Eleven Miles South of Half Moon Bay

Coming of age in the sixties was an adventure. At least it was in the no-frills neighborhood where my cousin, Bruce, and I survived it—barely—in southwestern Ohio. That neighborhood was a tiny sliver in the middle of Mad River Township, a narrow strip bordered by Springfield Pike and Northcliff Drive on the north, the old trolley levee on the south, Glendean Avenue on the east, and Planters Avenue on west. Whenever the boys in our neighborhood crossed those boundaries on foot, particularly the eastern and southern borders, we learned to be vigilant. Our neighbor to the east was Harshman Homes, a World War II military barracks development converted into low-rent housing. To the south was “the plat,” a hodgepodge of tiny homes, many only shacks thrown together with the wood of salvaged crates, and in some cases nothing more than a retired streetcar with its wheels removed. Although we had many friends in these areas, there were always other youthful residents who seemed to delight in tormenting those they considered trespassers. At various times when passing through these areas I experienced the adventure of being surrounded by a gang of twenty roving punks seething for a fight, being shot with BB guns, and being threatened for my life with broken bottles. It could be said without hyperbole that the boys in our neighborhood were afforded an excellent educational opportunity at an early age: the opportunity to learn how to fight, how to run, and equally important, when to do which. One thing that the boys in our neighborhood took seriously was the game of marbles. Some lads, myself for instance, took it a bit too earnestly. My goal was to acquire a treasure of a thousand marbles, and I could have cared less whose marbles I had to win, or how, to achieve it. Every marble player had a favorite “shooter,” the marble he propelled with a flip of his thumb in the hope of smacking another marble out of the “pot,” thus claiming it as his own. Over time, though, a good shooter would become marred and chipped from its frequent bashes against other marbles. Bruce was like a well used shooter, marred and chipped from frequent bashes against his neighbors. One need not look below the surface to discover my cousin’s imperfections, for his character flaws were clearly visible to the naked eye. He made no attempt to hide them. Unlike the marble masses, uniformly round and flawlessly common, differing only in circumference and in the pretty colors they wore to impress their neighbors, Bruce was a rare and magical marble. But alas, a magical marble is slippery and ever so difficult to grasp. For those privileged few, however, who were permitted or compelled to gaze beneath the surface, there was the rare prize of profound allegiance. Tragically, like a magical marble, Bruce was slippery. One day he was here; the next he was gone. On April 5, 1970, at age 22, he joined in a rescue effort at the beach on a Sunday afternoon and slipped into the sea—forever—sacrificing his life for a total stranger. His body was never found. No death before or since has affected me the way Bruce’s did. My book is a monument to him and a cathartic grieving for myself. It is Bruce's story, my story, and the story of others who are inseparably connected to my beloved cousin. It is the story of everyone who has ever lost a loved one and pondered why. It is the story of conflict and bonding between young men coming of age in the sixties. It is the story of spiritual awakening. Come with me back to a time that rocked the world. Dare to return to the mind bending days of Vietnam, Easy Rider and Woodstock. Experience the turbulence of adolescence in mid-America during a tempest of social change. Join the boys of Mad River Township as they swim naked at the YMCA and resolve blood feuds among themselves. Struggle with these lads in neighborhood battles, as they unwittingly prepare for a battle some of them will soon be facing in another neighborhood—a neighborhood in Southeast Asia. Feel the exhilaration of freedom blowing in the faces of three cousins as they gallop their two-wheeled ponies across the land. Shiver with them on the cold planks of their park table bunks. Grieve with two at the incomprehensible loss of the third. Join one on his aching quest for meaning from the madness. Become a witness to youthful visions of loved ones lost. Make the incredible journey from the back yards of Mad River Township to the pounding surf of North Pescadero Beach—Eleven Miles South of Half Moon Bay.