The Girl from Garberville

Not too long ago, just past the two-year anniversary of 9/11, I received a telephone call from an old friend who had long since abandoned the congestion of La Jolla and moved to points north toward the Oregon border. A well-respected surfer, an avid free-diver, and an aficionado of the "Weed." As a matter of school record, when he was attending La Jolla High School in the mid 90s, he had a dog named "Weed."

 

 

Weed
the faithful "Weed", waiting for his friend

You ask, and I asked, why name a dog "Weed"? The answer I received and which I relay to you was that when the little fellow was just beginning to teeth, he came upon a baggie which he proceeded to shred and devour. You ask, and I asked, why is this dog a part of the school record? The forthcoming answer was that his dog used to follow him to school and when he was in class, he would sit and wait for him to depart those hallowed grounds in the early afternoon. Naturally, the vice-principal of the school took note of the dog's presence and became acquainted with the dog by name. The vice-principal would know when neither he nor the dog made an appearance at the school on Nautilus Street. The administrator would then know that a large swell must be working the beaches and the truants were now keeping classes at the school on the Pacific Ocean.

the Long Board
The northern California big board for staying above the cool water and Sharks.

About the turn of the century, he migrated from the Mexican border town of San Diego to the Oregon border town of which I will not name, but it is in the triangle formed by Weaverville and Eureka and the border. He was readily familiar with the area, having family and relations and vacations in the surrounding communities. Dunsmuir was a family vacation spot. His father had originally come from there and his family had frequently vacationed at Mt. Shasta as he grew up. Family reunions were held in the shadow of the mountain. His older sister had played Juliet at the Ashland Shakespeare festival in the early nineties. He was well-acquainted with the area and surfed most of the breaks before he graduated from high school down south.

the Sticker
surfboard decal set under glass above stringer - from local manufacturer

Homegrown surfboards from the laid-back locals of the California Coastal Cabal were part of his quiver when he surfed in San Diego. But down south he rode mostly short boards, between 6' to 7'6". Up north he turned more soul, more length, more mellow with long flowing moves. He allowed his hair to flow longer. Quit shaving and grew out a soft beard, similiar to the one drawn on the Christ-man.

After his move up north, he rented a small house along the seashore and took up farming in the mountains. He had a green thumb and his first northern crop, picked in late September of 2000, was well received by his clients. He made some coin.

woman
the source of income

And he met a girl. The Lady from Garberville. She was the chronological age as him - 25. But she did not surf or swim too much in the sea. Her latent tastes were more toward the so-called "finer things in life." Her mate before him was now serving seven to fifteen in Pelican Bay on a manslaughter charge. Something about a drug rip-off. These were facts my friend discovered in 2003.

Sometime after that he called for his lawyer - Me.

woman
the source of nourishment

Noted above are some of the attributes which drew him to the Lady from Garberville.

He had been living with her for about three years, first in an old logging cabin, then, as the coin turned to paper money, the foreman of the logging company's crib, and finally, into the old mansion of the former owner of the logging company. My friend had progressed in the material things of Life. His skill as a developer of the fine bud were well documented by his friends and fellow industry-workers.

The DEA loved to bust his bud, because they gave them the cleanest, purest high. Of course, he had friends in the local constabulary, so bad things never came down on him more than once.

His Lady, formerly the Lady of the Felon, had also been carnally acquainted with the head of the local Sheriff's unit. Sort of like John Kennedy sleeping with one of the mob's mistresses. Sheriff didn't seem to care, as apparently he had several women stashed throughout the county, not suspecting that his wife of fifteen summers had full knowledge of his bevy of beauties. "Bevy of Beauties" being a hackneyed expression really not applicable to your typical country girl, but beauty is, after all, in the eyes of the beholder.

After I was called up to the north country, I did meet the Lady from Garberville--and I can attest that she was indeed, a Beauty.

Anway, I got a call from my friend in the middle of an autumn night, his hushed voice in whispers, and in the background a voice screaming like a wild cat and the intermittent sound of thunder from the sky. I was half-asleep, with my eyes closed, and I saw all these images as he whispered to me.

"You got to get up here man, I will pay your fare and fees."

"What's wrong?" Screeching of the cat.

"No time to talk. My banker will call you early tomorrow. You won't believe this one." Distant thunder.

Click goes the telephone line. I had been a lawyer since 1973, divorces, child molest, domestic abuse, armed robbery, contruction defects, landlord-tenant disputes, prostitution, elder abuse---seen it all, a witness to it all, so why wouldn't I believe this one? I fell back to sleep, the sleep of the been there, done that. It would be my last decent sleep for several weeks to come.

{This is a work in progress, so come back in a short while to peruse the page.}
Remember, we are in Mexican time.


 

 

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