On November 11, 2020, Veteran's Day, or the preferred, Armistice
Day, Joe posted some great pictures of Dad from his tour in the Marshall
Islands during WWII. Dad was drafted in 1943, shortly after his baby
daughter, Charlen, was born. I am sure that mixed feeling consumed him a
bit, going off to a foreign land with a bunch of other young men from around
the country. As a headline to these photos, Joe wrote,
Happy Veteran's Day . . . . WW2 Marshall Islands 735th Platoon. My dad's Marine service pics.
For the 4th of July
weekend, 1985, I drove with Carmela, her boyfriend, Kathy Braidhill, and a
couple of other folks from Arcadia down Interstate 5 through San Diego, across the border,
past Rosarito Beach, and into Ensenada where our hotel was. We parked,
unloaded our bags, got refreshed, and went out for dinner. We ate shrimp and lobster, Carmela's anticipated meal along a coastal dining hall. After dinner,
we walked out onto the beach. Remember, the 4th of July is no Mexican
holiday. So it was only us a few other Americans southside lighting off
fireworks on the beach. A Mexican soldier was patrolling the beach,
checking on just such incidents to keep the celebrations of Americans down to a
minimum. But the
Papa's and Beer was famous back in the 1980s for a wild place to drink. They have restaurants all over, but one in Rosarito Beach and one in Ensenada. I visited the one in Ensenada. I finally made it down there, not to drink per se, but to just see the place and wonder what all the buzz was about. It was mainly about and for drinkers. It didn't interest me, but I was glad that I made it there.
Thirty years later, it still looks the same.
That certainly was not the main attraction of that vacation, not by a damn sight. For me, it was the return trip north out of party-central Ensenada to a gorgeous cliffside restaurant and bar. It may have been in Azul Punto or Blue Point. What was beautiful about that place was that we had dinner on a cliffside deck built out of the rock, about three tiers of cliffs below the main floor and banquet room above. The six of us sat at a redwood bench overlooking the Pacific Ocean. It was late afternoon, and we had a 180° view of the ocean from 4pm to 7pm. Upstairs indoors they had a DJ and a dance floor. It was the ideal hangout for 20-something Americans. The dance hall had French doors wide open and a few sheer white curtains on the doors that caught the breeze and made the setting enchanting. For a young man, it was luxurious. First, we had a pitcher of margaritas between the 6 of us. Then tacos and nachos flowed. Then we saw a pod of whales with many blowing a water spout. The view of the ocean seemed magazine-like as the sun began to drop over the horizon with the margaritas taking effect and casting tranquility over the scene as the whales headed north up the coast. It was too good. And one song Kathy and I danced to upstairs was Julian Lennon's, "Too Late to Say Goodbye," (1985). I didn't think much of the song when I heard it on the radio while driving to work or on the way home, but in that restaurant, in her presence, the song ignited a violent war between the promise of pleasure and desertion. The wind, my movement on the dance floor, my movement to the song, and my basking in the airy elevated room helped me to forget momentarily the desertion that seemed inescapable.
