As the Tide Slowly Turns: An Epic Adventure of Passion and Power
360
As the Tide Slowly Turns: An Epic Adventure of Passion and Power
360Paperback
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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781452012766 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
| Publication date: | 08/10/2010 |
| Pages: | 360 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.80(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
As the Tide Slowly Turns
An epic adventure of passion and powerBy R.J. Ingalsbe
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2010 R.J. IngalsbeAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4520-1276-6
Chapter One
The people stood still and stared while the authorities responded routinely. A few close neighbors and a handful of helpless onlookers lined the curb within minutes after noticing the squad car approaching the cul-de-sac. They could all hear the fateful knocks on the front door. Seconds later a disheveled middle-aged woman wrapped in a torn bathrobe and carrying a squirming toddler answered the door."G'mornin,' ma'am. I'm Officer Fascio and this is my partner, Officer Sterns. Are you Mrs. Osgood?"
"Yes, that's me," the woman at the doorway said while wiping her tears.
A sharp-eyed young man in baggy swim shorts and a sleeveless shirt stepped ahead of the others on the sidewalk so that he might catch the exchange.
The officer continued, "Uh, do you have an idea why we are here this morning, ma'am?" She nodded and then took a quick look behind her, as if to be motioning to someone deep in the room. Then a man with thick whiskers appeared next to her. He draped his muscular arm around her shoulders while offering a proud, hard look.
"Mornin' sir," greeted the patrolman flatly, "Mr. Osgood?"
"That's right," the man said as despair crept across his face.
"Mr. and Mrs. Osgood, it is my sincere displeasure to inform you that you are being evicted from your home, due to foreclosure. Now, the Housing Authority was in touch with your bank; they're giving you one month to make some kind of arrangements for yourselves before you have to leave. We have a person, here, who you can contact in the meantime. I'm very sorry."
The other officer handed Mrs. Osgood a business card. "Here's the number for a good social worker in town," he said, half-heartedly. "I recommend that you give her a call when you can."
As if to be moving on cue, the policemen backed slowly together down the front steps. "We'll return in a week or two to see how you're doing," Fascio assured. "Please follow through and allow someone to help you with this, okay?"
Mr. Osgood remained silent with his head hung. Mrs. Osgood muttered a weak reply while reading the small card in her hand, "We will, sir." Then the couple turned briskly and shut the door.
Brian Lennan, the young man with the baggy swim shorts, spaghetti-like hair and lean athletic build, was standing restlessly at the edge of the lawn; he could barely hear what had been said. He wanted badly to come to their aid but was completely lost in the matter. The retreating patrolmen brushed closely by him and solemnly through the small crowd toward their car; suddenly Brian felt conspicuously out of place. Pulling his thick plastic-frame sunglasses smoothly from his pocket, he put them on and slipped from the crowd's sight. He started to rush down the road with the thought that he'd tell his parents the news, with a vague recollection that his mother was an associate of Mrs. Osgood. It also happened that the Lennans and the Osgoods lived only a couple of blocks from one another, on the west side of Santa Maya.
Halfway toward his parents' home, Brian suddenly halted, as if to be pulled by something behind him. He circled slowly back in the direction of the forlorn family's home. He walked with emotions wrestling strangely within, not at all sure what he'd do next. As he walked, he noticed in the distance someone standing in the Osgood's driveway. Brian moved closer and saw that it was another young man about his age. "He looks familiar," he thought, "we musta gone to school together."
Stepping cautiously toward him, Brian found that the object of his curiosity was fishing through a pile of junk near the entrance of the garage. He felt more at ease after observing that this guy wore clothes very much like his own. Without knowing exactly what to say, the visitor stuck his hand out in front of him. "Hi. I'm Brian, but my nickname's 'Stoke' - that's what my friends call me."
Surprisingly, the tall, slender, almost emaciated figure sifting through the haphazard pile in the driveway, with wildly curling dirty-blond hair almost to his shoulders, appeared to be rather undaunted about what had just happened. With a daring kind of friendly smirk, he returned the greeting - "I'm Dennis, but 'round here they call me 'Sloop.'" As he said this he widened his smile and lifted Stoke's hand, fitting his own hand within it, in a common handshake that resembles two people arm-wrestling in the air. Their hands clamped tightly around each other, signifying an instant bond between the two.
"Sloop, man, I, I'm really sorry about what just went down with you and your family," said Stoke, with an obvious discomfort. "I was here an' ..."
"Don't sweat it," Sloop said. "We knew this was comin,' believe me! My aunt and uncle in Beverly Hills already offered for us to stay with them, until my dad can get back on his feet again. We'll be alright, really ... C'mon, I was just on my way down to the marina; let's go for a ride on Ole Windy!"
"Ole Windy?" Stoke probed.
"Yeah, that's my little sailboat. I named her after my first girl, Wendy. I called her 'Windy Wendy' 'cause she's as flighty as they come! But she sure was a lot o' fun; no one as crazy as her. Y'know, this is how I got my nickname - I'm always out on that thing, the ol' sloop that she is; nothin' makes me happier."
"That's cool," said Stoke, who then looked down near the bottom of the pile of junk where the day's local newspaper sat. He noticed the glaring headline above a disturbing photo - Johnson Commits More Troops to Nam; Protests at Home Escalate. It was an unnecessary reminder of the tumultuous times in which they were living.
"Man, it's getting ugly," he said while pointing to the paper.
"Yeah; you think we got problems!" said Sloop, half-seriously.
"We do," Stoke reacted.
"What's that?"
"Uh, are your folks gonna be okay?"
Sloop looked as though he was taken off-guard. "Wh' ... sure they are. I mean, Dad is havin' a hard time of it, but he's been sluggin' it out for a while now. He's a tough ol' bear, though; you don't have to worry about him. Let's go, we need to get away for a while."
"Okay, I'm with ya; it's just that, y'know, this is the fifth fore ..."
Sloop interjected sharply - "Forget about it, man! C'mon, we can't be bothered with all this shit. We gotta live it up while we still can!"
As they began heading for the shore, which was just a half-mile from their neighborhood, Sloop became more curious. "Hey, Stoke, whe're ya from?"
"Well, my folks live over on Comstock Ave., but I've been hangin' with my 'soul family' since I was sixteen. We have our own set-up on Veneras. I'll show ya when we get down there; it isn't too far from the marina."
"Veneras Beach," Sloop reflected, "Ain't that where all the surfers hang?"
"Some do," answered Stoke. "A few stay with us, but most of 'em are on beaches more south. We lived with Cuda and his bunch before movin' up this way."
Sloop responded, "Cuda, huh?! Yeah, I saw his picture in the paper just the other day; dude's rad!" He paused for a second, then said, "When I'm not out on the boat I like to surf, how 'bout you?"
"Ah, man, I don't usually get on a board. I just like to throw myself into the waves and let 'em carry me away. To me, it's the same kind o' rush."
"Y'know, you don't sound a whole lot like those 'beatniks' down there on the beach, Stoke," Sloop derived, grinning wryly.
"I'm more of an artist and a musician, myself; most of us in the group are," Stoke said. "Plus, a couple years at the university will knock some o' the 'cool' outta ya. You get a good dose of Plato, Hegel, Hobbes or De Leon in ya and you're bound to start soundin' a little 'intellectual.'"
Shaking his head in disbelief, Sloop cried, "Plato, Heg ... good god, bro, we really do need to get you out more often!"
Stoke let out a small laugh and said, "Yeah, I know it ain't all that 'hip,' but I think it's helped me get some focus."
"You still studyin' there?" Sloop probed.
Stoke drew a quick sigh and then replied, "Na, my ol' man couldn't really afford puttin' me through the whole shebang; besides, I think I got everything out of it I need."
Chapter Two
They came along a shaded road between some old boarding houses that led them toward the shore. The worn concrete gave way gradually to smooth drifts of fine sand. A small bank sloped gently as the two new companions impressed the accommodating sand with their eager footsteps. As they entered the beach area, Stoke suddenly stopped walking and, with an audible breath, he beheld the scene. This made Sloop halt as well."Wha' ...," started Sloop as he looked next to him. He silenced himself as he noticed the entranced look on his friend's face. The sun seemed to shine from Stoke's eyes, which made Sloop turn around and attempt to discover what captured him so.
The sky was clear blue without a hint of clouds; there was hardly a drop of humidity in the air - it was soft, at a perfect temperature and it felt cleansing to the skin. The sun's rays reached benevolently, illuminating the playfully rolling waves as they massaged the smooth wet shore. Streams of carefully aimed sunlight caused the crystals in the sand to sparkle more sharply than store-showcased diamonds. A finely tuned breeze swept through from the ocean and seemed to be kindly wrapping itself around the two onlookers, as if to be inviting them.
Feeling fulfilled, Stoke began walking again in an assured manner. Sloop still had a questioning look on his face but he remained silent, appearing somewhat calmer himself. They stepped steadily along the back part of the beach for about a hundred yards before they came within seeing distance of the adventitious commune where Stoke lived. Once visible, he pointed his finger and said "that's it" so Sloop would take notice.
"That's where you're hangin' now, huh?" Sloop followed.
As they were approaching Sloop saw some things which he was not accustomed to seeing in his more familiar suburban environs. Twenty people of mixed ages and races mingled casually together, mostly sitting in a circle, save for a few youngsters tossing a Frisbee to one another. Four were playing acoustic guitars; one was fingering a wooden flute, while another was seated in the sand with lips covered by the wide opening of an Australian didgeridoo. The rest were beating on bongos and jembe drums with their hands in a lively manner. One of the members was standing just outside the circle next to an easel, capturing the moment on a canvas full of wild shades of paint. She had a table behind the easel with mixing bowls of sand, water, oil and various blends of crushed stone.
Some of the people were wearing surfing shorts or bathing suits, while others seemed to prefer more cover for their skin. Several had on torn jeans and loose cotton shirts adorned with exotic flowers, flags, rainbows or peace signs painted in vibrant fluorescent colors. Many wore belts and sashes made from hemp; a few had sandals strapped loosely around their ankles while the majority preferred nothing on their feet.
A soiled and partially mildewed canvas canopy wobbled with the support of thin posts tied down by plastic ropes on all sides. It provided ample relief from the directness of the mid-afternoon sun. About twenty-five yards from this shaded area were small rocks placed carefully in a circle with a gray ash heap in the middle that released a steady stream of white smoke. All of the cooking utensils were stored neatly in a brightly painted wooden box just outside the rocks.
Against a sandy embankment a string of three makeshift bungalows stood feebly in the presence of the ocean's expanse. Cursory concoctions of chicken-wire fence, tarnished bamboo posts, and roofs made of thin sheets of fiberglass seemed to barely provide enough room for the transient residents, even for sleeping arrangements. Inside were mostly crocheted afghans and old army blankets. Just behind the bungalows was parked a flat-nosed VW van painted in a multitude of colors. Various Warhol-like icons and anti-war slogans were randomly painted along its surface as well.
Just before reaching them, Sloop took notice of how well the commune members blended together. It was, at first, obvious when he could hear how intelligently the drums complemented each other in a sort of "call and response" manner, and the way in which the flute and guitars provided sweet overtones to the constant rippling undercurrent of the didgeridoo base. But as he moved closer, Sloop could feel something he hadn't felt before; it was pleasant and warm to him, despite the strangeness of the people and their immediate surroundings.
When the two reached the circle, Stoke was careful not to disturb the flow of the moment. Many of the musicians nodded in subtle acknowledgment of his return. A beautiful brunette woman with a long ponytail wearing a bright orange bikini and a fisher's hat set her drum down as Stoke approached her. He knelt next to her and gave her a tight hug that lasted for several seconds. Then Stoke gestured for Sloop to come over and join them. Raising his voice over the sound, Stoke introduced the young woman to his new friend. "This here is Sloop; we just met back in the 'burbs. Sloop, this is Annie Valley, my favorite person in the whole world."
Sloop extended his hand toward her but Annie then stood up and gave him a hug almost as endearing as the one she gave her lover. "We're a 'huggy' bunch around here, Sloop," she told him as he blushed slightly. "Would ya like to join us?"
Stoke interjected, "Maybe later, love. Ol' Sloop here's got a sailboat over at the docks and he's offerin' me a ride. Wanna come?"
"Ooh, I'd really like to, but I promised Joy that I'd give her a hand in preppin' tonight's stew. We have a new recipe we're tryin' and I think you're gonna like it. Hey, Sloop, you're welcome to chow with us later, if you want."
Sloop smiled with appreciation - "Mmm, sounds real good!"
"Look, we'll be back in a little bit; see ya then," said Stoke.
"Okay, Bri' Baby, see ya later."
Sloop threw a teasing glance over at Stoke. The latter picked up on it and parried, "She is the only one allowed to call me 'Brian,' 'Bri' or anything else around here, got it?"
"Whoa! Easy now, big boy," Sloop taunted. Just then a tall, well-toned oriental girl, who was sitting next to Annie, came up to them. She had long, dark, straight hair that reached past her waist. Torn jean shorts revealed smooth, well-shaped legs, and her partially buttoned blouse was self-fashioned into a halter top. She was wearing large round plastic sunglasses, at first, but when she removed them the widest, whitest eyes appeared, contrasted with deep dark pearls in their centers. Sloop lost his breath for a moment.
"Hey, guys, is it alright if I come along? I've never been on a sailboat."
Stoke replied, turning his head toward Sloop, "Well, it'd be alright with me; whadda you think, there, 'Cappy'?"
A gleam of excitement washed over Sloop's face as he focused on her exquisite eyes. "Well, I can certainly dig that!"
She smiled brightly while extending her hand out for Sloop. "I'm Rhonda, Rhonda Love."
The newcomer took her hand and responded warmly, "Hi, I'm Dennis ... uh, that's what my folks say, but you should call me 'Sloop,' like everyone else." He then pulled her toward him and gave her the tight hug that seemed to be the custom of the native tribe. As he did this he gave an exaggerated wink to Stoke behind Rhonda's flowing mane. Stoke replied with a similar wink, a cool smile, and the thumbs-up sign.
After the embrace Rhonda pulled back and playfully jabbed, "My, you're a fast learner, aren't you?!"
The slight blush returned to Sloop's face. Stoke then felt compelled to step in the middle of the circle, once the music started to come to a lull. "Listen, gang, this here is Sloop. He and I just met this morning; he's a really cool dude who's goin' through some tough times lately, so I thought I'd bring him down to hang with us for a while."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from As the Tide Slowly Turns by R.J. Ingalsbe Copyright © 2010 by R.J. Ingalsbe. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Contents
1. The story of an enchanting and inspiring city....................12. A few personal acknowledgments....................331
3. A letter to you, the reader....................332
4. Rider A - Principles to consider....................333
5. Rider B - Numbers to serve as a possible bridge....................338
6. Rider C - Strong references for potential shake-up material....................344
7. Rider D - Related poems by the author:....................345