My Summer of 69
Reflections on the privilege of aging
This summer, I officially turned 69. If you have reached this number like me, there is a lot to take in and be grateful for. First, I’m still here and have been blessed to collect close to seven decades of memories.
In the ’50s, I crawled, tumbled, and fell to the tunes of Little Richard’s “Tutti Frutti” and Jerry Lee Lewis’s “Great Balls of Fire.” I didn’t have a “Father Knows Best” and learned early to fend for myself with little help from my parents, who were both working most of the time, leaving my brother and me alone in a tenement flat staring out the window in the South Bronx.
California dreamin’: The 1960s
In the ’60s, we moved from NY’s South Bronx melting pot to sunny white California, where I was swept away by fantasies of “Good Vibrations” and “Surfin’ Safaris” and ditched school with friends in search of that perfect wave up and down the Pacific Coast, “anglin’ in Laguna” and “kickin’ out in Doheny too.” Malibu, Topanga, San-O, Trestles.
Surfing was like a drug I couldn’t get enough of. It was my speed. My escape. My freedom. The thrill of the ocean’s power beneath my board, the sun warming my skin, and the salt air filling my lungs was intoxicating.
