ABNAKI NOTES

Captain James Williams, Annapolis Lt., Commanding Officer

Captain Calvin Reed, a “mustang” from WWII, Lt., Commanding Officer

James Hollis - W-4, Engineering Officer - all the first enlistment guys were “his boys”

Robert Nason, Lt., Executive Officer, transferred to Riverene Forces Vietnam

Robert Turner - Operations Officer USNR University of Oklahoma his wife was a school teacher

Frances Delorme - Chief Bo’sun, one of the enlisted men who by just being himself influenced me to not seriously consider a career in the Navy.

Kenneth Wetzler - Friend, drinking buddy, occasional opponent, crew-mate, deck force, from Lake Chelan Washington

Mel Lanham (aka Cranny Rat) friend and crew-mate Engineering, one of the most guileless people I’ve ever met.

Gary Born - friend and crew mate Engineering…Gary was and is the Myers-Briggs ESTJ poster-boy

“Buck” - Lifer, “brown-bagger” ET1, friend and crew mate.  Buck and his wife frequently invited me for dinner, beers, and a night of TV, and an overnight stay on the couch…they had a little boy, “Skipper”, who was a pure joy to be around when he was 3 or 4.

Robert Knapp, ET3, friend and crew mate…we departed the ship for discharge on the same day, and shared a car and driver to Clark AFB, where we were both bumped from our flights home for the better part of 3 days.

Julius “Billy” Wheat - friend, totally crazy man, Hattiesburg MS, killed in a rainy auto accident along with his brother, a few months after discharge.

Andrew Collins - friend, Jazz aficionado, Momma’s Boy from South Chicago, squared away 3rd Class Bo’sun, the first African-American I ever had broad and continuous exposure to.

EVENTS.

July 1962 - NTC SDIEGO for boot camp

Post-boot camp - NTC SDIEGO for Radio “A” School.

Ordered to (AO-51) USS Ashtabula in SEA…boarded in June 1963 Yokuska, Japan.

Ashtabula arrived home port Long Beach November 1963.

Transferred off to make a berth for a “lifer” after the ship was chosen for the Coral Sea Celebration.

Left the Ashtabula on leave November 16, 1963, my 20th birthday…with orders to join the USS Abnaki in Pearl Harbor.  In Tucson visiting HS friends when Kennedy was assassinated.

December 24, 1965 boarded the USS Abnaki.  Took the RM3 Exams on 12/30/1963 and was promoted to RM3 in 1964.

1964 mostly local activities, except towed a harbor tug from Oakland, CA to Pearl, and made a couple trips to Johnston Island Atoll.

Anchored a target raft southwest of Johnston Atoll for the B-52 bomb sight tests 1964

Towing a dredge from Johnston Atoll to Yokosuka, sunk the dredge in a typhoon mid January 1964

March 8, 1965 supported the amphibious landing of 3500 marines and their gear at Danang. Assigned to a Mine Squadron (92?) to produce a sonar map of the Red Beach 1 landing area, and standby for salvage and recovery if needed.

Spring 1965 - Dixie station small boat interdictions with a Vietnamese Officer aboard deciding which boat, when, how much…the guy (Vietnamese Naval Officer) showed absolute disregard for fishing nets, boats, and occupants…he represented everything the poor fishermen and farmers of Vietnam must hated about their government.  Anchoring out from Vung Tau, a mostly noncombat French Colonial city with an embarcadero bordering a long beach on the oceanside, and the back bayside where parts of the Mekong River flowed past. 

Spring 1965 - Yankee Station deterring the Russian trawlers who were attempting to interfere with air operations, and intercept radio signals.

Spring 1966 - Yankee Station, interfering with Russian trawlers, carrying an electronic counter-measures “sugar shack” and its two technician/operators.

Mid-July 1966 - Subic Bay, P.I. received orders to Treasure Island for discharge.

Left the ship traveling with ET3 Robert Knapp to Clark AFB for transportation home; we spent the next 3 days being bumped from flights by Air Force staff and dependents who were traveling to the States for the Boy Scout Jamboree, had no food or billet orders so slept in base theater, ate in the canteen, and waited in the flight center til we got rides home.  A grateful nation says “Thank You!” for your service.

Spent 5 days at Treasure Island, mustering out, dental work, poked and prodded, examined for the symptoms of all the diseases on our yellow-card, promoting reenlistment, threatening us about sharing SECRETS and sensitive information with anyone, and promoting active reserve duty when we got settled in at our home address…at the end of that week, I hitchhiked to Dayton, WA to visit my parents, then eventually rode a Greyhound to Tacoma, to live with my sister, brother-in-law, Jeanie, and Davie (2 years old) for almost a year.

In August 1966 (?) I was hired by the Department of the Army as a Crypto/Communications Specialist…a civilian, GS4 with a Top Secret/Crypto Access clearance, doing what I'd done in the Navy except I was out of uniform, in a 2nd floor "vault" for not much more money, playing cribbage with one other employee on graveyard shift, and waiting for the teletypes to start, then lighting up the "burn bag" as the final act of a long, mostly uneventful nightshift.

Ritual

I have always felt that dancing is silly, when it is relegated to a ritual, group activity which is planned and takes place in a particular location, as a sort of spectator sport…”Hey, let’s dress up and go to the club. Let’s wait in line for an hour and a half while some guy with no neck and an IQ equivalent to the measure of his waist band decides if we deserve to pay a cover charge to enter a room where our hearing will be permanently damaged, and we can pay 20X the material value for a warm drink served by a dull and stoned waitsperson. EVERYBODY’S doing it!”  On the other hand, being “compelled to movement” spontaneously by the music, audible or just some internal urge, makes perfect sense to me.  

I have been uncomfortable with most all “rituals” for as long as I can remember.   I operationally define a ritual as a behavior, public or private, which has no obvious, direct, or immediate reason, or payoff.  For example: what is the obvious and immediate payoff for kneeling and genuflecting at the end of the aisle where you intend to sit, in a church dedicated to an imaginary friend in the sky?  The performer will not get something, or avoid something. The behavior is not adaptive, leading to something else of greater value. The fact that “everybody’s doing it” or at least everybody in a sub-group, is often reason enough for me to pause and delay doing it until I know why I would want to do it…why doing so would make sense for me?  The human contagion, and mimicking of movement once others near you begin to do it, feels embarrassing and wrong, regardless what the activity is…speaking in tongues…swooning at the alter…chanting the affirmations of the catechism, swaying while waving my Zippo in the air…leaving Teddy Bears and Flowers at the scene for Princess Di, ad infinitum…its how mobs work…its how hysteria is shared, spreads, and grows. Its infectious, and not in a good way.

Why am I so oppositional to ritual behavior?  Is there a “rebellion gene?” Is there a segment of my DNA which is present in me and others, but missing in most?  Is it social? Do I come from a long line of contrarians?  I don’t know.  All I know is when faced with the pressure to conform to a ritual behavior I feel something akin to refusing to go near the edge of a ledge, or a canyon.  I feel a “visceral” aversion which overcomes my desire to fit in…and, truth be told, I do desire to fit in, but not at the cost of my comfort, or my sense of self worth, my need to be congruent with Me.

Bowing, scraping, ritual posturing in prayers, upon entering a church or kneeling in the aisle at the pew, crossing, dabbing ‘holy water’…and on, and on…all seem mindlessly silly to me. Performing ritual movement in order to identify with a group seems to me mindless and cultish, herdish, automated, as though one has turned over one’s will and identity to a group, probably a group with a long-dead founder.  ”Oh! Look at me! I’m a Catholic! I’m bowing to the Virgin and crossing myself with a dab of H2O which has been blessed by some possible pedophile living a monastic life while wearing a cassock so no one will mistake him for a productive member of society!  Where did I leave my secret Latin decoder ring?” 

For me, secret handshakes, ritual fist bumping, chanted tribal grunts (“HOO-rah!”)…and more, all deserve avoidance…their performance simply serves to cast doubt on one’s intelligence, and one’s use of his personal liberty to make sensical choices.  Why would one want to resemble the lowest common denominator of a large group?  Why would one want to wear a red ball cap and cheer for an inarticulate, narcissistic “orange man?”  Why would one cheer for a politician of any ilk for that matter?  

My aversion to “ritual” extends to the mundane. For example, I would never wear a class-ring, or pay the money to do so.  It is incongruent with something in me. But, when it’s useful to do so, I will conform. For instance, I will use a placard or a tag for my disability condition because it allows me preferential parking, and, I will wear a button on my cap which identifies me as a Vietnam veteran, because it is sometimes a conversation starter. On the other hand, my cap has never gotten me a free breakfast and a "thank you for your service."

To me, ritual behavior is the equivalent of rushing to be first at the doors of the burning theater only to be crushed to lifeless mush by those behind you. As the man once said, “The 2nd mouse gets the cheese.”  The sensical thing to do is pause, wait, let the herd run over the proverbial cliff, then step over their lifeless bodies out into the fresh air of freedom wherein you can consider your options, one of which may be to return to the burning building and help the herd survive the results of its own hysteria.

So for me organized, ritual, dancing is an indicator…it begs the question, what else would I be willing to do just to fit in?  Would I ignore the smoke and smell of burning Jews wafting over my peaceful village?  Would I loot a small business owner’s building?  Would I jeer at Black children intending to attend my child’s school.

Lady Jane Goes to Hanoi

 In 1972 Jane Fonda visited North Vietnam.  The North and South governments of Vietnam were at war with each other, and, the U.S. and some allies, including New Zealand, Australia, and South Korea, were supporting the South with their combined militaries.  By 1972, the participation of the U.S. in the Southeast Asian conflict was mostly unpopular.  Of course, families of service members and most friends of combatants were sympathetic to the military members, regardless their feelings about us being there.  I was long gone from Southeast Asia, having last been in Danang in June 1966, and discharged a month or so later.  I had worked for the U.S. Department of the Army as a civilian Crypto/Communications Specialist from August 1966 to December 1968, after which I took a job as a civilian communications specialist with Weyerhaeuser Company in Tacoma, and then in Chicago.  By the time Jane did her camera appearances in Hanoi, I was leaving Chicago for return to Tacoma with my growing family of 3.

My point is, I was long gone from Vietnam by 1972, but not without opinions, memories, and loyalties.  At that time, quite simply, I regretted that Jane had not been a casualty of U.S. bombing.  But, to be clear, even then, I believed our valid reasons for being there, if there were any good reasons at all, were very weak.  I would have respected our leaders more if they had simply stated, “Hey look! We have a financial interest in being there…we’re generating a whole lot of income for a lot companies, who are hiring many Americans at good wages, and as a by-product, we may even stop or slow the spread of collectivist politics on the Asian continent!”  I had, and have, no beef with those who were totally against that war, or even war in general.  I had no beef with those who felt so strongly that they demonstrated, burned their draft-cards, and/or hustled off for Canada. I think there should always be a relatively easy “out” for citizens of a free society to avoid individual moral dilemmas, including, organized violence approved by their politicians.

So, my “beef” with Lady Jane Fonda is NOT that she was anti-war in general, or specifically anti-U.S. involvement in that war.  My beef was and is, that at 35-years old, presumably as mature in judgement as she will ever get to be, she allowed herself to be the photographed “darling” of the propaganda arm of a totalitarian government with whom HER country of birth and citizenship was at war.  She allowed a country, with no free-press and little outside scrutiny into its many barbarous cruelties to its own citizens, to use her presence to demoralize allied military, and give comfort to North Vietnamese, Chinese, and Soviet military members and civilians.  She gave interviews, accusing U.S. service members of being hypocrites and worse.  She trusted foreign propagandists to not publish pictures of her seated on an anti-aircraft weapon.  If there is such a thing as “guilt by degrees” then she sided with the government, North Vietnam, which was guilty of many, many more atrocities against its own civilians, and the civilians of its Southern neighbor than the U.S. ever could have committed by even the most liberal count.  The fact is, there is more than enough guilt to go around…for personal acts, as well as, tactical and strategic policies and practices by all involved.  But, as far as, who was the worst?  Even left-leaning authors and journalists of the UK and France give that prize to the Peoples’ government of North Vietnam.

Back to Jane.  Jane is now in her 80's.  She seems actually more sought after in Hollywood these days, than she was back then.  When I have watched a feature with her acting in it, I look at the heavily made-up elderly woman on the screen, but I can see only the 35-year-old, privileged brat, spawned from Hollywood royalty, sitting on a North Vietnamese anti-aircraft installation.  I hear that she regrets the photo op on the gun installation, but in reading the quotes I hear only that she regrets it was published when they said they wouldn’t.  I wonder why she thought they wanted pictures of her manning a weapon? Did that 35-year old think it was just so they’d have pictures to show the Mrs. when they got home?  Her consequent “black listing” in Hollywood was of no matter, since she was well-able to sell herself to a succession of rich and or powerful husbands, until the market for movies starring old women in heavy make up improved.  

For my part, I try to never watch a movie which has "Lady" Jane as a character. She's never been a particularly great actress. In my opinion, had she not be Henry Fonda's daughter, we'd have never seen her on the screen. But, the same can be said of her brother, who somehow managed to oppose the war in Vietnam without participating in a photo op and interview with the propaganda arm of the North Vietnam Communist Party.

Packaged People

 Packaging functions to create curiosity, to attract, to inform, to contain and protect its contents from outside contamination, to protect its contents from certain degrees of impact or from spillage. Some packaging is punctuated with bright, high contrast color. Some wears the colors associated with its ethnicity, the red white and blue, the white and green.  In almost all packaging, the list of ingredients is the most obscured by small print and cryptic chemical names.

Is it my imagination, or are people more likely to “package” themselves, their children, and even their pets these days…t-shirts with messages, clothes touting designers, eye-glass frames festooned with identity, MAGA caps…packaging, designed to let others know what’s inside, and what isn’t…”Stupid” and “<—I’m with Stupid.”

My guess is that humans, however dull are much more complex than any packaging could describe.  "Identity" is a form of packaging. Apparently individuals can change "identity" at will. Turns out it not something you're just stuck with from birth, decided by others.

My identity is that of a cranky old white guy who is disappointed at how "stupid" the world and its inhabitants have turned out.  For example, I had expected faith-based religion and its unreasoned superstitions to be pretty much gone by now.  Turns out church membership and participation is declining, but the noise being made by the shrinking group is even louder, as populist politicians appeal to its mindless capacity for emotion.

Lahaina, Maui

 In the Spring of 1964 my ship, USS Abnaki, left our home port of Pearl Harbor, Hawaii on the island of Oahu and sailed South East toward Maui. Along the way, we lobbed a few rounds from the ship’s main deck-gun at the island which had been reserved for gunnery practice by the fleet and its aircraft. I’ve forgotten its name.  We arrived in Lahaina and anchored out about a mile or so.  I don’t recall why we were there, or what the occasion was, but the command declared an open house, a condition usually reserved for friendly foreign ports such as Kagoshima, Japan and Kaohsiung, Taiwan.  Hawaii, in general, had a love-hate relationship with the US Navy…loved the money it brought, but hated the presence of rowdy, Haole sailors.  Lahaina was no exception. The story which follows is not told in the ship’s deck-logs.  

A community near Lahaina Town had decided to host a dance, and invite the ship’s crew and officers as guests.  It was a generous and risky invitation, which would predictably end badly.  I’m not defending bad behavior on anyone’s part, but sailors are known to be difficult “guests.”  They were known to be obscene, rowdy, intrusive, and inebriated.  This night was no exception.  According to local leadership, the sailors practiced all of their predictably bad social skills in spades, and disrespected several of the local “maidens” to boot.  Put simply, they were as a group terrible guests, and several of the young local men, who were friends and family of the disrespected young women were enraged enough to follow the bus, taking the sailors back to Lahaina at the end of the evening. The bus full of rowdy sailors, and several carloads of enraged local-boys arrived simultaneously and emptied out on the street right in front of the bar which this writer was about to exit for his short walk to the waterfront, and his ride back to the ship in the ship’s whale-boat.  Keep in mind, this writer had no clue as to what had gone on at the dance, because he, then and now, works hard to avoid dancing, dances, and the rituals generally recognized as courtship, or more often, seduction.

This writer's evening had started out at a local bar in one of Lahaina’s historical buildings, a white wooden building housing an Inn and several other businesses. I believe the bar was called “Whale’s Tale,” in memory of the village’s whaling history.  As I recall, I left the Whale’s Tale pleasantly buzzed and made my way to another watering hole at the end of the side street which passed by the now famous banyon tree and some municipal buildings. I seem to remember that my destination had some sort of hokey facade and a pirate theme, a forerunner of the persona that Lahaina would take on in earnest as it became a developed tourist attraction.  I settled in at that location, and stayed the evening, enjoying the now forgotten amenities of the establishment which was almost entirely devoid of sailors, who were all at the dance some miles away.

As I exited the bar onto the street in front, I was almost immediately engulfed by angry locals tumbling from several vehicles, already yelling, kicking, swinging…my reaction was to immediately go from defense to attack.  Usually, I would have had a beer bottle stored in my sock, undetectable due to the bell-bottom pants, but on this night I was weaponless, lured in by the peaceful streets of the almost village like town. So, I did what I know, which is every dirty trick in the book: throat punches, crotch kicks, hitting from behind, using any found “weapon” on the ground, and more.  I had just kicked a local boy in the balls and was briefly contemplating his prone figure on the pavement, wretching up the contents of his previous meal, when I heard and felt a “whoosh” followed by my lights going out. I woke up a brief second later, still standing, and saw a local-girl holding a carved leather Western style purse on a long shoulder strap.  She had swung the purse from its long strap which accounted for the swoosh, and had moved my nose, previously broken in a street fight, back toward its original location, where it remains to this day. I punched her in the throat, stepped over her gurgling form, and fought my way toward the liberty boat landing a block away. By this time, at least one officer from our ship and several others from the duty party were trying to herd the embattled liberty party back to the boat landing while admonishing the civilians to stand down and let them handle it.  Next morning at 07:30 Quarters the “mood” was somber. The Captain was not amused. The XO looked to him and mimicked his icy glare.  

I don’t recall that we foreshortened our stay, or that Liberty Call was cancelled for the new day.  But, once we got underway for home port, at Quarters the next day, we were informed that the balance of the crew’s party/picnic fund, made up of a 5-cent “tax” on each pack of our sea-store cigarette purchases, would be used for reimbursement of damages, mostly personal injuries to locals.  I don't recall, and the deck logs don't indicate, that there was any formal crew punishment. Aloha Lahaina.

Its not you, its me…

 You know that knowledge you suddenly have that the person you’ve known and been friends with for a long time and have been chatting with online, or emailing, would never again talk to you if you didn’t  initiate contact?  Yeah…that feeling. You search your last few contacts for an offense you’ve given, convinced automatically that its you.  After all its always you.  You check your sense that it’s always you who has to call. Check, it’s always me for some time now. You tell yourself, it’s probably not that they don’t like you. It’s more likely they’ve just moved on, and you’re more invested in your mutual past than they are. It never feels good to be the one who is over-invested, who cares more, in a lop-sided relationship.  And, after all they may be busier, they may have been sick, or traveling, or…or…or.  You make excuses for them because that’s who you are…the one who tries to not “take it personal.”  The one who avoids the accusation that you’re just being insecure, or worse yet “paranoid.”

You “test” your intuition by withholding contact, and, sure enough the days turn into weeks turn into months and maybe into years…nothing.  And, then one day your hear a chat ding, or receive an email, and there they are…as though no time has passed at all, and no acknowledgement of the time which has passed except for maybe a vague “…its been awhile since…”. And, what do you do?  Do you play the game, and pretend there was no lapse, or that the lapse was just inevitable, or mutual?  Do you not respond, wait them out?  I’ve done all of those responses at some time during my life, but I’m always left to wonder “What did I do (or not do) to make myself dispensable?”

A person I had worked with almost 10-years in the 1980’s, and remained active face-to-face friends with another 25 years, just suddenly stopped calling, or contacting.  If someone had asked who my best non-family friend was, I would have immediately said his name. Whenever I called or messaged him with an invitation to lunch on a particular future date, he was “busy that day” and said he would call me back when his scheduled settled down.  He didn’t. And, I would call or message again. We met for lunch a few more times.  He almost broached the unspoken subject of “Why?” a couple times, but then backed off when I asked what had changed.  “I don’t know…its me, not you.”  In 2015 I moved out of state, adding the complication of distance and even less opportunities for access.  When you go back to visit where you came from, it seems like all your friends and family who remain there want a piece of your calendar. He didn’t.  I let him know when we’d be there, and where, and it was never workable to my now retired friend.

About a year ago he suddenly died of a heart attack during a bout with pneumonia. We had chatted online about a year prior to that as he was approaching his October 2021 birthday.  Almost a year after that last chat had passed, when one day his wife messaged me that he had died suddenly from a brief illness the day before.  My friend was dead, and I would never know why our long friendship became distant, not only in miles, but in interest and contact. 

What is the lesson here? Is there a lesson here?  I know you can’t make someone love you. I know you can’t make someone tell you if it’s you, not them.  You already know that just sounds paranoid, and makes you seem needy.  One day it just starts with a sense that if you don’t call, or text, or message, or email, you may never hear from them again. And, the solemn fact is, you may never hear from them again.

A Hard Rain's a-gonna Fall!

Years before Eric Burdon penned the classic war protest song Sky Pilot, chronicling the part religion played in manipulating the acts and consciences of fighting men, and even longer before Creedence made it clear that they were not Fortunate Sons, there was a voice of protest, more subtle and abstract, its raspy, nasal twang almost as pleasant as finger-nails on a chalk board.  It was the voice, harmonica, and guitar of that lone troubadour and poet, Bob Dylan.  I had the good fortune to see him perform. At the time, the Vietnam conflict was, for the U.S., in its infancy, and I was a recent and future player in that conflict. For the French, the conflict was finished. For the people of South East Asia, the wars had been virtually continuous for a thousand years.

My ship-mate, one time sparring partner, and drinking cohort Ken Wetzler and I entered the Waikiki Shell through the general admission gate, then found a spot on the grassy slope facing the lighted stage that warm first night of August in 1965. Each of us carried a newly purchased bamboo mat snugly rolled around an unopened bottle of fortified wine. The ticket taker at the gate was not interested in what might be rolled up in the mats.  In center stage stood a lone chrome microphone stand with a high mike for the singer, and a waist high mike for his guitar, already leaning in its stand.  A tall stool stood next to a shorter, small square table.  Eventually, a lone coffee cup, contents unknown, would occupy the table, and provide sips to its owner between songs.  

The Shell was slowly filling with spectators. The "blue hairs" were occupying the spendy seats, actual chairs, up front. The great unwashed, including Ken and me, were settling in on bamboo mats,on the grass, well away from the stage, in the darkest part of the venue.  Our ship, the USS Abnaki, had recently returned to its home-port of Pearl Harbor from South East Asia, more specifically, Yankee Station off Vietnam where our ship spent months shadowing whichever Russian spy ship happened to be in the neighborhood, intent on messing with U.S. flight operations over North Vietnam.  

We had booked a hotel room nearby, though not near the beach. That would have been way beyond our financial means.  This expensive night in Waikiki was entirely dedicated to attending a Bob Dylan concert.  The irony of funding a concert mostly comprised of songs of peace and protest using our recently earned military hazardous duty (combat) pay was entirely lost on us at the time.  I was 21. Many of life's obvious ironies were lost on me then, and Ken was no "light" in the darkness either.  We were drawn to that evening by our common love of certain music, performers, and songs, among them Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, The Rolling Stones.

Back on the ship our shared record player and collection of LP vinyl was safely stowed in the Tech Shack…an area well below the main deck, accessed by round pull-down man-hatches and vertical latters, in a caged space where several Electronics Technicians labored at all hours.  Our Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Miles Davis, Dave Brubeck, and Rolling Stones vinyl never left the safe confines of the Tech Shack.  Add to that safe confine the fact that the space was well below the center of gravity of the rolling ship which made it less likely the stylus would skid across the vinyl when the ship rolled badly.  We who co-owned the simple record player had monetized our asset, renting it out to select listeners for a price, but only if it never left its safe harbor in the cage, and was not scheduled to be in use by any of its 5 or 6 co-owners.

So when Wetzler and I walked through the general admission gate and found adjacent spots on the grassy slope well back from the lights of the Shell venue, we had a sense of what to expect.  We were Dylan fans, though neither of us had attended a live concert of his before.  The police presence was fairly visible, and having some history with the HPD we knew there would be a sizable plainclothes presence as well, so we kept the wine out of sight until the lights turned down, and the spot light focused on the single 3-legged stool in center-stage.  

As the high-dollar seats filled up closest to the stage the police presence grew until there was a line of cops, arm’s length from each other, backs to the stage, facing the audience.  That blue-line seemed to emphasize the idea that this concert might be a celebration of protest, of resistance, of questioning authority, if not outright challenge to the powers that be, best represented by the fur-garbed, diamond studded blue-hairs now settling in facing the cops.

There was no opening act preceding Bob.  A deep male voice, invisible off stage, simply announced, “Ladies and Gentlemen…Bob Dylan” then this skinny, pale “kid” with an unruly mop of hair ambled onto the stage, a harmonica hanging in its fixture around his neck, and into the bright circle enveloping the chair, microphone, table, and acoustic guitar resting in its stand.  He pulled the top mike down to his level, and muttered a brief, unintelligible nasal greeting.  For the next 45-minutes he sang them all…all the album songs that had elevated him from a lone voice in NYC’s Village, to the poet laureate of the U.S. At the end of that set he wordlessly, and unceremoniously left the stage.

Maybe those in the spendy seats thought it was over, or maybe they just needed it to be.  As I remember the tourists in the real seats began abandoning the Shell in a stream, until there were few “blue hairs” remaining.  The disembodied male voice hurriedly announced that this was a brief intermission, but the concert would continue.  Virtually all the monied occupants of the stage side seats were long gone.  I’ve often wondered if most of them up front even knew who Bob Dylan was. Perhaps they were just at some random concert because they were lounging nearby at one of the beach hotels, and looking for a night out.  One thing was clear.  They were not Dylan’s fans.

Dylan took his time coming back for the 2nd set. But, when he did return he stepped out beyond the circle of the spot light, held his hand up to shade his eyes, and commented on the empty seats, remarking something to the effect that it felt like no one was there at all.  He could not see or hear those of us back in the darkness, on our bamboo mats, laying on the grass.  So, he grabbed the top mike, made a beckoning motion with one arm and said, “You guys back there...come on down!”  The cops immediately intervened with the early usurpers of the high priced seats, night-sticks in hand, banishing them back to the cheap seats.  Dylan futilely protested to the uniformed police, but when rebuffed simply refused to restart the show.  He put his guitar in the stand, picked up his coffee cup, and sat down silently on the stool. It seemed the show would end in stalemate.

From the darkness I watched as uniforms, tropical shirts, suits, white shirts and ties bustled back and forth, clumping up for brief inaudible desperate looking conversations, then separated to scurry to another assorted clump of responsibility, to talk and gesture in hushed animation.  Bob sat on his stool, sipping the contents of his cup as he looked on bemused, maybe puzzled or quizzical until a frazzled looking cop with lots of brass on his shoulders and gold on his hat motioned to the faceless darkness to come forward, then beat a retreat as the now energized crowd noisily claimed the the expensive seats in a wave of occupation.  Bob appeared to love it.  Revolution was in the air!  He waited for the noise to subside.  Wetzler and I stayed in the darkness on our mats, tending to our wine (now becoming less weighty in the bottles), savoring our buzz, and casually smoking our Marlboros. Smoking was banned in the expensive seats.  

Dylan’s 2nd set was made up of some old, and some new.  Dylan was one of the most prolific singer/song writers of that decade so he already had an abundance of recognizable and popular material.  That night he mixed in some I’d never heard.  They seemed almost experimental in nature, but many would become standard Dylan.  In one instance, he "stumbled" starting the song at least three times, apparently forgetting the words, before catching the momentum. The passage of time, and maybe the Mogan-David fortified wine, have conspired to wipe the names of that evening’s playlist from my old memory.  

But, I remember it as my first concert, and my first up close and personal view of the intelligent use of passive-resistance against authority…not exactly the stuff of Mahatma Gandhi in India 20-some years earlier against the British Empire, but impressive to me, a 21-year old U.S. Navy sailor freshly returned from Yankee Station, funding my evening with Vietnam combat pay, and quietly singing along in the darkness with songs of peace and protest, "...a hard rain's a- gonna fall..."  We were blissfully unaware of how hard that rain would be.  LBJ, who had been President for just under two years, was quietly building up troops in Vietnam in a reversal of Kennedy's plans which died with him in Dallas.  The war would soon grow from a disagreeable nightly news feature to a social cleaver which would brutally divide the nation, and set us out on a course of more, and more division.  

But, on this night a hard-rain was just a poetic, abstract threat. The "body counts" were still small. The economy was burgeoning. The nation was busy and distracted, doing what it did best, "making hay" before the storm came.