May 24 , 2003

The Head of Apo¹

In honor of my best friend Raul (who unlike Donny is alive and well).

Long before the Spanish Conquistadores arrived there was a village on the southwest coast of the island of Luzon.  In his youth the village leader had organized the defense of his area and successfully driven pirates back into the sea and warlike tribes back into the hills.

The leader was known only as Apo.

Apo had a long reign and the village lived in peace. This peace came to an end when a plague afflicted men, women, and children of the village.  From every Nipa hut weeping and wailing could be heard, while medicine men consulted one another about a cure and in desperation offered animal sacrifices in the hope of appeasing the spirits that were the cause of this plague.  The sacrifices continued until no more animals could be spared.  The plague grew worse and no one was strong enough to hunt for wild animals or brave enough, for the enemies of the village were now aware of its inhabitants' weakened condition and were ready to strike.

The few brave young men who ventured into the forest were never seen again.

Apo knew, even though he was now an old man, that he would have to do something, even sacrifice himself to insure survival of his people.  When the venerable Apo began his departure from the village, a boy from the crowd of onlookers grabbed him by his arm and implored him not to go.

“You are an old man,” said the boy. “You will surely die.” “All of us will,” said Apo.

Then he took the boy by the hand and led him away from the people toward the forest, stopped and said, “Look at that fallen tree.  Once it was mighty and tall.  What has happened since?”

After a while the boy said, “Other trees grew and took its place.”

So it is.  Farewell and may you be like one of those trees.  The next morning Apo did not return, as expected, from the forest.  Nor did he return the following day or the day after.  The villagers waited and waited until they could no longer tolerate his absence.  During the intervening time many of the sick villagers regained their health.  Had Apo offered a sacrifice that was acceptable?

A search party was organized and a headless body was found.  The village men no longer feared the elusive enemy and conducted a determined search to find out who was responsible for taking advantage of their village during the plague and the head of the headless body.

The effort to locate the head proved futile.  Yet the boy whom Apo conversed last with before his disappearance vowed to continue the search.

While in a bamboo grove less than a half hour walk from the village, the boy came upon the head of Apo, impaled upon a bamboo pole.  Terrified, the boy ran back to the village, exclaiming while out of breath, “Ulo-ng-Apo! Ulo-ng-Apo . . .”²

The story was repeated and passed onto generation after generation until eventually the locale became known as Olongapo.

May 5 , 2003

Part VII - The End of the Endless Summer - Don Laing 1952 - 1984

Most of the structural and hull repair work that Donny was so good at was completed by late summer.  Port San Luis was almost void of any craft in the boatyard and the semi-protected harbor was dotted with boats.

The owners that were devastated by last winter's storms were back enjoying the peak of the sailing season.   Donny had sold his 25' day-sailer Cerci, for reasons unknown to me.  I think his obsessive use of his American Express Card may have been a factor, but he was one never to let on of any financial difficulties.

He said he wanted to spend more time with Jules in Santa Barbara, but I suspected he was really looking for the next big job.  The easy money from the storm's rage had made life comfortable for us all.  Of course we plowed through our temporary fortunes just about as fast as we made them.  It was becoming all too clear that the money trail was coming to a dead end.  We just didn't know when.

Yvette and I continued to live at Donny's SLO bungalow and had work to complete on a large wooden motor yacht owned by a guy named Marty.  Marty was cashing in the the construction of the nuclear plant as a mid-level manager that was paid overtime.  As the plant was plagued by protesters and lawsuits, and years behind schedule, Marty would gladly work 90 hours a week to support the repair of his motor yacht.  His plan was to milk all the money he could from the construction job until it ended.  Then start a charter fishing business with his newly refurbished yacht. 

Rumors were that Marty had a little illicit sales business on the side -- and that is how he really financed the restoration of his yacht. This was, after all, the sizzling eighties and 5,000 construction workers had far more money than they needed to send back to the wife and family when payroll was issued every Friday night.

Don considered Marty's boat a piece of trash, but gladly took his money to repair the numerous gashes that the hull took last winter.  Don cut the deal to have Yvette and I work for him.  He was happy to have us as we were cheap labor relative to the skilled shipwrights.

'Vette and I did all the minor stuff.  I became expert at laminating and repairing all the wooden deck work.  My girlfriend-by-decree became quite good at brightwork and was varnishing throughout the cabin.  We worked from about eight until five each day and headed home for a quiet evening -- something new to both of us.  We did see the old gang from time-to-time, but with Donny now absent much of the time, his entourage disappeared as well.

For a few weeks we experienced something totally new to each of us -- living as a couple.   I, of course, did all the cooking - our pick of fresh seafood from fisherman we knew by name, fresh herbs and vegetables from the farmer's market and a well-stocked wine store a mere block from the bungalow.   I was consciously trying to groom 'Vette off of burgers & beer -- a diet she seemed to be on for years, yet never gaining so much as a pound.

And of course this was a time when we could talk -- mostly of our dreams.  Mine were clearly in transition -- LA and the aerospace community seemed something I could never go back to.  She shed her wilder-than-a-rock-star persona to reveal she never felt so secure.  The irony was that I never felt so insecure, knowing full well we'd be waking up from this dream when the money stopped flowing.

A week before labor day Marty announced that next week his monstrous motor yacht was leaving dry dock in Port San Luis and making her "maiden" voyage to a mooring in Morro Bay.  As the crow flies, that was all of about thirty miles.  Yet by water, given that only one of the two mighty Perkins diesels were running, it was a perilous trip around Point Buchon in some very deep water and a beachless jagged coastline.  Should that one engine fail, it would be a crap shoot if the coast guard could reach Marty before his yacht was smashed into bits.  Even Donny refused to go on the short voyage.

We left that day thinking that we'd just been given our last weeks notice.  Back in SLO, I was surprised to see Don's red Audi parked in front.  He was home alone and must have had a fight with Jules.  He was noticeably glum, yet a spate with Jules never upset him.  In fact, he saw that as an opportunity for a little new female adventure.

So, something else was wrong and he wouldn't tell me -- that is until Jules called.   I answered the phone and she said she was really sorry, but her bother was coming back from a summer in Europe and did not want to stay with their mother.  He was, after all, a senior.  So she gave Donny's bungalow to him.  We would have to leave.

Donny was so apologetic, that I thought he'd start crying.  It was no be big deal for me -- I still had a home in Palos Verde's -- with stacks of unpaid bills in the mail box.   Well, I figured it was time to head back to LA and grow up.  It was fate sending me back and not my decision. 

Would Yvette come with me?  She wouldn't say -- she was having trouble processing the loss of our job and home all in the same day.  The three of us got really drunk that night and I recall waking early the next day to Donny snoring away right in bed with the two of us.  We all were fully clothed so I don't imagine the night ended in a drunken orgy. 

I walked outside to pick up the paper and it was so chilly I ran back to the house.  Summer indeed had ended -- bluntly.  Back in the living room I noticed someone had called last night and left a message.  As we had the Donny's massive Sherwood stereo ramped to ten last night, I guess we couldn't hear the phone. 

It was Marty.  After Labor Day he was traveling on business for a month.  He'd like Yvette and I to stay on the motor yacht moored in Morro Bay while he was gone. And he needs us to finish the job!

I was so relived that I crawled right back into bed and fell instantly asleep.  We all woke up about noon and I told Don and Yvette the good news.  We were all elated.  Don insisted we drive back to Santa Barbara to enjoy the weekend with Jules.  

Summer had not quite ended, but I knew it was time to start preparing for a return to reality. 

To be continued . . .  Clam digs and Martinis in Morro Bay.

April 5, 2003 - Happy Birthday Mom!

Oh what a difference a week can make!

East of Cumberland, MD - March 30, 2003

6 Days Later On My Return Trip! - April 5, 2003