Lobster Boil

From the Log . . .

We had one very ruckus evening at Rosa Rita Beach in Lower California. Harvey Craig and his wife came down from Pasadena to see us and we decided to go down to Rosa Rita Beach, get some lobsters, and have a lobster boil on the beach. Time passes very rapidly when plans of this kind are being made. We later found ourselves in the Hotel Cortes in the Craig’s room, where we had a couple of more drinks.

They had not brought any beach clothes, so that they had to go out and buy beach clothes which they did in a rather alcoholic fashion and ended up in a most amusing and fancy costumes that you could imagine.

We did not arrive in Tijuana until about 4:00 o’clock and could not find any lobsters except those that we bought, at a very high price, in one of the best restaurants in Tijuana. The way we were feeling at that time, after a few bottles of Tequila and a case of beer in the car did not make much difference.

We then went down to the beach at Rosa Rita, getting there at almost dusk. The fire wood was hard to find, but that did not seem to make much difference to us, in our attitude of gaiety and with the profusion of beer, tequila and other alcoholic spirits that were brought. We finally got our fire going, boiled up in a big wash tub, the lobsters that we had, wrapped some potatoes in foil paper and put them in the coals and finally sat down to a mixture of beer and tequila, lobsters so hot that they burnt your hands and potatoes so burnt that you could hardly recognize them as potatoes. This did not seem to matter, at this point to the group at all. We laughed and sang, and had a big time as silly people will under such a condition.

On the way home, Mrs. Craig was about the only one that could drive properly, in her car, and Mr. Vaughn drove his car. There was a bottle or so of tequila left over and a number bottles of beer that Ray Jonsson fortunately put in the back of the car in which we were riding. We did not know that it was there, or we would have thrown it out before we got to the border. However, when we got to the boarder and said that we had purchased nothing to bring back to the states, he waved us on and we went right through.

Mr. Vaughn was certain that we would be caught by the officials and waited around about 20 or 30 minutes and finally decided to go on home where we met them later.

Back to the present:

Hmm, I'm reading David Carr's Memoir "The Night of the Gun" subtitled: 'A reporter Investigates the Darkest Story of His Life, His Own'.

At one point in the narrative, he muses about what value there can be in another memoir about drug addiction. In the wake of the nonfiction/fiction memoir 'A Million Little Pieces', David Carr attempts to turn the glare of a journalist's light on his own past. He eloquently questions the role of memory and hope in life. The possible role that memory and myth play in an addicts telling of his own story.

In Dr. Holcomb's case, there is no doubt. He was an alcoholic. It is what killed him. I was living with my Grandmother (his second wife) at the time, attending UC Berkeley.

These are his journal entries, dictated to Marilyn (his third wife), who typed them up in the next port of call. So each entry is told from the perspective of recollection after a short sea passage. Although I call it a log, it is actually a journal. The sea logs of Landfall II are out there. The set from the 1937 trip to the south seas with my Mother, her Sister and my Grandmother are in my mother's possession, and the ones from the circumnavigation are in the hands of one of Marilyn's relatives.

What has struck me as I read "The Night of the Gun" is the role that social interaction plays in addiction. There is a chapter that stuns me, about the social support between addicts, who has the goods, who's holding? Sharing when there is enough, supporting each other to promote sharing when there isn't.

My Grandfather was always described as a charismatic character, but there was always drink nearby. The parties were legendary. The social scene surrounding them huge.

After asking to see the 1937-38 sea logs, I asked my Mom how she remembered Grandfather. Her reply was that she was always afraid of him. "He was the master of the silent treatment" she said. For such a charismatic, social man to not talk to you, to ignore you completely, that was scary for her, she explained.

She's known in the SF bay sailing community and has a story of her own. 'MOM's Racing Team' was a fixture at Richmond Yacht Club from the 70's to the 90's She would 'adopt' young racing sailors and induct them into her own 'hall of fame', handing them T-shirts with their class emblem, and Mom's slogan:

MOM's Racing Team: Powered by Guilt

But I can picture Grandfather on the beach with Marilyn, south of the border, drunk and happy, the life of the party. The last time I saw him, I think I was about 14. He was committed to what I think of as an insame asylum the next year, and died 7 years later, still committed. Marilyn had moved on and remarried.

I'd intended this post to be about the 9/27/2008 YRA race, and the entry of the Maltese Falcon into SF Bay on that day during the race.

When I transcribed the journal entry above, then read certain chapters of Carr's narrative, the events of the 'Lobster Boil' from my Grandfather's journal, and the events of the YRA race just don't belong together.

I think I'll post that another time, out of sequence, but not out of importance. That YRA race was more fun than a frolic on a beach, and without the substance abuse.

I'm not judgemental about this. I'll always admire my Grandfather. His memory, both in life and in death, is what keeps me firmly in the grip of the addiction of sailing, and away from the grip of the 'attitude of gaiety and with the profusion of beer, tequila and other alcoholic spirits'.

Because of him, I'll always choose the natural high, most often with the taste of saltwater in my face.