Finding Rosie

This is a work of fiction, and names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

Dedicated in loving memory to Marge and Burt Millen, both of whom helped me in so many ways over the years. And to all the proud women of Olongapo City who gave of their love and lives while maintaining their dignity, during the Vietnam war era.

Foreword:

I began writing this book after returning home from service in 1972 and continued working on it on and off over the years. Originally it only consisted of what is now Part 2, and the other parts started as short stories for whatever writing class I happened to be in at the time.

FIRST PUBLISHED IN 2017, this revision was completed in September of 2024.

Contents:

Prologue: The Sea, The Waves, and the Fish

Part One: (1973) California

Part Two: (1969-1971) In the P.I.

Part Three: (1969-1971) Flora, (Little Ed’s tale)

Part Four: (1973) The Old Man in the Restaurant

Afterword

Prologue : The Sea, The Waves, and The Fish

The dark sky was heavy with smog and humidity in the pre-dawn hour, making it difficult to breathe. Paul Sutton knew the sun would make the smog seem worse later in the day, but as he waited in the driveway of his parent's house, he felt his excitement grow.

This is my last great adventure, he thought. It was late August of 1966, and he’d graduated from High School two months earlier. In a few weeks, he would need to begin taking college classes, and after that he would be too busy working weekends and maybe nights too, just to pay for books and registration, and there wouldn’t be much time left over for surfing, if any. But without attending college full-time he’d be drafted for sure. Which was too shitty to imagine. Two of his surfing friends, only a year or so older than Paul, had been drafted in May and were already suffering through Army boot camp up in Fort Ord. Paul couldn’t imagine having his head shaved and being screamed at for six weeks, much less fighting in the damn war. He didn’t understand or even care about that stupid fucking war in Vietnam. Well, he supposed, I may have more adventures in the future, but for now staying out of the draft was important. Enjoy this while you can, he told himself, echoing his father's words.

Now, in the fading darkness came two small dim yellow-white headlights, bouncing their weak beams off the pavement and barely illuminating the overhanging trees as they approached, the thin whine of the engine and gears sounding loud in the quiet darkness so that he knew it was Don Frank in his white Volkswagen bus.

The van pulled up in front of the house and in the darkness, they loaded his surfboard on the roof rack next to Don’s The two boys looked at one another in the darkness.

You ready, Sutton?

Paul laughed. With the radio playing softly, and the heater warming their feet, they were off. It wasn’t until they were well out of town and heading south on the long and at this hour lonely and exciting Pacific Coast Highway, that the sun began to rise, spreading its golden glow and promising warmth across the city of Los Angeles. The clouds began to clear, and it promised to be another perfect California day. As the sun rose higher the VW van caught the sun, throwing reflections at cars headed north. They reached San Diego County after driving through the towns along the coast, mostly avoiding the new freeway. They headed into the neighborhood of Ocean Beach for some breakfast at the Village Townhouse on Newport Avenue. The surf looked small and bumpy as they drove by the beach, where they paused briefly in surprise when they saw the construction derricks setting concrete pilings for a new pier.

Don Frank often stayed in OB with his aunt during the summer months. He lived with his father in Santa Monica during the school year, attending the same high school as Paul, which was how they’d met and become friends. But he lived in OB during the summers, and since high school was over, he was planning to move here permanently. He’d often told Paul that it was a more laid-back place, and not as hectic as Santa Monica and L.A.

But the little beach town just seemed funky to Paul. Even though he’d been here a few times before with Don, and knew there were some good surf breaks, he didn’t think he’d want to live here.

Baja only looked dry and brown at first, but once they got past the streets of Tijuana and into the country things looked greener. They rolled down the front windows and Paul took off his T-shirt.

I can’t wait to get out in the water, said Don Frank.

Me too, and I hope there’s some surf, answered Paul.

He hadn’t been to Baja before, but Don had made several visits with his father. His dad didn’t surf but he liked to camp and fish, and truly that was the only meaningful time Don ever spent with his dad. His parents were divorced, but he seldom mentioned his mother.

Yeah, you’re gonna dig this pointbreak, man. It’s a secret spot and never gets crowded. Awesome right-hand tubes! Don said, laughing his funny laugh, almost a cackle.

Well, if it’s breaking, that’ll be worth the trip, Paul said, looking out the window at the changing scenery.

How much longer? he asked.

We’re almost to Ensenada, and it’s not too far after that.

I guess I’ll take a nap then.

Paul put his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. The sun was warm on his face, it felt good, and he felt his body relaxing. But he couldn’t sleep right away. Instead, his mind swam with thoughts and pictures. He tried visualizing the surf where they were headed and hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed. Then a mental picture came unbidden—blue eyes, blonde hair, and soft white skin, with lots of brown little freckles. Mary. His high school sweetheart. Gone to Colorado. Would he ever see her again? He tried putting her out of his mind, but her image remained, and he could almost smell her clean scent. The sun grew red inside his eyelids and with the van’s soothing motion, his thoughts were soon fading away.

Here we are! exclaimed Don Frank.

Paul awoke startled. He gazed around as if he were lost, and then saw the small cove and the long rocky point coming into view below them. They drove slowly down a winding dirt road, and as his awareness of where he was and that he’d been sleeping came to him, he laughed.

After paying a few dollars for a camping spot, they settled in before taking a stroll across the rocky shore to the water's edge. The tide was out and no waves were breaking over the exposed reefs.

Bitchin', said Don Frank.

Later they sat in the back of the van with the side door open facing the golden-red sunset. The sand was gold in the glow of the sun, which made a bright path of orange and gold in the middle of the ocean out to the horizon. They ate sandwiches they’d brought from home, drinking Colas and smoking cigarettes, the smoke curling up slowly in the windless air. The sea was nearly silent.

We probably should have gone somewhere up north, said Don.

There probably isn’t any swell hitting up there either, said Paul.

Hmm. Maybe we should have just stayed home.

With college starting, I’d go nuts.

Hmm, said Don.

You can never tell about the waves.

The tide will be high in the morning.

Yeah, we have to wait and see.

Yeah.

Maybe we could go into town and get drunk, said Paul.

We don’t have enough money for that, Don said. Then he added, But there’s a little market back up the hill there near the turn-off. We could walk up there and maybe get some beer or wine.

Okay.

So, what’re you taking in college, Sutton?

Liberal Arts, man. You need 15 units a semester to get a deferment.

Don nodded thoughtfully.

My Dad says I should take math and science stuff. He thinks computers will be the next big thing.

Yeah, I’ve heard that too, but I also heard it’s gonna be plastics.

They both laughed, thinking of The Graduate movie.

What about you, Don? Aren’t you worried you’ll get drafted?

Nah, not really. My uncle says he can get me on a list for the Navy Reserves.

Yeah? What’s that about?

Instead of being drafted into the Army or Marines and sent off to fight in the jungle, you get to be on a ship and travel the world for two years. But it also means doing one weekend a month for a year or two.

That sounds cool. Paul wasn’t sure what his parents or his girlfriend would think of him if he didn’t go to college.

Anyway, said Don Frank, I think we’ll have a year or so before we gotta worry.

When their colas were gone, they felt warm and sleepy. They walked down to the water to relieve themselves, pissing into the sand and rocks. They put their feet in the water to let it wash over their ankles and then crawled into their sleeping bags to fall asleep inside the van. Later, in the middle of the night, Paul awoke to the crashing sound of heavy surf, but thinking it was a dream, he turned over and went back to sleep.

✽✽✽

The morning came cold and wet with damp heavy fog. Paul came awake as if he had not been sleeping, and somehow, he knew it was near 7 o’clock. He sat up in his sleeping bag and tried to look through the rear window of the van. The sight of the fog outside made him feel cold. He looked over at Don, a big lump in his green sleeping bag. Paul crawled out of his bag and stepped quietly out of the van’s sliding door. The sound of heavy surf was making his stomach churn, and the cold dampness made him nervous. He knew he couldn’t go back to sleep and decided to wake his friend.

What? Don croaked, his head still buried in his sleeping bag.

"Surf’s up, man, but I can’t see shit out there, it’s so foggy.

So they stood listening to waves they couldn’t see, imagining them wrapping in around the rocky point, their slick green faces curling into white foam. Soon, and without another word, they were tugging on their summer wetsuits. A light breeze began as they paddled out, sitting up on their knees to stay dry as long as possible. The fog was clearing with the breeze, and Paul could hardly believe the first wave he saw, impossibly perfect, like something out of a machine. Don was yelling something, but Paul couldn’t hear his words. He was neither cold nor tired now but filled instead with the mix of excitement and fear that was surfing at its best.

Damn! Did you see that sucker!

Here comes another one!

Mine! Don Frank called unnecessarily, and sitting back on his board, he swung the nose around towards the shore, and Paul soon heard the hissing his board made as he dropped down the face.

Then it was Paul’s turn as another perfect swell formed green and glassy, and he caught it with only a few strokes, dropping straight down and off the bottom back up into the wave’s face. He stepped forward on the board, picking up speed. He would need it. He could see the lip of the wave beginning to break far ahead of him. He didn’t want to wipe out and swim on his first wave, but he took a chance. Crouching low to center his gravity, he sped under the breaking curl. He put his hands out in front of him and watched the slick vertical wall on his right begin to snap and spit over his head and shoulders and felt spray hitting his arms. He squeezed his eyes almost shut and left it to fate, thinking he wasn’t going to make it. Then he was gliding out on the soft shoulder of the wave, into the clear water, and he could see the rocky bottom, and he turned out of the wave, dropping onto his belly to paddle out for another.

✽✽✽

That evening, as the sun was setting, Paul and Don again sat in the back of the van with the doors open. They shivered in the cool breeze with their wet hair slick and shiny in the orange sunlight. They had just come out of the water for the third time today and were sorely tired and very happy. This was what they’d come for, much better than they’d dared hope.

If it’s that good tomorrow, I’m staying out all day! Paul declared with a grin.

Yeah, not even for lunch? Don spoke with a sarcastic tone but he was also grinning.

Hey, we ate those sandwiches today and I almost fell asleep!

Hah!

Those waves were so fucking perfect!

I know. Did you see that nose ride I got? Outasight! I got all five toes over on that wave.

Paul nodded approval.

Yeah, I was getting tubed on every wave, it was so perfect out there. And we have it all to ourselves, man! Thanks for bringing me down here, buddy! he said, playfully punching Don’s shoulder.

Sure, said Don, grinning.

Paul sighed loudly. Now I’m beat. Let’s eat and crash.

What should we eat? I’m sick of peanut butter.

Yeah, today deserves something better, Paul said. Let’s walk up to that store you mentioned.

They put on their tennis shoes, Levi’s, and long-sleeved sweatshirts and were soon walking up the long hill toward the highway. As they walked along an old man in a brown Ford pick-up truck with a white camper shell on its back stopped to offer them a ride. The man mentioned he was also staying in their camp, planning to fish off the rocky point. He had camped here many times before and told them he knew of a good place to eat, which was where he was headed now.

The little open-air shack called an enremada, where the old man took them was bright and warm and smelled of fried fish and beer.

Don Frank told the old man they would have driven their van but were saving gas for the drive home.

I understand, the old man said, his blue eyes twinkling.

Paul wondered how old he was and where he was from. He didn’t have an accent, but his truck had Baja plates.

They each had a thick rolled burrito, stuffed with shredded cabbage, Mexican cheese, fried green chilis, beans, and pork. They tasted excellent.

Have you had much luck fishing? asked Paul.

Well, I haven’t the same luck with my fishing as you boys seemed to have had with the waves today. You were out there a long time. I saw you after the fog began to clear.

Well, when the waves are really good like that, you can’t get enough, Paul told him.

Don Frank drank his beer, nodding his agreement.

Maybe I’ll catch something tomorrow, a halibut or some tuna. I only one or two big fish, and I’ll be satisfied.

Surfing is different. You get one really good wave, it seems like that would be enough, but it never is, ‘cause when you’re out there, after one good wave, you just want another one! He laughed.

Oh, I thought maybe it had something to do with the size, with how big the wave is, said the old man.

Well, yeah, but for us it’s more about the rides.

After dinner, the old man drove the boys back to camp. They thanked him and told him they’d watch for him tomorrow and then crawled happily into their sleeping bags.

✽✽✽

The next morning was the same, except there was no fog, only a gray overcast sky which made the glassy sea look the same gray as itself. The large kelp beds outside of the surf line were dark green and moved slowly in the swells, rising and falling. Paul awoke and saw that Don was sound asleep and decided not to wake him. He stepped quietly out of the van and seeing the perfect waves, decided he’d go out alone. Don will wake up soon enough, he thought.

The water was cold. Paul lay flat on his belly and paddled out quickly with strong deep strokes of his arms. He thought maybe the waves looked slightly smaller today, and not as consistent. As he paddled, he saw the old man sitting out on the rocks to his right, his fishing line in the water, and waved at him. The old man waved back in return.

Paul sat in the water and watched the swells as they formed up outside in the kelp beds and grew as they pushed into the shallower water of the reef under him.