Our trip to the beach had been postponed for a week because of the hospital. But then the plan had fallen nicely into place. Johnny would spend the night at Gary’s; Berto would spend the night at my house. We would meet at Gary’s at 8:00 AM. His mother would take us to the beach and drop us off; then she would pick us up at the same place at 5:00 PM. (Or 0800 and 1700 hundred hours if Gary or the Commander were close.)
Berto had some work to do during the day, so he did not come to my house until late in the afternoon. By now, Berto had been a frequent enough visitor that he had thoroughly charmed Granmum; plus, he had even arrived at an uneasy truce with Pobbin on the subject of Roman Catholicism. I think that Pobbin was accustomed to talking to, or possibly just at, Catholics and was not accustomed to one answering him back in any informed and reasonable way. Berto had won a small victory when he had volunteered to attend church with us. Pobbin was surprised by this, possibly sensing a conversion possibility; but of course, our church has a closed communion and Berto would not be permitted to ask for a blessing, and would certainly not be able to take communion with us. There ensued a discussion involving ‘sanctifying grace’ and ‘sacrilege’; asking for a blessing in lieu of communion, and mortal sin. Mostly, I just ignored this except to note that Berto appeared to be holding his own. Later, Berto would explain to me that what confused him was that our communion was closed, even to other members of our religion, they had to be members of our church specifically—no others need apply. “Any Catholic church works for me,” Berto concluded.
Granmum had baked fresh bread and a peach pie for dinner (only sometimes referred to as “supper” these days. ‘Supper’ as a meal was losing ground to the notion of ‘lunch’ and ‘dinner’. This was a concession to California, I think. But there could only be so much change. Our fridge always remained the “icebox” in daily talk. We were also having lentil soup with ham hocks and dumplings. This had simmered all day in a cast iron kettle from which savory soups had emerged for several generations. I avoided controversy by saying a blessing that could offend no one as it was both wordy and empty— know what I mean? Dinner was a delicious and amiable success.
After dinner, Berto and I did the dishes, and then went outside and played catch through the balmy sunset and early evening until it got too dark; we then joined Granmum and Pobbin in the living room. We looked up stuff in The Book of Knowledge while Pobbin immersed himself in the Wall Street Journal as Granmum knitted. A few minutes before we would have been told it was bedtime, I announced that we would be taking a bath and going to bed. Sometimes I resist bedtime loudly; but this was going to be a different sort of bedtime.
We didn’t dare spend too much time in the bathroom. So we were both hard and standing tall by the time we dried each other off. We had begun by talking about Berto’s foreskin. Berto told me that good Catholic boys are not “cut” like the Jews do to their boys. I was way more interested in a naked Berto, so firm yet silken to the touch, rather than the religious stuff; so all the religious stuff went in one ear and out the other. I wonder if that old saying is right? I’m not sure it went in even one ear.
Pajamaed, with the elastic waistbands keeping our boners firmly in place, we said good night and retired. We had to be quiet. We weren’t all that far from the living room, or from my grandparents bedroom for that matter. We went at it slowly and quietly and were quietly rewarded.
“Yuh know, I love you my Davey-Dave,” he whispered in my ear. “I’m gonna really miss yuh when yer back in Nevada this winter.”
“Yeah. I love you best and most.” I rolled slightly into a lovingly simple goodnight kiss.
We did the usual morning rituals and then dressed in our beach outfits. Cut offs were okay for the beach, t-shirts and sneakers. We wrapped swimming suits in towels. They were necessary for appearances. We would skinny dip if we could.
We trooped into the kitchen for bacon and eggs with pancakes. You could put maple syrup or homemade grape jelly on the pancakes. Or you could put both on if you’d a mind to. I did both. Pobbin was in rare good humor over something that President Eisenhower had said, or done, though precisely what that was, escaped my attention just then. Pobbin then held forth on the dangers of riptides, and of eating too much; we were instructed to stay close to the lifeguard tower and watch out for each other. We were emphatically warned against speaking to “unseemly” strangers. It was easy to know who was unseemly: it was a broad brush that included any non-Christian, anyone who was “scruffy”, anyone improperly dressed—basically, just about anyone we didn’t already know. We were of course reminded to put our “trust in God”.
Granmum had prepared a feast for us: there were four ham and cheese sandwiches, a bag of Fritos, a small jar of pickles, eight navel oranges, eight bottles of Coke and four Three Musketeers bars. We were again warned about swimming too soon after eating and I pulled my Pocket Ben with the Great White Fleet fob from my pocket to assure them that I had it and it was working. We were properly equipped and I promised to watch the time carefully for the ten thousandth time. We grabbed our blanket and towels, stopped in the arbor long enough to add grapes to our supplies, and were off to Gary’s.
“So how can you tell if someone is a non-Christian,” Berto wondered as we bustled along.
“Beats me.” I replied helpfully.
At Gary’s, we hastened into the den where we bid the Commander a respectful good morning; then to the kitchen were we discovered that Miss Jean had prepared four bologna sandwiches, four Swiss cheese on rye sandwiches, a bag of potato chips, eight navel oranges, and four packages of Hostess cupcakes. There was also an ice chest with twelve 7-Ups, plenty of ice, and a bottle opener. Gravely, I informed Miss Jean that I did not think that we needed sixteen oranges; but I thought that the three sandwiches each would be just perfect. I busied myself returning eight navel oranges to the kitchen fruit bowl. Then I added the Cokes to the ice chest and then put the Hostess cupcakes, the Three Musketeer bars, and the grapes on top of the ice. I put the bottle opener in my pocket where it would be safe and wouldn’t rust.
I showed the Commander that I was equipped with a watch and that it was working. She was enchanted by the Great White Fleet fob and was even more excited to learn that I had a distant cousin who had made the trip on the USS Kearsarge. I promised that I’d ask my Father about this and let her know more when I got home. We discussed the amount of time required between eating and swimming; again, the Commander surprised me when she said that thirty minutes should be plenty. She went on to explain that we were all young, were constantly swimming, and burned energy at a “prodigous” rate. I assured her that this would be the minimum elapsed time.
“Were I you,” she smiled. “I wouldn’t get into an argument with Miss Jean about this…nor, I suppose, with your grandmother.”
The Commander assigned the shotgun position to Berto and banished the rest of us to the back seat. On the drive to the beach, she quizzed Berto and learned a lot about him: he had been born in Anaheim; his parents and grandparents were also native Californians, though from different cities; he had been raised with both English and Spanish as primary languages. He explained that they mostly spoke Castilian Spanish at home, but he was careful to speak Border Spanish on the street.
Berto had passed the Commander’s exam with flying colors. She spoke glowingly of a career in the Navy and suggested that he could easily retire as a Chief Petty Officer, he’d still be young, and he’d have a pension for life. Berto thanked her, but thought he might want to go to college. At that moment, I resolved that we would both go to college and be roommates. Wouldn’t that be great?
The Commander sailed on. Gary was going to go to Annapolis and become a naval officer. “Aw Mom,” from the backseat admiral. Then it was Johnny’s turn and he only had some vague plan about going to college and playing baseball. I thought this was pure bullshit. He’d never talked to me about wanting to play baseball seriously. Plus, I didn’t think that he had the physique to play sports professionally. He’s beautiful, to be sure, but his is a willowy elegance. He lacked bulk. I didn’t say any of this at the time.
When it was my turn I was evasive, but didn’t really lie. My Grandparents thought I should go into the ministry. So I would always tell other adults that “they” wanted me to become a minister. Adults seem to like this idea. So far, it’s all the truth; but I wasn’t going to be a preacher and no one had actually asked me that question specifically.
Plus, my Grandparents were no longer a united front. Pobbin had come into the notion that I should become a missionary and go into the Amazon jungle to save the souls of the natives who were going to be damned because they’d not accepted Jesus Christ. Many of them had never even seen a white man, much less heard of Jesus. Granmum, however, was having none of it. “Those naked savages have poisoned spears and arrows!” The Missionary Society was all well and good, but the actual missionarying should best be left to other people's grandchildren. “Davey’s skills are needed here, thank you very much!” ‘Yes!’ I thought as I filed this lever away for possible future use.
I had thought that the Commander would drop us off at the closest beach, but she had decided on another beach altogether. I rather think that she, like Pobbin, was concerned about “unseemly” types that might push into our innocence. But she was a lot more direct, and referred to these people as “riff-raff”, in a tone of voice and with sufficient detail, that it was perfectly clear who we should beware of. I knew, too, that she knew we liked to skinny dip, for she took us up the coast a ways to a stretch of beach where dunes and scrub growth blocked any direct view of the beach from the road. She stopped in a sandy parking area that contained only one gleaming pre-war Buick. We were reminded that we were to be in this lot at “seventeen hundred hours sharp” to be picked-up. A “failure to comply” would result in punishment; the “nature of which” would cause “Attila the Hun” to “blench.” I showed her my watch. We each got a hug and a kiss. We were free.
Johnny went loping down the path to the beach carrying only one blanket. This left the rest of us to carry an ice chest, two bags full of food, another blanket, and an armload of towels. Of necessity, we were slower down the path. On the way, we passed a lady who was painting a scene of dunes, scrub grass, and gulls. She was equipped with an easel, paint box, palette, and more brushes that she could possibly use. We bade her good morning as we passed and she returned the pleasantry. She was almost certainly the owner of the Buick and so, by definition, could not possibly be “riff-raff.”
Johnny came charging back up the path to tell us that he’d found the perfect spot.
“Here!” Gary ordered thrusting the ice chest into Johnny’s arms. He took the towels from Berto. “Show us!” We followed him down the slope through the dunes and grass to a spot where the tufts of grass ended and the beach began. We were well above the tide line, but only about fifty yards from the gently rolling surf. Johnny had already spread his blanket in a pocket between the dunes that was open to the beach but surrounded by the dunes with their crowns of grass. Johnny put the ice chest down by the blanket, wiggled out of his cut offs and went gloriously sprinting down to the surf. Gary, whooping approval, scattered towels on the blanket, erupted out of his shorts and went storming after Johnny. Berto and I just smiled; we then turned our attention to proper organization. We spread the blankets adjacent to one another. I carefully recovered cast off shorts and placed them neatly on a corner of their blanket. One side of our nook was an odd looking bluff which would provide shade during the day. We put the lunch bags and the ice chest in a corner of the nook in the shade. I carefully placed the bottle opener on the ice chest where it would be readily to hand. Berto asked for a Coke and I got us one. We were both naked now. I joined him sitting on the blanket. “You’re beautiful,” I said as I gave him his Coke. He smiled and his eyes were merry.
I think, probably, that of the four of us, I’m the most cautious. I had got naked like everyone else, but then I carefully scouted the immediate area to see where the nearest other people might be located. There were none. Just a few tiny dots in the distance. No real surprise as it was Thursday after all.
“Let’s go,” Berto called when I returned from my mission and we sprinted to and into the surf. The surf is just great. You can stand, like knee deep, in the water and, as the wave approaches, you can dive into it and be swirled and gently pummeled by the waves. And then there’s body surfing. Have you ever tried it with a boner? It’s really neat. Of course, you have to be careful not to hit the beach too hard. You just want a gentle tickle down there. The main thing was the rush of the ebbing surf along your boner. Plus we would sit on the sand and the waves would like half cover us; then they’d run back out, caressing our naked bodies divinely. That’s what it was like, too, divine: as if God Himself were bathing you.
I paid half attention to Johnny and Gary too. At one time, I saw them swimming together about one hundred yards out, where the gentle surf would not interfere with their progress; another time, they were just standing about chest high. They were kissing and I could just imagine where their hands were.
This was very thirsty work. It was very thirsty because it was very sexy. We were swimming in salt water so there was salt wherever you put your tongue. Everywhere. Plus the sand. Sand got in everywhere. Berto got some under his foreskin and didn’t like it a bit. I enjoyed watching him pulling his foreskin back and then rinsing the head. I’d have helped, but he didn’t ask.
We had some food and some Coke to wash the salt away. We relaxed in the beauty of the day. The beauty of us.
Berto and I were sitting right at the edge of the water. Completely relaxed. Completely spent for the moment. “I wish we could always be together,” he said.
“Me too.” The surf continued to grumble gently and a small wave tickled our feet, only to run swiftly away. “But why can’t we be?”
“Well,” Berto began.
“No,” I interrupted on a roll. “No. Just think about it. We’re young. We’re just fourteen. We’ve got time; we’ve got love. It’s only just begun. All we have to do is remember this summer. We’ll write letters. Maybe you can come visit the ranch this winter during a vacation. We can do it. We can be together. Then it’ll be summer again.…” I was running out of steam; I was suddenly aware of all the future’s lurking ghosts. There was only one thing to do: I kissed him. It was a great kiss. Long and passionate, slightly salty as we lay entwined on the beach bathed by sun and surf.
When we returned to the blankets Gary wanted to know where the sun tan lotion was. Sun tan lotion? I hadn’t even thought of it. Yes we were going to the beach, but we were already beautifully and evenly tanned.
“Do we really need it.” I temporized.
“Well no,” Gary replied. “But I didn’t want it cuz of the sun,” he elaborated as he languorously stroked Johnny’s butt highlighting the most beautiful bits. They ate oranges, instead. Then, almost as if you’d thrown a switch. We all seemed to relax and soon there were four of us, sprawled naked on our beach blankets, now in the cool of the shade, dozing lightly in the afterglow of sex and lunch.
I sat up remembering the real world. I scrambled for my watch. It was only quarter to four (I mean 1545 hours). We were safe from Attila’s fate. Berto called for a swim and we all plunged in. By this time, we’d had plenty of sex, so none of us were hard. I’d noticed, though, how our balls reacted to the situation. All dangly and erotic in the warmth; all but invisible after the cool shock of the water. I wondered why that might be and thought I’d check in Johnny’s book to see if the answer might lie there.
We tidied our nook and carefully got all the trash. I took all of our swimming suits down to the surf and got them wet and sandy just in case Authority might inspect them.
We were not in a hurry to leave, but we were content with our beautiful day together. The lady with the easel was gone. When we got to the parking lot, it too, was empty; but in just a few moments, and right on time, the Commander came wheeling onto the lot and our adventure was officially over.
On the way home, we regaled the Commander with the glories of surf and sand while assuring her that the water had never been a danger. We emphasized that we’d eaten only after a swim. Gary had been restored to the honor of the shotgun seat. The rest of us, in the back seat, dozed.
When we got to Gary’s, the Commander ordered us into the outdoor shower to get the salt and sand off. We got inspected by Miss Jean, hugs and kisses from the Commander. Then we went home.
I had a lot to wrestle with alone in bed that night. I was sure that I was in love with Berto. But I also cared a lot for Gary and Johnny. Was love exclusive, or what? Are there variations of love; is there some kind of measuring scale? I’d become aware that Berto was very important to me; but Johnny was very important, too. We were our first. There would always be a special place in my heart for him. And then there was Gary: he was simply great, a delight to be with and around; not to mention being sexier than the law’ll allow.
I had read Robinson Crusoe. I felt badly for Crusoe, all alone—at least for all intents and purposes in a tropical paradise. Then I began to discover sex and Johnny and I did it. So for a while, in my bedtime exercises before sleep, Johnny joined me in paradise. But things had now become more complicated. What was this love thing, anyway? So I came up with a sort of ‘Desert Island Test.’ If I were marooned on a tropical island, and could only have one of my great friends with me: who would it be?
Well, I decided, if it happened today, it would have to be Berto.