp, Waimea Canyon
Aug. `73

This canyon had brought me as close to paradise as I would probably
ever get. Just being down here had made it impossible for me to
continue as a Hawaiian tourist. I had planned to go to the big island.
Instead, I would go to the Canadian Rockies. I needed to follow
through on what I had started and could only do that while immersed in
the solitude of mountain heights. That was the only place for me now.

Yesterday, I began my hike out of the canyon. When I reached the spot
where the river met the trail, I decided to follow the river instead
of the trail. The hiking was beautiful, but the twenty-mile riverbank
hike was more than I had bargained for. The farther down river I got,
the larger the river became. The riverbanks that permitted walking
reversed every time the river made a bend. I was forced into multiple
river crossings, through ever-stronger currents. At one of those
crossings, I lost my footing and twisted my angle. My progress slowed
after that, and by the time I reached an expansion bridge that crossed
the river, it stopped altogether.

My ankle, now swollen and extremely sore, could no longer support my
weight. I had found a good place for a camp, so I decided to stay off
my foot until I could walk again. I didn't know how long that would
take, but at least I was connected to a hiking trail in case I needed
help. After dark, I hobbled up to the suspension footbridge and rolled out
my sleeping bag. Looking up into quadrillions of tiny points of light, I
experienced, as if for the first time, the Milky Way Galaxy—Awesome!

While camped at the bridge I had lots of time to think. For some time,
I had known that "I" was not separate from the canyon. I knew that a
large part of "who I was," was part of all canyons, rivers, forests
and oceans. But now, I was beginning to see that part of me (maybe for
the first time) that wasn't this canyon. I was beginning to see, see
clearly, that part of me that everybody else knew of as me. This
vision did not come easy. I needed help to see it, and this help
came from the river; it spoke to me.

Far Out Campsite

Waimea Canyon, Kauai
Aug. ‘73

Green tree and W canyon falls
In the morning, I continued my hike. On the trail, I passed two more
"locals" with rifles. They were not friendly, either. However, I didn't have to
worry about the "gun toting kids." Last night they did not see me as they passed
by me on their way out of the canyon. This place was becoming a bit
too crowded. I thought about leaving, but when I came to a stream, I
left the path and hiked up along the banks of the stream. I hoped I
could avoid the goat hunters that way. By the sounds of the singing
birds, it appeared as if I had. The farther I hiked up the stream, the
safer I felt.

As luck would have it, I ran into a longhair coming down the same
riverbed. The guy was friendly, but not very talkative. Apparently, he
had been down in the canyon for a long time, but he carried nothing.
He was on his way out of the canyon when I met him. Maybe he was one
of those nature people that I had met on the other side of the island.
Whoever he was, I sure appreciated the directions he gave me to his
camp. I followed them until I found it, and when I did, it was amazing.

In order to get there you had to wade across waist deep water. The
campsite was located at the entrance to a small gorge that was cut off
by the river in front and the towering pillars on both sides of the
camp. All this afforded the campsite a natural protection from
intruders. No hunters would accidentally stumble upon this camp. The
camp itself was surrounded by a beautiful grove of trees, in the
center of which, stood an orange tree full of ripe oranges. If the
"earth people" were to find this place, it would flip them out. But I
won't tell them. I wouldn't want to start a war between the locals and
the earth people. There was always a cost/benefit ratio to everything,
I guessed.

I had passed a huge mango tree on the way in, and not far from the
mango tree, a guava tree, with guavas the size of grapefruits, was
growing--the place was fantastic! Yesterday, I stumbled upon an avocado tree
and a banana tree. I ate some of the not so ripe bananas. No wonder
they called this place the "garden island." There was fruit growing in
Kalalau also, but the variety was limited (lots of passion fruit)
compared to what I had found in this canyon. Today was a lay about
river day. There was lots of sunshine, and the river was full of large
rocks to lie upon. I spent most of the day just listening to the
babbling waters.

Gun Pointed At My Head

Waimea Canyon
Kauai, Hawaii

While hiking through the thick vegetation, I admired the canyon's
colorful rock strata as it decorated the canyon walls. When I came to
a solitary picnic table situated in a clearing, I did not hesitate to
take a load off. The sun was setting, so the softening colors made the
spectacle of the canyon walls even more beautiful. Fortunately, I had
remembered to pack in a couple of beers. "No time like the present," I
thought. While drinking my first beer, I saw three mountain goats
moving up along one of the canyon ridges. While drinking my second
beer, I found out that those goats were not a protected species.

Seven male teenage boys passed by my picnic table about twenty yards
from where I was sitting. I nodded my head at them, but no
acknowledgment was given back. By the expressions on their faces, I
could tell that they were not happy to see me. They kept walking
single file along the path. Three of them were carrying rifles. After
the front of the line had passed by me, and just when I started to
breathe again, the kid second from the rear stopped and stared at me.
When he stopped everybody stopped. He couldn't have been a day over
twelve years old. He looked at me and said, "What the fuck are you
doing here?" The whole group was looking straight at me when I said,
"I'm here to see the canyon." "The canyon is ours," the kid replied,
"and we don't like your kind in our canyon." I didn't know what to
say. I just looked at them and said, "I'm sorry.” The kid put his
rifle to his shoulder and drew a bead on my head. I didn't say a word,
but I never took my eyes off his face. Nobody moved. After some very,
very, tense moment(s), the kid turned his rifle thirty degrees off
center and fired into the bush. I didn't flinch. Everybody started
laughing; that is, everybody but me. Giggling and smiling, the seven
mokes disappeared down the path and into the jungle. It was already
getting dark, so I retreated to a safe place to camp.

Locals Were Hostile To Hippies

Kalalau

The Other Side Of The Island
Aug. 5, `73

I stayed at Kalalau for a couple days. When my serenity was broken by
a troop of hikers, I decided to leave. I had heard of another hiking
area on the island, but strangely enough, nobody that I had talked
with knew anything about it. While 99% of the hippies in Hawaii were
hanging out at Hanalei, I stuck out my thumb and headed over to the
other side of the island. Before I left, however, I was told that the
reason nobody went over to the other side of the island was because
they weren't welcome. The locals were hostile to hippies. After
living in Hawaii's ghetto for eight months, I figured I could deal
with the bad vibes.

It was remarkable; after being in "hippie heaven," once I got a ride
passed Lihue, Kauai's main city, there were no hippies at all. I did
experience some nasty glances from passing motorists, though. A beer
can was even hurled at me from one of the passing cars. From the top
of Waimea Canyon, the view was spectacular. The canyon looked like a
miniature Grand Canyon, but a Grand Canyon filled with jungle. I
immediately started hiking down the trail. The farther I got, the more
beautiful it became. At the bottom, I found a wonderland similar to
the one that I had experienced on the other side of the island, only
here I was definitely alone (or at least I thought so at the time).

Walking On The Edge Of The Earth

Napoli Coast


After Hanacopiae, the hiking got more rigorous. I was alone on the
trail, but every once and awhile I heard noises in the jungle. I paid
little attention until I saw a naked body running in the distance.
Back at Hanalei, I was told that some of the "nature freaks" had gone
totally wild. They lived in the jungle eating wild fruits, berries,
etc. I didn't believe the story until I saw a bare assed guy heading
in the opposite direction.

The trail wound its way out of the jungle and onto the ridges that
followed the coastal mountains. Occasionally, the trail edged around
shear cliffs, with the ocean hundreds of feet below. The view took my
breath away, figuratively and literally; that is, if I wasn't careful.
With the rugged mountains towering at my back and the horizon wide,
translucent blue ocean below me, it felt like I was walking on the
edge of the Earth.

When the trail headed down into the valley below, I found an
absolutely beautiful beach nestled within the boundaries of two large
rock outcroppings. These cliffs isolated Kalalau from the rest of the
coastline. There were campers in the area, but the three that I saw
were at the far end of the beach. I never met them. The place was
beyond words, but here are a few anyway:

Kalalau

Embraced by nature's unity
I grow wide and deep.
The mountains do not impose.
The ocean does not beg beauty.
My breath gently calms.
I am at rest.
I am at peace.
I am silent.

Tropical Foliage—Head Spinning Fantasyland

Hanacopiae, Kauai
Aug. `73

Everything went well. The flight over was great. I arrived in Kauai
around 8 a.m. and immediately started hitchhiking. I got a ride to
Hanalei, the town at the end of the road. Apparently, Hanalei was a
magnet for "back to nature hippies." They filled the town. I stayed
only long enough to get directions to the wilderness trail that wound
its way around the Na Pali coastline, eventually ending up in the
Kalalau Valley. I planned to camp on the beach at the end of the
twelve-mile hike.

I went to Butch and Pua's wedding the day before I arrived on Kauai.
It was super. It was an authentic Hawaiian Luau. About fifty people
attended, and the roast pig was delicious. Pua, in her white wedding
dress, was gorgeous, but Butch, in a suit, looked out of place. They
were married on the beach, and afterwards, there was enough Primo beer
to satisfy a group twice the size. After a few beers, I was even able
to eat the poi without making a face. For a wedding present, I set
Butch up with my job at the Fogcutter. I think Pua liked my present
more than Butch did, but hey, what's that saying, "Give a guy a loaf
of bread and he gets hungry again; give him a `fishing pole, and…"

The first six miles on the trail weren't too difficult. Perfumed
flowers bloomed where the sunlight made it through the dense tropical
foliage. The smell of ripe guava also permeated the air. The flora was
so rich and thick that it made my head spin. I hadn't eaten anything
since the wedding. After living off Fogcutter food for so long, I just
wanted to feel my belly empty. When I came to a huge Mango tree,
though, my fast ended. The mangos were delicious. The clear mountain
streams were inviting too. Rarely, did I pass one without stopping for
a drink. The wettest spot on Earth was just east of the Kalalau
Valley, so I had plenty of water breaks. Every time the trail passed
under the giant, shaded, jungle canopies, it felt like I was in a
fantasyland.

When I came to the 150-foot waterfall at Hanacopiae, I was tired,
dirty, and hot, so I removed my clothes and jumped in. After swimming
to where the falls met the river, I took a picture. I swam using only
one arm since I needed to keep the camera dry. I was right beneath the
falls when I took it. I hoped it would turn out. The place was so
beautiful, I didn't want to leave, but I had to if I wanted to make
the beach by nightfall.

I Stood There, Eyes Fixed In The Ocean Swells

From left to right—Gloria, Me, Eddy, Butch, and De

Keauu Beach
July ‘73

The violence of the earlier months had subsided. The people of those
times had all left the beach. Actually, I had the beach pretty much to
myself. Ron and Carol were camped fifty yards down, and a Hawaiian
family was camped next to me. A lot of the family tended to come and go,
but the patriarch of the family, Kukua, was a regular and he always had a
kind word for me. Dan, Kukua's British friend and war buddy, was visiting.
A retired merchant marine, Dan had invented a large air-ship that was propelled
along on top of a three-foot layer of air. Apparently, Dan was waiting for the
British government to decide if they wanted to buy his air-ship to
ferry people across the English Channel. He figured it was only a
matter of time before the Brit's said, "yes." He was marketing the
prototype; the actual ship hadn't been built yet. Who knows, maybe one
day I will have a fabulously wealthy business tycoon friend.

Speaking of business, and "things that go right," I've managed to save
over a thousand dollars. I even began to have nightmares about leaving
Hawaii. I can't remember the details, but in those dreams, after I had
gone back to the mainland, I would wake up feeling miserable. After a
few of those dreams, I even changed my mind about leaving. Why not
stay? I had a good job, and I lived in "paradise." Right!

I called my parents to tell them I was staying, but I had something
else I wanted to say to them also. I had checked into bringing them
over for a two-week vacation. I had resident status, so I was able to
book hotel and flight tickets at reduced Karmohina rates. For a
thousand dollars, I was going to be able to bring them over to Hawaii
and show them a good time. Unfortunately, my dad was in poor health,
so those plans got scuttled. After the phone call, I went back to plan
A, which was to return to school. Tonight is my last night at work.

I wanted to see some of the other islands before leaving Hawaii. I
didn't want to go tourist class, though. The thought of being just
another Hawaiian tourist, for me, was humiliating. I decided to go to
Kauai first. Usually, that island was the fourth most popular on the
tourists' wish list. It was the "garden island," but it was pretty
much undeveloped, which meant that it lacked first class
accommodations. Oahu, Maui, and the Big Island, Hawaii, overflowed
with "crème de la crème" accommodations. That settled, I planned to
leave in a couple days. I put off my departure because I had a wedding
to attend. Butch and Pua, friends of mine from the beach, were tying
the knot. Butch was a transient like myself. Pua was a full-blood
Hawaiian. I was looking forward to the wedding.

Leaving the beach and this lifestyle was depressing. Saying good-bye
to the ocean was the hardest. I loved the ocean. I felt like I was
part of it. A few days ago, I tried to put that feeling into words:

Wave

And I stood there, eyes
fixed in the ocean swells.
Lifted backwards and over,
sliding forward, curling onward,
feeling my tummy fall away,
my white bubbling mass
steamrolls toward shore,
draping behind frothing tapestries.
I feel my splendor.
Finally, my true dignity
is revealed.
My glory, after lethargic days and nights,
is now.
I am impregnable.
Tumbling forth,
I leave nothing untouched.
My hypnotic drawl
offers a deceptive warning.
The shore awaits me.
Smashing into the rocky reef,
I send aloft dense curtains
of ocean surf.
Gone only in duration,
I melt back into the sea.

My Happiness Remained In The Present, Always

Us And Them--Black and blue
And who knows which is which and who is who
Up and Down
And in the end it’s only round and round and round



Beach In Retrospect
Keaau, Beach

July 29, `73

I just got back from playing my recorder down on the rocks, close to
the breaking surf. It felt like I was playing my horn for the first
time, I mean, really playing it. I got high off the music. I broke out
of the scales that had hitherto defined my music. My sentences had
always been short and sweet; today they became progressive and
sensual. It was as though my horn was playing itself while I listened
in appreciation. I hoped I could continue to play like that.

Time on the beach had remained consistent; as soon as it appeared, it
vanished. Days slid into weeks, weeks into months, and nobody kept
track. It may have been July 29, but it could just as easily have been
March 2. The ocean, trees, sun and breeze, not to mention the whole
beach scene, remained the same. Looking back, nothing had changed. Had
I really been here for eight months? The calendar's face was blank.
Actually it was a shame. I had had so many good times, but it was like
they never existed. My happiness remained in the present, always. Upon
leaving this place I would be propelled back into the sequential
world, a world that moved without exception into the future. It
would be almost like I had never come to Hawaii. What a strange
feeling that is!

If I were to go back and read the stuff that I'd written in my
journal, I am sure I would be reminded of all the bad times; the
violence, the ghetto experience, and the raw fear. I have witnessed,
or otherwise been affected by, ten fights, five rip offs, scores of
tough guys, and of course, that unfortunate affair with C.S.; all
that's behind me now. For the record, though, I want to put in a plug
for the Hawaiian people.

The Hawaiians sure know how to have fun. Families flock to the
beaches on weekends, and if they didn't come to the beaches, I'm sure
the authorities would have thrown transients like myself off the
beaches long ago. Because they--the authorities--can't take beach life
away from the Hawaiians, they can't deny the rest of us either. Song
and laughter can be heard across the parks during the weekends. I
might add that I have never met a thirsty Hawaiian--his cup always
runnith over. A contrived gathering, a forced gathering of friends and
relatives, like so often happened back on the mainland, is unheard of
here on the islands. I'm guessing, but the atmosphere of "let the good
times roll" could very easily be a result of class structure, or maybe
I should say lack of structure. The majority of the Hawaiians seem to
fall into one class, the class of the "common people." Everybody
drinks together and has a good time together, and when the Hawaiians
have a good time, everybody has a good time (even haulies, unless the
Hawaiians are of the "hate haulie variety," of which there are many).

For the past couple of weeks things had been good for me. I finished
reading Sartre. I couldn't tell yet if his stuff was digestible. Maybe
it was like a python eating a pig. It would take time, but I would
eventually get it. My beach routine had gotten back to the basics too,
eat, walk, sleep, work and then sleep again. Work, by the way, had
gone from so-so to great. My boss was a friend now. Come closing
time, I had the run of the restaurant. They stopped locking things up,
too. I got to eat like one of the customers after that. At night,
alone, I kept the sound system tuned to KIKI radio. The most peaceful
moment of the night came at around 4 a.m. That was when I mixed a
Grenadine and ginger ale and sat on the balcony overlooking the ocean.
In those quiet moments, all that could be heard was the sound of the
breaking surf. Last night, however, I had Pink Floyd's, Dark Side of
the Moon turned up. FANTASTIC!

Escape From The Percept/Product Box

IN HELD TWAS IN I----At a time like this, which exists maybe only for me, but is nonetheless real, if I can communicate, and in the telling and the bearing of my soul anything is gained, even though the words which I use are pretentious and make you cringe with embarrassment, let me remind you of the pilgrim who asked for an audience with the Dalai Lama. He was told he must first spend five years in contemplation. After the five years, he was ushered into the Dalai Lama's presence, who said, 'Well, my son, what do you wish to know?' So the pilgrim said, 'I wish to know the meaning of life, father.' And the Dalai Lama smiled and said, 'Well my son, life is like a beanstalk, isn't it?'


If I Am To Find Percept/Product Free Consciousness, I Will
Find It In The Grasping Act Of Comprehension

Keaau Beach

June ‘73

Moving forward through consciousness means moving along the
percept/product continuum, a journey that is bound to leave a
sensitive person unfulfilled and unsatisfied. It is a journey devoid
of authenticity-- one man's percept is another man's product. Truth
here becomes just another word for fabrication, which in turn,
consists of means, mode and end. Interpretation is the means,
percept/product, the mode, and relativity the end. If I want more out
of consciousness, I must move in a different direction--but how?

Strange! I feel like Descartes must have felt when he ended his
meditations with the realization that existence exists; that is, with
his "cogitio ergo sum," which was the same thing. How could it be any
different? How could anything be questioned unless a questioning
subject existed? Essentially, Descartes turned existence on its head
when he concluded: I doubt, therefore I exist. That seems to be
where I am at right now. If there are answers outside of the
percept/product continuum, then those answers must not be a product of
anything. Products lie inside the continuum. As a "product," the
percept/product continuum is always ahead of me. But, I am in the act
of grasping, of comprehension, before I comprehend anything. If I am
to find a consciousness that is percept/product free, I suspect I will
find it in this "act of grasping,” in this "act" of comprehension. I
must therefore, if I am to acquire this consciousness, stop moving
forward in consciousness, and instead, move in full retreat.

Before the answer, there is the question. Before the question, there
is mere possibility. Something is responsible for the percept/product
world, the world we live in (quantum mechanics suggests an answer to
this question, but that is a conversation for another time). Existing as
mere possibility, I become/became that something. Whatever mere possibility
is, I am the “engine that realizes the product.” I am the possibility that carries
forward the percept/product continuum--as the product of the percept!

Thrown into the world, I become the world. I am inseparable from the
world, but, simultaneously, the world ceases to be "my world" as I
cease to "be me." In the world, clouds, trees, flowers, and campfires,
all the "things of the world," are perceptions given to me as I give
myself to them. Together we are, and separate, we are not. My
subjective consciousness, in this respect, becomes objective. All
"objects of consciousness," in this way, participate in the
percept/product continuum.

Because, "I am not what I am, and I am what I am not," I can conclude
that I am both "not-me and me," simultaneously. This is certainly a
strange statement. But, I believe, it is a true statement. It's as if
I had just stepped across the threshold into Alice's "looking glass
world." Over there, or should I say over here, through the glass, the
faster I run toward something, the farther away from it I get. In this
place, it becomes impossible to know anything about what's "really
real." Identity per se is fraudulent. In this world, "being my
possibilities," is the closest I can get to "being me." Once I
actually become something, I am forced to be something, or someone,
other than who I am. So there it is-- whatever it is. “Consciousness is
a slippery and strange fella," indeed.

Given that I have come so far without really going anywhere, I want to
conclude with a few brief speculations. If I am not myself, if I am
something other than myself, where am I? Will I ever attain myself?
"Being what I am not" is not a very pleasant experience. It makes more
sense to say I am already dead. Perhaps, I will become myself when I
die. Perhaps, I am dead already. That makes more sense than to call
self, not-self, and not-self, self. What is life anyway, except "a
waiting for death?" Life is so unstable and consuming. At least death
is logical. Everything is satisfied, at rest, "being what it is,"
instead of what it is not. Perhaps, life is really death, and death is
really life. That makes more sense, except, why would life have death,
if death were really life? Why would you die into life? I don't know. (Stay tuned,
I answer these questions in the end.)

In a nuclear holocaust, the percept/product is pushed to its limit, ---
absurdity (nuclear holocaust) is the result. Absurdity also results when
you do an about-face and move in the opposite direction.
Perhaps, this is all part of an infinitely large whole, and we are an
infinitesimally small part of that whole. Perhaps, our consciousness
is at a transitional stage in its evolution, and something will eventually
push it into a higher plane of consciousness, where we will finally understand
why we are what we are not. Perhaps, death is an incomprehensible part of the
whole, and sooner or later, we will evolve into more than the sum of
our parts. Absurd? I do not know! At least, here, in this world, we can
still have another cup of tea, or was it Treacle? I'm not sure anymore!

HOW FREE IS FREE

IN HELD TWAS IN I----In the darkness of the night, only occasionally relieved by glimpses of Nirvana as seen through other people's windows, wallowing in a morass of self-despair made only more painful by the knowledge that all I am is of my own making ...When everything around me, even the kitchen ceiling, has collapsed and crumbled without warning. And I am left, standing alive and well, looking up and wondering why and wherefore.


Sacrifices, human or otherwise, have
been around forever. They are natural consequences of the
percept/product continuum.

Keaau Beach, Hawaii
June ‘79

Another possible answer to my inquiry concerning: "Why I did
what I did” is that “I am free to do what I do." But, again, how free is free?
In order to better understand "who I am," or "what I can
become," I had to take a closer look at the limitations of my own
freedom—the limitations of “my free will."

As a conscious being, I am always conscious of something. I integrate
that "something" into my knowledge base, and form conclusions based on
that knowledge. The statement, "Every percept is a product," describes
that process. Nietzsche said, "Everything is interpretation." He was
right! All my perceptions and ideas are products of something else.
Through rational inquiry, I extend my grasp of perceptions and ideas,
but that doesn't change anything; it is just another one of my
possibilities.

The most universal of all perceptions is found in the pleasure/pain
response, but even that response falls into the category of
"percept/product." One person's pleasure was another's pain. Good and
evil are caught in the same predicament. Good is a benefit; bad is a
pain. The altruistic rebuttal, or "doing for others," falls squarely
into the pleasure/pain response category. "If it feels good, do it."
Group sanctioned good, "morality," is percept/product in its most
obvious form. Behave in a way that is not appropriate to your "class"
and risk the pain of ostracism (or worse). Percept/products take place along
a continuum. At one end is the pleasure/pain response; at the other end
are found responses based on expediency and "group utility"—family,
city, state, nation, and/or global interests.

Along the medium range of the continuum are found
responses of a more personal variety, usually demonstrated within a
"self-interested sub-cultural context." For instance, "we" like to
listen to progressive rock music and smoke good dope. "We've" learned
what to like and how to enjoy ourselves. "We've" learned how to
maximize our pleasure and how to respond appropriately to a given
situation. "We" know, for instance, that everybody hates Nixon. "We"
have chosen as friend's people who respond “like us" to wider sets
of values in a similar way. "We" are the product of our choices, and
"we" have chosen to live the "patterned existence" that has brought us
to our present situation.

Values, the values of individuals, are society's values; yet, as
individuals, we think we are capable of transcending those values. "He
is his own man," the cliché goes. It is for this reason that we are
shocked when we read about Nazi atrocities, or "witch burnings," or
cannibalisms. We cannot conceive how a "mentally balanced person”
could participate in that kind of behavior. But, butchery, all forms
of butchery, need only the slightest "head nod" from the "appropriate
authority" in order to explode on the scene; be it mob violence,
religious persecution, or Mei Lai type massacres.

For the most part, we are not conscious of the "cultural signals" that
affect us. We take for granted, for instance, the most horrible of
evils, nuclear holocaust. Many of us, on both sides of the Iron
Curtain, would willingly push the button rather than live under the
"yoke" of the other's ideology. Of course, the capitalists are right,
and the communists are right. That is a cultural given. All
percept/products are inherently justifiable (otherwise they couldn't
exist). So, here we are with a cultural percept that "rationalizes" the
extinction of all life. Because of this, should we look for a way out
of the percept/product box? Of course we should! But, are we doing so? No!
It is better to blow up the world than live with commie
devils. The best minds in the world have brought us to this point, and
those same minds would gladly be the first to push the button if they
thought the "bad guys" would die in the process. Should we be aghast
by all this? Not in the least! Sacrifices, human or otherwise, have
been around forever. They are natural consequences of the
percept/product continuum. Some things have to be sacrificed in order
to produce the "good" and the "right"---all products of the percept/product
continuum. There is no escape from the percept/product box; Or Is There?

Fate And Karma

Instant Karma's gonna get you,
Gonna knock you off your feet,
Better recognize your brothers,
Ev'ryone you meet,
Why in the world are we here,
Surely not to live in pain and fear,
Why on earth are you there,
When you're ev'rywhere,
Come and get your share.


A Percept Is A Product
June 29, `73

Living on the beach had been more than just basking my body in the
sun. The bad vibes and constant anticipation of being beaten to death
were taking a toll on me. My natural tendency towards being
good-natured had, I'm afraid, been compromised. I couldn't even ride
my bicycle down the street (I had bought an old clunker to get me to
and from work) and keep a smile on my face. The sterile looks and
insinuating sneers from the passing motorists had wiped that customary
smile off my face. The other night, an oncoming car flicked his bright
lights off when he saw me coming. Anyplace else that act of kindness
would have gone unnoticed, but here in paradise, consideration for
others was so uncommon that I was forced to reflect on how my
environment was influencing my attitudes and behavior.

When people asked me, "Have you had any hassles living on the beach?"
I would always reply, "Not yet." They would then respond, "You must
have good karma." Karma was the easy answer. It also satisfied
rational inquiry. "Good" got rewarded and "evil" punished. I could
accept karma at face value, but that meant, positively, that I was
special, and, negatively, that Eddy (the victim) wasn't; perhaps he
was even evil. That idea was okay except for the fact that it did not
satisfy the empirical evidence. Try as I may, I could not remember my
"boy scout" past. Also, there was nothing in my experience with Eddy
that remotely suggested that he deserved punishment. There just wasn't
enough available evidence to make me believe in karma. Therefore, it
was easy for me to reject karma as an explanation for "what happened
to people."

If I rejected karma, I also had to reject fate. I suppose that I
could reinterpret fate as being the history of my actions, but to do
so meant that I had no control over my possibilities and that was a
denial of my rational intent. To believe, "what will be, will be," did
not jive with my past experience. If I had no control over my own
actions then “the intent” of altruism, regret, and compassion
became indistinguishable from acts of meanness,
violence, and torture. Fate implied an "other," and that "other"
denied personal responsibility. Excluding responsibility from my
actions was ludicrous. Therefore, I rejected fate as an explanation for
"what happened to people."

Tricky Dick Gets His Comeuppance

Talk to me Jesus Christ.
You have been brought here
Manacled, beaten by your own people.
Do you have the first idea why you deserve it?
Listen King of the Jews,
Where is your kingdom?
Look at me. Am I a Jew?
JESUS
I have no kingdom in this world.
I'm through.
There may be a kingdom for me somewhere.
If you only knew.
PILATE
Then you are a king?
JESUS
It's you that say I am.
I look for truth and find that I get damned.
PILATE
But what is truth?
Is truth a changing law?
We both have truths.
Are mine the same as yours?


Friends And Lovers Back Together Again
June 25, ‘73

In rained a lot on the other side of the island, so I moved Carol Sue,
De, and Rodney over to the Nanakuli Beach Park. Nanakuli was about ten
miles south from Keaau. Carol Sue still wanted to move back to Keaau, though.
She had changed her mind about living in Hawaii, however. She was
flying back to the mainland in a couple of weeks. I planned to leave
the island myself on Aug. 5, baring no complications. CMU hadn't come
through with all the money I needed, but by the end of the summer I
hoped to make up the difference.

Now that C.S. and her son had moved closer to Keaau, I got to spend
more time with them. I enjoyed spending time with De, C.S.'s,
girlfriend, too. Actually, the three of them were doing just fine
living on their own. On my day off, the four of us went to the Crater
Festival at Diamond Head. It was held in the center of the mountain's
long dormant volcanic crater. The festival format changed from last
year. It went from a "rock festival" to a festival celebrating
Hawaiian culture. We were one year too late to see the rock group
Santana skydive into the crater from 7000 feet up. Bummer!

After the festival we went to see Jesus Christ Super Star—the movie.
It's a very human take on Jesus (some say controversial). It made me feel
very Christian. I was beginning to feel different in another way also.
I had given up on government, but listening to the nightly news radio
broadcasts on the Watergate Hearings was making me think twice about
that. Maybe Tricky Dick was going to get his comeuppance. What a
shock! Maybe, just maybe, the democratic process-- the checks and
balances, the Constitution-- would prevail. Maybe, all the people
acting above the law would wake up to discover that "crime really
didn't pay." Wow! Did I say that! Slap my mouth! It won't happen again.

Category Of Survivalist

Help, I need somebody,
Help me, get my feet back on the ground,
Won't you please, please help me?


Thinking Through Nihilism—The Origin Of Human Nature
A Meditation Conceived While Visiting Eddy In The Hospital


Trying to solve everybody's problems left me stressed out, but I had
benefited from all the time spent in the hospital. The waiting gave me
time to rethink my philosophy.

I knew that human nature resisted every attempt at categorization, but
it bothered me that I was using a denial, a category in itself, to
deny the reality of human nature. It simply was just not possible to
live outside of circumstance. That was the given! If my circumstance
was full of violence, then I had to deal with it. When I confronted
violence, I could not act on its origin (for the most part,
ignorance), I had to act on its threat. In the mode of non-violence, I
confronted violence, and, in turn, was confronted by my own possible
annihilation. I was in the category of survivalist when I confronted
the possibility of my own demise. I could run, beg forgiveness, fight,
or scream. I had to act, though, or face extinction. It's all history
now. Caught in a violent situation, I chose to respond violently. I am
no longer ambivalent over "how I would respond.” The question
remains, however, "How can I be the category
of no category?" This is my confusion and my nausea.

I would like to pursue this project further, but it's getting late
and I must return to Eddy. Sometimes I think faster than I write and
lose thoughts and/or ideas in the process, especially when I'm tired.
This is an urgent issue for me. I am convinced that my nihilism—a
universal nihilism—is what is "real" in human nature, but, for me,
this is sometimes a difficult belief to maintain. Lacking the
socialization to do otherwise, people were predictably cruel and
violent. If I am to continue to deny human nature, I must find more
evidence to support my beliefs, or change them.

Eddy's Spleen Had Burst

All of the fighting that the king had done
to conquer all these islands
now there's condominiums
How would he feel if saw Hawaii now
How would he feel
would his smiles be content
rather then cry
cry for the gods, cry for the people
cry for the lands that were taken away
and in it you'll find Hawaii


Queens Hospital, Honolulu
June 20, `73


I was sitting in the hospital coffee shop, drinking black coffee,
trying to induce some degree of alertness. Things had been hectic. In
the last three days I had only managed a few hours of sleep. I was
living off the speed that I had scored.

Back on the beach, Eddy got really sick. He kept passing out, so we
convinced him to go to the doctor. Pua and Butch (next door beach
campers), and Gloria (Eddy's girlfriend) and myself took Eddy to a
doctor in Waipahu. The doctors in Waianae, the town closest, were
gone. Waipahu doctors sent him to Queens Hospital in Honolulu. Fifteen
minuets after arrival, he had blood plasmas running into both arms as
he was rolled into emergency surgery. Eddy's spleen had burst. During
the operation, they removed over two liters of blood from his
abdominal cavity, in addition to his spleen and appendix.

After Eddy was beaten a week ago his spleen was injured. The surgeon
told us that if we had waited till morning, the damage would have
resulted in irreversible shock. Eddy was lucky, if that was possible.
But, it was all history now. Welfare was taking over, and soon Eddy
and Gloria would find themselves someplace nice, at least until he
recovered. I was still camped at Keaau, working nights, and taking
care of business as best I could, especially with Carol Sue back on
the beach. She had been on the island for a little more than a week.

Acting on my preconceived plan, I took C.S., Rodney, and Denise (her
son and our mutual hometown friend) over to the other side of the
island. She was not happy about that location, but it was the right
thing to do. They were safer over there. Besides, in a phone
conversation before she got on the plane to come here, I had told her
what to expect. Nobody was happy, but, as far as I was concerned, that
was the way it had to be. She had to learn how to fend for herself. I
had made plans to leave the island. It was her decision to live in
Hawaii, even after I had told her I would be going back to school in
the fall. I applied for financial aid from CMU and they had come
through with some money.

Free Will And Ego

Beach Reading Continues
My Ego Becomes What I Would Be If I Could Be Myself
Keaau Beach, Hawaii

Two consequences follow from the for-itself (Sartre’s being for-itself) 1)
consciousness and belief have overlapping meanings and exist together
within knowledge; and, 2) negation and freedom form an inseparable unity.

It is impossible to separate belief from consciousness and still have
cognitive awareness. Perception, according to Sartre, is not
isolated into either consciousness or belief. These seemingly separate
mental epochs occur simultaneously. Consciousness is necessary for
belief, and belief is the "being of consciousness." My thoughts occur
and I apprehend them as occurring. In Sartre's terminology, this is my
consciousness of reflection-reflecting and/or my consciousness of
presence-to-self. Knowledge, in this sense, becomes present not only
to the for-itself, it also becomes the continuing articulation of
being-for-itself's relationship with being-in-itself. Outside of
knowledge, there is nothing—no ego. (I'll talk about that in a moment.)

Knowledge is found everywhere except in the for-itself. Worldliness,
spatiality, quantity, temporality, instrumentality, etc. arise in
consciousness as objects for the for-itself, but the for-itself can
never become a conscious object—just like a knife blade cannot cut
itself. My world is revealed through these qualifications and, in
turn, these qualifications dictate my knowledge of the world. Were it
not for the inherent nothingness of the for-itself, there would not be
a consciousness of knowledge.

Sartre has described the for-itself as the "pure reflection of non
being," and it is this negation of being which let's knowledge come
into the world. In this respect, the knower-known dichotomy is reduced
to mere fabrication, since the knower does not exist. Knowledge
occupies our consciousness as our experience—the experience of the
for-itself--encounters knowledge. The requisite condition for
knowledge is the nothingness of the for-itself. This nothingness makes
human reality possible while it remains just outside the reach of this reality.

Sartre also tells us that the ever-elusive present is a further
consequence of this negation. Our location in time, to put it mildly,
is not very precise. I am conscious of being conscious of something
other than myself, and that something is my past self. What I grasp in
self-consciousness is my past self—the self that has become
being-in-itself. But, being-in-itself is being, so it follows that
consciousness is always conscious of being. On the other hand,
consciousness—being-for-itself—is never an object of consciousness. I
have a body and I have a history; these are my objects of
consciousness. I am never, however, conscious of the for-itself's
negation-- its lack, hole, nothingness, (it makes no difference how
you say it, all are equivalent) because this negativity, for Sartre,
is the pre-condition for consciousness To Be Conscious. It is, in
fact, this pre-condition, this non-being of consciousness, which
becomes the basis for free will.

The act by which being-for-itself separates itself from its past (the
separation of being-for-itself from being-in-itself) constitutes my
freedom. This separation cuts me off from my past, but it also plops
me down in the center of freedom--a freedom that demands that I
either sink or swim. Sartre says, "existence precedes essence"—there
is no tie-up of my present with my past. I need not be determined by
my past. I am separated from it by my own nothingness. Therefore, I am
free to freely choose my future until death intervenes.

Under the weight of my own freedom, I am still able to maintain a
sense of personal identity. Sartre denies the ego as an inhabitant of
consciousness, although he grants consciousness its own personal
consciousness. Insofar as I am able to experience consciousness as
presence-to-itself, I also experience my own personal consciousness.
The annihilating act, which produces presence-to-itself, involves ego.
This ego is given to consciousness from outside of consciousness as
"the reason for consciousness." My ego becomes what I would be, if I
could be myself. It becomes one of my possibilities. It is a
transcendent possibility, though. It is not found in consciousness. It
becomes a "made to order" ego. It becomes the reason for consciousness
at the time I am conscious of consciousness. All truths, values,
psychic objects—everything that constitutes ego—get introduced to
consciousness from the world outside of consciousness, as objects for
consciousness. The ego is not the owner of consciousness;
consciousness is the owner of ego. The for-itself can never be
conscious of itself, but it is conscious (can be conscious) of a lack
of self. The "inner ego of consciousness," for Sartre, is bound up
with this nothingness and is called "being-for-itself."

To recap: Self-consciousness, or my relationship to consciousness,
brings to consciousness the pure negative of my own nothingness.
Self-consciousness denies itself a coincidence with itself. It denies
itself a coincidence with the objects of consciousness--the
consciousness-belief dyad. It is in consciousness, however, as
presence-to-itself, but it denies itself the possibility of ever
becoming fully aware of itself. Self-consciousness is its own
negativity. Thus, I am conscious of it as what I am not, as what I
lack, as a "hole" in my consciousness, as a "hole" in my very being.

The Little Guy Slammed An Iron Frying Pan Into Eddy’s Head

Keaau Beach
June 8, `73

Last night, or more specifically yesterday afternoon, six mokes
jumped Eddy. They wanted to finish the job they started a week ago.
This time Eddy got fucked over bad. All six kicked him, while
Russell's little friend took an iron frying pan and beat him over the
head. When I arrived on the scene, another beach person was bandaging
Eddy. He complained about his ribs, but he refused to see a doctor.
His hands and arms were bleeding and his knuckles were swollen to
three times their normal size. He used his arms and hands to protect
his head. When the pigs arrived, we told them what had happened. We
even pointed the mokes out to them. They had never left the beach.
After the pigs had talked to the mokes, they drove away. The mokes
also left in their truck, but not before screaming at us, "Serves you
right. Stick around and there's a lot more where that came from." The
pigs were a big help.

Truny (Gary's wife) and the kids had just moved back to the beach.
After barely escaping the flying bullets from a week ago, I had them
park their camper in the Fogcutter's parking lot. I talked my boss
into letting them park there for a few nights. We got it stretched out
into almost a week. Camping there was a lot safer than camping at the
beach. Anyway, after the Eddy thing, Truny knew she couldn't stay at
the beach, so she packed up Eddy and the chicks and moved everybody
down to Eva beach, twenty-five miles south.

I felt bad that I wasn't there to help Eddy, but I felt good that I
wasn't part of the massacre. I was only a can of ravioli and a peanut
butter sandwich away from getting beaten up myself. I had been with
Eddy just moments earlier, and then I went back to my camp for dinner.
I was really upset about what had happened. If it weren't for my job,
I would have left this damn place long ago. I was beginning to hate
beach life, especially here in the Makaha/Nanakuli area.



I had been told that I lived in the ghetto of Oahu. This area had the
largest percentage of welfare recipients, 98%, and more homicides and
shootings than any other place on the island, (maybe all the islands,
96.6%). The Vikings did not fight to live; they lived to fight.
Apparently, it was the same here, with the one big exception that here
a good fight was six to one in favor of the mokes.

The ignorance in this area was rampant; grade school level at best. I
say this not to ridicule the intelligence of the people, but to try
and understand the nature of their violence. You couldn't talk to
ignorance. You either avoided it or controlled it. I had been
witnessing human behavior at its functioning level—if you couldn't
understand something, you destroyed it. Prejudice was instinctive
here. I'm sorry I can't say anything redeeming about the mokes, it's
just that I haven't found anything redeeming to say, unless you call
the heightened sense of "life in battle" redeeming.

On an even more ridiculous note, I just received word from Carol Sue
that she was returning to Hawaii. She was bringing her girlfriend,
Denise, and six-year-old son with her. Apparently, the three of them
plan on settling here. I wish them luck. They will need it. I pity her
son, who will have to attend school as a haulie.

Eddy Took The Belt Buckle To The Chin

Saving The Girls
Keaau Beach

I was standing next to Tim, watching the whole sordid scene unfold.
Eddy was trying hard to get the mokes to leave. The big one, around
6'2, 225 lbs, had taken off his belt and was swinging the buckle end
at Eddy. I didn't know what to do. Poor Eddy wouldn't fight; he was
doing his best to survive, though. My sense of fair play made it easy
for me to sit on the sidelines. Inside, though, I was feeling
terribly vexed. Eddy got hit a couple of times, still he wouldn't
fight. He just kept backing away. When the buckle caught him on the
chin, almost knocking him to the ground, the moke moved in for the
kill. Eddy spun around and grabbed the belt. It was a tug of war then.
Eddy kept screaming, "I won't fight you! I won't fight you!" The other
moke, now seeing his chance, attacked Eddy.

Tim and I just stood there. I had never been in a real fight before.
In that moment of truth, though, I stepped in and threw a tackle on
the big moke. Unfortunately, I threw a poor tackle. The big guy didn't
go down. I was clinging to one of his legs when he looked down at me
and said, "You want some too." "No," I replied, "but what's fair about
two against one." He shook his leg, and a moment later I found myself
fending off punches and kicks. That was the time for "my savage
animal" to break through. That was the time, but it didn't happen.
Instead, I took a kick in the crotch. I was reduced to a heap on the
ground as the moke turned his attention back to Eddy.

It was getting ugly when Gary showed up. Nobody knew Gary very well.
He, his wife, and kids, parked their homemade camper in the beach
parking lot at night. In the morning, they would drive away, and
repeat the process at night. On that particular night Gary must have
been aroused by all the commotion because just when help was most
needed, he came storming out the back of the van. He grabbed the
smaller moke and proceeded to beat the crap out of him. Gary was small
himself, but it was obvious he knew how to fight. Eddy still wouldn't
fight. I couldn't believe it. (If he had fought, he would have beaten
the moke, I was sure of it.) The fighting came to a halt, or should I
say the beating came to a stop, when Eddy pulled the belt from the
moke's hand and threw it twenty yards down the beach. Gary still had
the smaller moke pinned face down in the dirt. Tim remained a
spectator throughout, but his presence, along with Eddy, Gary, and me
(I was know standing) was too much for the mokes. They left, but not
before screaming that they would be back.

Eddy and I were still nursing our adrenalin high when the return of
the mokes surprised us. This time there were three of them and
Russell, the large one, carried a .22 caliber rifle. They walked up to
the campfire and wanted to know where Gary had gone. We told them Gary
left the beach. Actually, Gary was on his way back to his van when the
mokes approached the campfire. He saw what was happening and got in
his van and took off. The mokes ran after him. The smaller one was
able to reach the van and jump on the rear bumper. When Gary turned
onto the highway, he was thrown to the ground. Russell shot twice at
the truck before all three of them piled into their truck and took off
after the van. As soon as they left, Eddy and I went to the emergency
phone and called the police. An hour later the police showed up and
brought with them the good news that Gary and his family were safe.
Gary pulled into a gas station where there was a cop inside buying a
pack of cigarettes. The cops didn't catch the mokes, though.

That night I went to work without sleep. When I left work the next
morning I couldn't talk. The violence from the night before had scared
me so much that the lump in my throat never went away. When I arrived
back at the beach, I found that Eddy had taken his tent and the girl's
tent, down to the opposite end of the park. I stayed put. It would
have taken too much work to move anyway. Tim also stayed. Last night,
I learned something about myself. I had learned that I would fight if
I had to (my sore throat wouldn't let me forget that lesson), and, in
the name of non-violence, I would never take a beating like Eddy did.

Eddy To The Rescue

Blending In With The Locals
Keaau Beach, Hawaii

There were so many incidents involving locals attacking transient
beach campers that I knew, for whatever reasons, I had "lady luck" on
my side. As far as having something of value, though, you'd have to be
pretty poor to find a "prize" in my tent. Having nothing to lose
probably had something to do with my not getting mugged. A more
substantial reason, however, had to do with my own "local look."

At the Cornet Store where I worked, the locals knew me as the store
janitor. After that, I was lucky enough to get a better job at the
Fogcutter bar and restaurant, which was located close to the
Cornet store. In fact, one time on a busy weekend at the beach, the
cashier lady from my old job saw me being "bad mouthed" by one of the
locals. She promptly screamed, "Hey. Leave him alone. He works for
me." After that, some of the locals even flashed me welcoming smiles.
It felt good to be included.

Before Carol Sue went back to the mainland, I was always on my
guard. The most probable cause for hostilities was a mix of male egos
with unattached women. That was what provoked last night's situation
anyway. When Eddy's friends arrived from Olympia in the afternoon, I
hardly had been introduced before I went to bed. I had to go to work
at 1 a.m., so I crashed about 6 p.m. After I went to sleep, Russell,
a local, and his friend, sat down and drank a couple beers with Eddy,
Tim Terrific, and the chicks. The neighborhood locals had been doing
glue (sniffing) all day. When the chicks went to bed, and Eddy and Tim went back
to their respective tents, the boys decided they wanted to fuck, so
they just hopped on the screaming girls. Eddy was the first on the scene.
He immediately tried talking the dudes out of raping the girls.
Words were useless; it was like talking to cement. The interrupted
dudes went to plan B, their next favorite pastime, fighting.
Light complexioned Eddy, with his long blond hair,
shone like a candle in the dark as he tried to calm the hardly
visible mokes. Eddy didn't believe in violence, but under the
circumstances, he did his best to fend off punches and kicks while
screaming at the mokes to leave.

Underbelly Of Paradise

While searching the internet for beach pictures of Oahu’s west side (the picture above was a hit), I ran across this 2010 comment concerning the closing of Keaau beach. Based on my 1973 west side experience of the island, I’d have to say that the more things change the more they stay the same. Here’s the quote:

“The west side just isn't safe anymore PERIOD. Most that don't live there know to leave that side before it gets dark... I don't bother to surf on that side, as I don't want my car broken into, or to get into a fight with someone that has nothing better to do all day than be a punk. It's very sad that most of the more pure blooded Hawaiians live on the west side, and this is how they are perceived, as chronic, violent, under educated, homeless savages. This coming from a Hawaiian, it's very sad!”

Beach Scum
June 6 `73
Keaau, Beach

I have just experienced one of the disadvantages of living on the
beach. Last night two mokes tried to rape the Olympia, Washington
girls who had come to Hawaii and were camping next to Eddy. I can't
say that I was surprised. On a number of occasions, the "locals" had
beaten-up and/or molested "haulies" (me and other whites'). It started
with Ralf and his friend. They got mugged and robbed at gunpoint.
Fortunately, Ralf's girlfriend wasn't with him at the time. They were
the only Michigan beach people I had met. After the incident, they
moved off the beach and into a house. At the grocery store not long
ago, I ran into Ralf, and he told me moving off the beach wasn't the
answer. He woke up one morning and found his two dogs, Keoki and Toad
(two of the cutest mutts imaginable) dead on his front lawn. They had
their throats slit.

Bud, a friend of mine, was beaten up too. He was a skinny, blond
haired artist from Houston. He could paint anything, and he did it
very quickly. He worked part time at a small art gallery in Makaha.
For looking after the gallery he got to paint and sell his paintings,
compliments of the guy who owned the place. He was doing pretty well,
too. In fact, I figured he was only a month or two away from making it
big time when he got mugged and robbed. Two of his fingers were
deliberately broken. His income pretty much dried up after that. He
went back to Texas.

The incidents with Ralf and Bud happened away from the beach. When
Bob and Mime got robbed just thirty yards down the beach from where
Carol Sue and I were camping, I grew a bit more apprehensive. Then
John and Jo, the couple camping right next to us, were robbed at
gunpoint. One of the robbers wanted to rape Jo, but was called off by
the guy holding the gun. Just before Carol Sue left the island for
home, someone stole her camera and my jacket from out of our tent.
Obviously, C.S. and I got off lightly!