It is not part of the medical school at the big U but it is inside the Medical School.  A wanderer needs to enter the medical school and see the students with their huge stacks of Xeroxed notes loitering in the halls walk down the main hallway and then enter the big beige oaken wood door with a window five feet up.  A sign above the five-foot wide ten-foot high door reads School of Microbiology and Immunology. On the door is a deadbolt, and only the janitor can let a student in after six PM.  Inside the door are laboratories, each with an oaken door, and each with a deadbolt.  Only a researcher with the proper key can enter a laboratory.  Down near the end is the Tumor Virus laboratory.   The lab is long with open bulletproof glass windows lining the room so anyone, anytime can look in and see what is going on.  Small white centrifuges line up on the black lab bench and refrigerators and cryo freezers stack in the back.  There demonstrates ample workspace for isolation techniques and apparatus to be displayed.   The door to the unit has two deadbolts, one high and one low and the curator alone has the two keys to gain access to the lab.  In case of an emergency, two professors each unknown to the other has one key and the Dean of the Medical school is called to summon them because only he has both of their names.    The curator has the name Dr. Singh.   Slightly beyond the virus repository and to the left is the aviary.  Here monkeys with terminal cancer are evaluated with therapies and cats with brain tumors sit in cages and scream. Some have electrodes sticking out of their head.    Animals with cancer are in pain and bite.  The curator of the animal plant is a huge man in a white coat and his name is Charcot. 

The Wracks is in the happy part of the complex in the beginning of the hall near the mouse house.  In this room, syngeneic mice lab subjects run in circles is cages that are cleaned and changed once per week. The mice are fed a standard blend of brown kibble with ample water.  Occasionally a mouse gets loose in the hall is caught and euthanized because each group of mice in a cage is an Immunology experiment in the making and the scientist cannot be sure of the origin of the mouse.  The professor assigns the Wracks with a SJl/J strain infected with type B oncovirus that develops reticulum cell sarcoma.  The analog in humans is non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma.

The SJL/j strain is a white purebred mouse line and when they are full of tumor, they puff up into huge balls and necrotic cinders protrude from their back.   The Wracks is assigned to sacrifice mice at end date, collect their serum and analyze the serum for tumor-specific transplantation antigens.  He is also to develop a 1 gravity sedimentation column that ultimately evolved to flow cytometry.    Their huge spleens which occupy their whole body cavity at term also harvest for isolation of type B virus-infected cells for transfer.   

The Wracks spends a day calibrating the fetal calf serum that will form the vehicle for the sedimentation column.  He tests each lot on a liquid osmometer to standardize the specific gravity of the solution so the experiment has validity.   After the final run, he cleans the osmometer and the researchers like him because he cleans up after himself.  Inside the animal morgue is a pathologist from the National Institute of Health who autopsies dead animals with cancer.  He dissects them piece by piece and makes slides and talks into a voice recorder while he works.  He has dark hair and looks like a person you would never want to cross ever anywhere.  He acknowledges the Wracks presence as the Wracks walks by. 

Tonight it is the end of the quarter and the Wracks is behind in his work because of his course load.  He has taken too much burden for a junior at the big U.  He finds the janitor for the medical school in his room on the main hall and the janitor opens up the door to the school of Microbiology and Immunology. The hall is dark except for the tumor virus repository where the lights are always on.  With his personal key he enters the lab, takes his supplies out of his refrigerator and sets up the column on the bench in a stand with a vice.  Taking his tumor cell suspension that he harvested earlier in the day and resuspended in pink minimal essential media, he layers the cells on the top of the column and sets the timer.  Near the front of the large laboratory is a coffee stand and hot water dispenser with a coin purse and he puts in a quarter and makes a cup of instant coffee.  He quaffs it down his throat and gets back to his timer set at ten minutes for the first aliquot.   During this time he cell counts the suspension in a manual cell counter microscope and notes the value in his experiment journal that he keep in his desk near his refrigerator. The timer goes off and he turns the siphon at the bottom of the column and pours five millimeters of fluid in the first tube labeled one and resets the timer for another ten minutes.  Putting the cells, labeled with trypan blue in the cell counter, he counts them and notes the result in his experiment book. Repeating this action until the three hundred milliliter Nalgene tube column empties the experiment is finally done.  He will have to repeat the run tomorrow.  The coffee wears off and the Wracks start to fall asleep at the bench.  The time signals well after two o’clock.  Suddenly a noise startles him and a man in a suit with glasses and a radioactive Geiger counter hosting a foot long rod sensor walks into the lab and asks him what he is doing here so late at night. 

Just running my experiment.   I am late and next week is finals week.  I have to finish up my work. 

The official-looking man looks at him intently and scans his body with the Geiger counter.  The machine starts to click.  

Radioactive chromium he says.  We use it to label white cells.   When you are done clean up and don’t forget to turn off the light. 

The official leaves just as quickly as he arrived.  He must be the head of the department thinks the Wracks, I haven’t met him yet.

When the experiment finishes, the Wracks washes the column and puts the supplies and the labeled aliquots in a rack back in the freezer.  He closes the laboratory door after turning off the lights. The white Ford Pinto borrowed from his father, parks in a loading zone in front of the school under a single street light.  The Wracks smiles, he hasn’t got a ticket.  The police are not up this late at night. The Santa Ana wind blows quietly and the Wracks drives back down Moonrise Boulevard to his home in tranquil hills.  He enters the house, finds his bedroom and falls into bed.  His brother’s bed is empty and the Wracks wonder where he is.  Tomorrow is another day.

Deep in a quiet enclave

Ina secluded kingdom by the sea

Set in the twentieth century

Lived a wonderful child in a wonderful place And her name was Aphrodite

Her eyes were silver grey

And quite fair, blond hair was she

Designed by angels, Made by God exquisitely

And she did not know from heaven below That she was to be loved and loved by me

Strong as a man but by her hands She was to bear my family tree

Written in the stars and in heaven Cherubic child, beautiful smile

She was to be loved and be loved by me

The evil things that dwell in hell

And Creep at night soundlessly Exist in this small enclave by the sea

Then they spied with lidless eye

And noticed my Aphrodite

As time goes on her family moved From the quiet enclave by the sea In my wild imagination

I saw her tomb from my little  room

For she died and she died to save me

Alone at a desk with lighted lamp In this quiet kingdom by the sea

I sit in the dark and read

She embraces me in my day dreams divine and lovely Aphrodi te

If there is a God and he visits This little kingdom by the sea Invited and boldly empowered

Those unspeakable things and their rings Will be found and be bound by me

Life goes on and it is late

I live sequestered in another place

Far from this sheltered enclave by the sea

Once in a while she appears far away

She waves and she beckons to me

I fall deep into slumber and dream I truly do want to believe Aphrodite aside my bed whispers

She smiles like a child and promises To be loved and be loved by me

it began without a tingling

not a pick or trilling ringing nor a pleasant festive yearning a black altar blazing burning losing power of          discerning

all those words words words

murmured soft subtle words in the chilling air of night when I am so alone

in my home away from home

they burn deep into my bones murmured liquid flowing words

loud shouted words

shoot straight through the air

from where they come I know not where leaving a fragile soul so bare

and my eyes begin to tear

infernal scolding shouted words

hissed whispered words

1hear them on the phone between a buzzing and a drone please leave me to atone

time to run  and somewhere roam

to escape the muted moan

of deceitful whispered words

sweet soothing words

how could  women be so mean and my mind begins to scream and the world becomes a dream Oh such sounds cut and ream something simple-seeming words

large looming hateful words from afar c;;o often roared somewhat versed in ancient lore knock me down upon the floor bruised::!..and battered and sore cursed infernal wasted words

simply spoken words

from everywhere  they ar.- heard and from close they lovingly lure into an action s0  absurd

will there ever be a cure

for the simple spoken word

smooth imploring words

from the walls, they boldly come in the bathroom from the tub

on composure grate and rub

please send help from up above

for unstopping urging words

cute muttered words

so often spoken to my back. and my senses they attack,

composure completely lacked such a grueling Cheshire cat

oh those cute uttered words

I hear some mentioned words in the forest lighted by the sun the remains of a coven

formless. banished they are done have I lost or have I won iridescent phantom words.

and all resounding words

cause effect when they re heard teach madness, loath and fear

so simple, so trite so mere gothic city  built so weird

the- ‘vibration of  spoken ‘Words

words are made up of many sounds and in nature  they abound

‘whether muted or very loud promised or  avowed

smiled or with a frown, They are all just words word words words

simply spoken seeming words

In the twentieth century Bells
In a twinkling render hell
A sad melody dothe fortell
In the dark and endless night
Beginning heartless tearing fright
I hear those bells bells bells
I hear the wind driven shameless shaking bells

In the day they merrily ring
With a ding a ling a ling
And my mind imagines things
Please my soul don’t fearfully wing
I hold my ears to stop the din
Of those bells bells bells
Of those piercing grinning banshee driven bells

Of bells with ringing chime
Ting ting shrilling sordid rhyme
Allah please deliver a sign
Marking the ending of this time
Instruct the fates to be so kind
At the yelling and the shrieking of the bells
Of those horrid screaming profane tingling bells

I always hear the bells
When I am sick or when I am well
With a flinch or with a yell
May my sanity be weld
Or my future be foretold
With those bells bells bells
Of those merciless tearing ringing pinging bells

Of course bells are only noise
And disrupt my natural poise
May their sounds I do avoid
Until I go unto my lord
In the far and distant future
O those bells bells bells
Of those bing bong binging evil bells

From a long adventure bearing
Bottled up my youth and yearning
In my home alone and fearing
Screaming, hissing, writhing, Fitting
Crucifix in my hand I dothe implore
Came a tapping at my window floor
So I looked outside and nothing more

In my bed in room alight
Demons hissing, flitting then alight
Turn up the juice I need more light
Monsters from the darkness come alive
And in my weakness I might die
Comes a rapping at my window floor
And I know for sure there is nothing there

It is like a peculiar tapping
not a coarse and raucous rapping
not a loud and boisterous crashing
A little pecking, clicking thrashing directed at the window floor
I dare not look ouside for gravest fear
I am sure there is nothing there

Laying in the hospital bed insane
Roommate dearest also bane
Booming air duct sounds along with pain
Darkness madness freedom maimed
Others here they are the same
Comes a tapping at my window floor
So I scream out loud and nothing more

In this hotel they shock and twist
And drug and startle and slap and rip
They come back shadows through the big oak door
Grinning devils bare and bored
And in the night returns the rapping
A little trite peculiar winking tapping
Tapping at my window floor
So I start to pray and nothing more

Back at home in just a wink
Once a week I see a shrink
Asking what I see and hear
What I think and what I fear
And my future goes amidst the tears
And in the blackness comes that tapping
The familiar simple shortened clapping
A clacking at my window floor
And I am sure outside there is nothing there

Even in the morning early
While I awaken slow and surly
Before the sun rises so cheery
The sound appears that I abhor
I hear a tapping at the front door
The little trifled intentioned clacking
The peculiar light and evil tapping
Tapping again at my front door
I am afraid to look and nothing more

Reading in the night so deep
No sounds, no light no insects creep
No mice to remind of loss of sleep
Then returns the peculiar click and ticking
Alight and brusque and sickening pecking
A tap tap tapping at my window floor
Gone and back and rotten fear
I am scared to death and nothing more

And this before the sounds and words
Are peculiar things that I have heard
In the blossom of my youth
Came a loving brush with death
And to this day sometimes I hear a tapping
Always a light and affectionate clacking
A click clack clacking at my new front door
And now my soul is not so bare
So I look away because nothing’s there

On PCH and moonrise Avenue, Next to Ted’s restaurant, God built a long reef of cobblestones that deposited from Sea Castle Mountain and the lair of Estat.  Too bad the beach sits in the shadow of Catalina Island and Clemente Island to the south. Farm Beige fishes the reef at moonrise and usually wins the halibut derby every year.   Seaweed covers the reef and forms a beautiful brownish-green canopy offshore in the water in front of the island.  The Towers hang off the cliff above the moonrise.  Huge pylons set into the cliff enable a huge hotel-like structure to perch precariously over the PCH.  The blue sky hover over the pebble-strewn beach with coarse white sand and buttressed point, where a parking lot saves paradise and Teds restaurant smells like a steak and French fries.  The white sharks that hover off shore love the garbage Ted’s pumps into the ocean and the huge beasts can be felt near and closer when a surfer cares to surf alone.  The fear, the sickening feeling of seizure, strikes lonely surfers because Moonrise heralds as an overflow surf spot for beginners, refuse and stooges.  The only way to get the break with tremendous form is to live there and call in sick to work when it happens.  Once a year or two or three, moonrise point breaks better then Lanikea on Oahu, Hawaii and fifteen-second tube rides become the norm rather than the exception.  The secret lies in the shallow reef that only functions when the swell impinges directly from the west, bypassing Catalina and focusing on moonrise.  When a fifteen-foot west swell enters Monica Bay, only surfrider beach breaks better and half the world is there and not at moonrise.

Lanikea on the North shore of Oahu lives a short drive up from Haleiwa, down from Eukai and next to Chuns.  When Lanikea works, a long wall a quarter-mile long breaks down the beach at light speed. A rider must live there to catch it.    Moonrise reef breaks rounder but rarely, and appears as an ephemeral spirit enlivening the life of a lonely nomadic wave rider who lives up the canyon a mile away close to the darkness those envelopes Tranquil Hills. When the moonrise reef breaks big, a rider enters the wave at the point in front of the restaurant.  The wave then slows down for a second and then lines up on the reef like a long wall and breaks as a vortex for fifteen seconds all the way to the Bell Air Bay Club.beach.  Swells like this hit moonrise for one day only and then drop off tremendously. The west swell must peak at ten or more feet for the reef to work properly.  People live near moonrise or they don’t.  Frequently the only other thing swimming at moonrise are great white sharks attracted by the garbage and runoff from Sea Castle.  They rarely come up but someone surfing alone can feel them close.  

Wracks had the pleasure of sharing big waves with that person who sang out of Seattle and died up there.  He was a student at the University of Seattle in the health sciences.  He and utopia would nab the big sets with scarcely anyone else to contend with except the Brazilian Jib jets expert who retired after a successful MMA career.  Wracks never bothered with the Brazilian even though he would propelknock shoot his board at Wracks and threaten a takedown.  The waves when they happened were just too good to think about doing anything else.  Wracks, utopia, and the Brazilian together with some white tips were the only ones out at moonrise and would watch the steady flow of traffic going north to rich man’s land while waiting for big sets. Most of the time Moonrise looks like a placid lake with ripples lapping up on shore in view of the windows at the restaurant. In his youth, wracks would walk down the canyon, past the swami realization center, and with his homemade surfboard paddle at moonrise. Wracks would the walk up Moonrise Avenue, up the canyon, and back to his home and family and friends and the darkness soon to envelope tranquil hills and mark the countryside for evermore.

In the free flow of consciousness existing in the mind of Wracks these memories flood consciousness and overflow into a keyboard hooked up USB to a cheap laptop. Late at night wracks wishes to share the beauty of the world, the accomplishment of athletic achievement and the free spirit of youth that reside in an older body now.  The girls, the waves, the dark force, they have all come and gone but what remains is moonrise, Surfrider, and Zero in the middle of the heart of terror set in opulent America. Wracks was there but not there anymore. A rider has to live there to get it because it is gone in a day like Lanikai, Pupa kea and El Cap. Just like life, peak experiences happen and then are gone in the short, long task called life. 

The scenario is a sleepy Texan town close to the border of Mexico.   A distraught 18-year-old mental patient, who has been coerced by unknown forces, buys two assault rifles, enters a suburban elementary school and starts shooting young children as a political statement.  The gunman is either apprehended or shot and a rampage of vocalizing pacifists demand that the government prohibit the owning or bearing of firearms.  The question here really is not the gun industry but the social fabric that caused a young citizen to run amuck.   However, this paper focuses on the second amendment and the right to bear arms. 

The memory of the public is very short.   Just one hundred years ago, outlaws armed with state-of-the-art repeating rifles and sidearms would commander whole towns, take all the money, rape all the pretty women and be off in a swirl of dust towards their next objective. This is called the wild, wild, west.   Farm owners had to maintain an arsenal of rifles and shotguns because occasionally, desperados would infiltrate and conquer their rancho.   It seems like the supply of criminals is endless but the human aspect of life is a topic for another dissertation.  It was only a militia of colonials armed with French long rifles that gave their lives, their liberty and their health to start the great and peaceful nation that we love and live in today. 

Pacifists and feminists and the like all believe unsavory characters should be poisoned and euthanized in the local hospital as a fitting punishment for their crimes because it is non-violent.   This sounds like cruel and unusual punishment to me.   The pacifists mandate that violence is now a felony with one year of mandatory imprisonment so now the rich can poison who they like at will and get away with it.  It is logical to assume that the best recapitulation against a poisoning miscreant is to punch them out, but now violence is anathema in our present society.  In a developed high-class society where violence is prohibited, the one who can afford the best poisoner wins, and that is that.  Maybe this is why some seemingly innocuous teenagers go berserk and start killing.

This author is not a psychologist or licensed psychiatrist but notices that owning a firearm is masculine and almost all successful men have at least one.   They feel that bigger and more is better and this is the manly way to go.  All gun experts like big weapons like 357 magnum, 45 ACP and 50 caliber browning.  Watch U-tube and learn.  Little machos all have 22 rimfire and most of the handgun accidents in the United States are caused by 22 rimfire weapons.  If a reader has ever fired a handgun, they know that recoil is daunting and only experts prefer the big calibers.

A solution but now a panacea for this dilemma can be the statutes for firearm possession and licensing. May it be the age to possess a firearm for everyone be raised to the age majority of 21?   People, let it be so.   As a placation to all the incredibly wealthy gun manufacturers, a law should be added to the 2nd amendment as a rider to the effect that only new firearms bought from the manufacturer can be obtained and all old or used firearms be confiscated and destroyed.   Anyone owning or selling a used firearm without registration be subject to immediate incarceration for six months.  This way the rich can get richer but the poor will protected from a minimum of firearms in circulation.

This essay is a sample of Americana at its best and it does not take a 100 page treatise written by lawyers to convey the simple formula of gun control.  New guns only, ownership and possession by age of majority of 21.   There are thousands of used weapons floating around at gun shows, America only has to make it so!

“Bonk, bonk bonk,” goes the knuckle against the glass window in Wrack’s room. “Who is outside my window at three in the morning,” asks Wracks?  “Bonk, Bonk, Bonk, meet me outside,” says BG.  “bonk, bonk, and bonk, its me BG.” Says BG.  “Where is my dog,” asks Wracks. “I gave Punkin a milk bone and put him to sleep,” says BG.  “How did you get in my house,” asks Wracks who now is wide awake. “I reached through the dog door and opened it up,” explains BG. “I did not want to wake your parents so I put Punkin to bed and came around to your window.  Meet me in back.”   “I have to put on some pants,” says Wracks, “give me a minute.”  Wracks exits his room, walks down the hall, closes the hall door and looks at the cushion where Punkin the house dog sleeps.  Punkin dozes upside down with a smile on his face and stirs when Wracks walks by.   He opens his eyes, makes a whining noise and goes back to sleep.  Wracks let BG in the back door. BG wears a cardigan sweater and a large woodsman hat because it is winter in the best climate in North America on the west coast in December.  “The con is on,” says BG.  “It should be about eight to ten feet at the point and bigger at indicator.”  “A new swell is hitting today and then it will drop tomorrow. The con is on and we should go now and be out in the water at sunup. The tide is low at two PM so the swell should peak in the morning and then drop with the tide. Let’s have breakfast.  What do you have? “   “We have eggs and toast,” says Wracks.  “I’ll have two eggs sunny side up and two pieces of toast with butter,” states BG. Wracks takes out a pan from underneath the stove, adds butter to the bottom of the pan and turns on the electric range and then drops four eggs into the melting and then sizzling butter.  Five minutes later the two sit at the kitchen table and have breakfast with two cups of Yuban fresh brewed coffee.  “It will not be as big as last time we went but it should be real good and have excellent shape. “  BG takes a draw on his coffee and finishes his eggs. “Bring some gas money and a pack of Pall mall Gold.   We will need the nicotine.”  Says BG.  He rises from his chair, takes his dish and sets it in the sink like he would at home.  “Ill gets my stuff, “says wracks. The dog spins around right side up and yawns.  “Ill see you out front, “says BG as he exits the back door in the dark in December as the mist from the ocean puts a shade and shadow on everything.   The dog goes back to sleep.  Wracks gets his jacket, his coke and bread, his paraffin bar, a pack of cigarettes, two dollars in change, and an O’Neill super suit, and goes out the back door into the garage.  A red diamond tail Nat Pro gun sits in the rafters and Wracks pulls it down with a hook and brings his gear outside the gate to underneath the big pine tree on Bacon way as the street lights illuminate the misty air about the night. The green General motors durabuilt engine econocar hatch sits open and Cool is loading his surfboard into the car between the seats.  “I invited him along, “says BG. “The more the merrier.”  Cool turns his head in a Mexican pullover with a hood and says,  “Hey brau,”  He then takes a draw on his cigarette and finishes a Heineken beer in a dark green bottle then heaves the empty into the neighbor’s yard.   “tonight you are going coffin,” says BG.  “Wait till I get my motorcycle helmet,” says Wracks.  Wracks dashes back into the back, into the garage and extracts a black bell motocross helmet and puts it on.   The three surfboards sit in the middle of the car separating the two driver seats and the back folds down into a large cargo area.  The gear of the three surfers sits on the right behind the “passenger side,   On the left will go Wracks coffin style. “Get in,” says BG, we have to get going.”  Wracks climbs into the cargo section, sits down facing back and lays into the car like count Dracula going to sleep.  BG closes the Hatchback over him, enters the car, ignites the ignition, puts the car into gear and the three set off into history. Down Bacon, past Deadman’s, onto Quez lane and then sunrise avenue and Wracks looks up at the stars with his helmet on, chin strap on and starts to fall asleep and the car accelerates like mad up highway number one.  “We are going to take the freeway today,” stipulates BG.  Up Pang oh road the hatchback flies and the tires screech around the hairpin curves until the plateau and the freeway 101 appears as a green sign in the headlights at night perpendicular to the direction they were going.   Entering the onramp the car flies and BG accelerates until the car is in forth gear and floored at night with the high beams on traveling on the 101 north.  Wracks awakens from sleep to see the stars and the car fills with smoke and the windows are half way down and the wind whips around Wracks helmet, the icy coolness bringing him back to life.   Within a short time the three arrive at the junction, the junction of California street and highway one, and the ocean makes sounds and the moon sets largely on the ocean, illuminating the way to the little corner.   The little corner is the most consistent surf break in SB and gets a northwest, a hard north and a straight west swell.  BG says today the swell sweeps in straight west and Wracks dozes coffin style in the hatchback.   Kool becomes animated and says, “let’s stop at the little clam for provisions.”  BG acknowledges and the car comes to a stop a half hour later at a little market, in a shack, set against s a hill with a gas station a half block away and the ocean rumbles and roars.  BG buys a hot dog and a pastrami sandwich heated in the store microwave.  Kool gets a sandwich and a bag of candy.   Wracks stays inside the car.   The two eat in silence.   Then BG says, “Lets get going and be out in the water at sunrise.”  Kool acknowledges with a hand gesture.  BG ignites the car and heads out on the highway. Within ten minutes the three are at the little corner and pull into the big parking lot made especially for wave riders surrounding them with cyclone fencing and concrete blockades.   The night closes and the scene begins to lighten into a dark grey and morning arrives.  Eight cars situate inside the parking area.  Die-hard wave riders who scoff a normal life sit in their cabs or hang out of the cargo doors of their vans waiting for first light.  Sharks cruise in the darkness and light sends them back out to deep water until the sun sets again.  A number of young ladies arrive to watch the wave rider’s surf the long thin tubular swells of the little corner.  The little corner breaks mostly on a west or northwest swell.  On these disturbances, the wave’s line up perpendicular to the point and break with ruler straightness in cylindrical almond-shaped tubes.  From the outer first point three separate tube sections exist and a wave rider can situate his or her self strategically at each section to ride deep inside the wave.  The little corner holds a west swell up to fifteen feet, and then it starts to break erratically and close out.  On a rare hard north swell that refracts off the Channel Islands onto the west facing beach, thirty foot waves will break for a morning and then disappear in the afternoon.  For these waves people dedicate their lives and wait and watch for the perfect big day to arrive.  When it breaks, the little corner draws addicts from all over the coastal region of southern California.  Cool is the first out of the car. BG uncorks wracks who arises life a vampire from his tomb, the shucks the helmet and saunters with the other two down the little trail unto the base of the beach to catch a glimpse of what morning brings.   Today, the three are lucky, a solid ten to twelve-foot swell sends lines three to five at a time to break down the point into the bay.  The morning starts, the light arrives and a cool offshore breeze holds up the waves unto perfect spinning vortexes larger than ten feet and growling.  Cool screams out an unspeakable word and runs back to the green hatchback along with BG.  The hatch open, three wetsuits hang on the car and wracks shares the bar of paraffin with the other two, and white streaks appear on the surface of the three long surfboards. With boards in hand, the three run down the trail, through the flotsam and jetsam of wood and seaweed up to the point.  Timing the sets, they launch during a lull and are outside.   The sun comes up over the mountain interior to the little corner point and the day begins.  About twenty people ride the waves that morning and enough waves arrive to give each his or her own to enjoy.  When the sun raises to directly overhead, the offshore wind stops and the ocean becomes completely smooth and glassy like a window pane.  Three wave sets pour through endlessly.  Within an hour the wind reverses into a westward flow and the ocean surface starts to roughen up and chop.  BG turns to Wracks and says, “Were going in.” Wracks starts to paddle to shore without waiting for a wave to ride and then arrives on the beach by going along with the white water.    Cool waits up at the car. BG opens the car, Cool grabs a bag of candy and starts eating.  Wracks strips off his wetsuit and adorns his druid robe.  Cool takes off his wetsuit then noticing some young ladies down the parking lot, starts dancing stark naked and singing.  The girls laugh and blush and Wracks stows his gear in the hatchback and modestly puts on his corduroy jeans and tee-shirt and then his jacket.  BG smokes a Pall mall gold and drinks a coke.   The waves still pour in and the parking lot shows full.   Surfers run down to the beach with their boards and the wind is a light five knots on shore.   BG tosses his cigarette butt and says, “Lets go.  Wracks get in the coffin.”  Wracks dons the black bell helmet and descends into the hatch.  Cool drinks a beer and tosses the can as close to a trash receptacle as he can.  The green Chevrolet launches southward at light speed. “I told you so, I told you so,” chides BG….  Ten to twelve feet slides and churning green tubes.  What more can you ask for.”

“I have to go work for my father,” says Cool  “it is mellow.”    Wracks as customary fades into oblivion as the car enters the 101 at California street.    The three arrive back at Bacon way at three thirty pm.  “Service with a smile,” says BG.  “Wracks, get out, I have a new destination.”  Wracks grabs his gear in a brown grocery bag and plucks his red NatPro gun from the car.   “Thank you very much BG that was a session I will always remember.  BG and cool accelerate in a spinning circle and rocket up Deadman’s land to Charmed street where Cool lives.  Wracks stows his board in the rafters and washes his super suit with cold hose water.   The little dog sits on the kitchen step, growls and wags his tail.   Wracks enters the house.  “What’s for dinner” asks Wracks. “Grab a frozen bag of chicken and microwave it, “says mom.   “Where were you?” “I was surfing big waves up in SB with BG,” explains Wracks.  “go shower off and do your homework,” says Mom.   Wracks walks to his bedroom, the falls into his bed and is asleep.  The day closes, and night arrives again and the dark brooding in the silence becomes a reality.  Wracks wakes up when it is dark, makes his meal, boils water for a cup of coffee and reads by his little desk lamp.  The dog saunters in through the doggy door and falls asleep on his little cushion and wracks turns on the evening lights and locks up the house.  A light shines from under the door in Grandma’s room and Grandma is watching Tony Orlando on television.  “Do you need dinner,” asks Wracks.  “No she says and smiles and holds a speaker up to her ear.  “I already ate.”  The day ends, the night begins and another page turns over in the book of Wracks life.  Today he rode long thin tubular waves for a quarter-mile ride while the world turns.  No one noticed except Wracks and maybe his little dog and tomorrow he will wake up and read the Sunday paper and maybe go to church.  Then a new week begins again and wracks grow a little older.

The world is made of money.  Money rules government directs emotion, colors relationships and moves history.  There is a way families can keep their money and pass it to the next generation.  This way certain families regardless of name continue onward until the final conflict resolves. This way is the Basteur method. 

Throughout history struggle and conflict exists between the have and have nots, the Muslim and the Christians, the communists and the capitalists, the black and the white, the big and the small and more. It all boils down to money and the way the money is handled, stored and allocated to the inheritors and the next generations.  The families that control the earth on each continent periodically repeat this method to solidify their rule and rid the land of evil inhabitants.  Using this method the well-to-do battle the want to be with very little casualty as the victims can never identify the perpetrators to retaliate and the method reiterates to finality until fate sets the stage again for another foray. 

This method depends on a dupe, a fall guy, a fool, a mark, or whatever he or she becomes.   He or she is the inheritor of something of extreme value or fame, and all the bad guys want to marry into it or take it from them.  The fortunate play the game until all the unsavory players are eliminated by fate or disease and the dupe finally wins by a narrow margin. If the mark dies in the process, the game is still a win.  Unfortunately for the dupe the method takes a lifetime.

Just like the Montagues’ and the Capulets, and the Christians that pursue the pagans to each civilization, the rulers maintain order by the method.   The method begins with silence and trickery and the secret is held better than the location of the Landing Site for the D-day invasion.  Everyone knows the secret except the fool and the rulers play him or her until the termination or final fruition of the game.  There exists a failsafe, there always does and a woman from the ruling family has a child of the dupe without his or her knowledge and raises them separately in case the opposition kill the fall guy.  Other girls in his age group may bear a child by a brief tryst for added insurance.  The children raise separately by foster families to guard the secret that the fool shall never know. 

In this one instance, a male child is raised in a foster family of protagonists and bonded to a brother who is unrelated but is given the same name without him knowing.  The child is socialized by physically juxtaposing him in childish activities with his peers who exist as a group of people who want to inherit or marry into the money that this dupe represents.  Once the active miscreants try to collect their inheritance by committing murder,, they develop cancer or a drug habit or die in an accident until everyone in the peer group evaporates giving the dupe a chance to begin their life.  If one of the peers tries to kill this fall guy and he survives, he is delivered and given a dose of atropine so he does not remember details of the event.  This way the fool never realizes someone tried to kill him so he cannot retaliate.  Usually, the well to do try to monopolize the situation by blacklisting the dupe against his will.  The dupe never employed fully or realizing his potential lives a life of poverty by marrying someone who is willing to put up with his or her misguided failings.  Once married, the illegitimate inheritors pressure the spouse to let them in the house at night, through a window so they can slowly poison the fool to death. They threaten to hurt the children in some sort of clandestine way or subvert their life the way they did to the fool.  Food is tainted in the household and the fool is forced to live on candy and cold coffee in order to survive. Time ticks away the fool nears retirement.  All these people develop chronic afflictions and slowly die off as the governors of the method adulterate their bodies and soul with every opportunity and watch over the fool.   As stated earlier, it is immaterial if the fool survives the inquisition by family and inheritors over their lifetime.  He or she lives in poverty and eats sale food and starches as do the squalid poor of each civilization.  If the fool dies, the fabricators have an illegitimate child to assume the reigns of the estate. 

The object for the majority of life is the keeping. This lifetime is a chance for the incredibly affluent to afflict and eliminate them while the antagonists and perpetrators are all together in one place.    The mark sits in a cell or a room or a small house and works as a janitor or housewife hoping for the best.  Only a strong belief in religion so well cultivated in youth saves him or her from self-destruction. People will have nothing to do with him and their family want him to end for his inheritance and all food is adulterated with sedatives and worse in the hope for the final end of the supplicant.  It is the keeping that is significant.   This person removes from social interaction, accomplishment and business, fine food, and entertainment until age prevents him or her from enjoying it.  Once the people that tried to extinguish the life of the supplicant expire then his or her life can begin.   At this point the dupe moves to a new state or country and repeats what is left of their life in an amicable fashion.   Should this person survive, and their spouse dies, they will marry a spinster or divorcee of the ruling family so upon his or her demise they inherit at least half of the estate.  Upon completion of the cycle, the ruling families continue with a bulk of the wealth until another opportunity arises to perform the method again.  This continues throughout history and the same people have the money, hold the money, and decree who makes the money for another millennium.  Woe to the dupe who suffers the humiliation of being used for their lifespan for the purpose of conveying an estate and plaguing the bad guys. Maybe it was Voltaire who said “the rich get richer and the poor get poorer and this act by conniving families only proves this utterance beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Time moves on.  A legendary surf rider named Miklos Dora once said, “History does not repeat itself but it does return for another engagement”.  The incredibly wealthy will execute the Basteur Method through time immortal until God decides he has had enough. We are all the children of God created in his image but when He moves, it is profound, exquisite, and final.  Woe in each generation the object of the Basteur method.  They are used to draw in the opposition all in one place.  

All night long high winds and rain that goes sideways fusillade Ocean View.  Lightning booms and light arcs through the window shades and then sleep overtakes Wracks in his little room in the corner, shrouded by trees in the enclave next to campus.  Saturday Morning arrives and sunlight beams across the window onto the living room.  Cool sits at the kitchen table along with Koest, an old friend from tranquil Hills.  

“When did Koest get here,” asks Wracks

“He came in last night and you were asleep.” Says Kool.

“I checked out Campus point and Coal oil point and they are at least fifteen to twenty feet. Lets hit it.” Says Wracks.

“No!” “We are going to surf El Cap this morning.”  States Kool.

“I’m ready,” says Koest.

“I have to have a cigarette and a cup of coffee to get me up,” says Wracks

“I will be loading the van,” says Kool.

El Capitan State Beach Park exists as a special place, a hidden place, a secluded place, far enough away that nobody goes there.  To arrive at El Capitan, he or she drives north on Pacific Coast highway one for two hours until they see the big green and brown sign to turn off.  A few miles up the coast from El Cap, situates the City of Gaviota and Gaviota Point State Beach.  Out in the lineup at El Capitan, a rider can see the point of Gaviota in the distance.  Looking in from the air, El Capitan lays as a large comma-shaped point oriented in the southwest direction.  Boulders, stones, and pebbles form the large point and a campsite resides inland surrounded by large pine trees.  A parking area situates at the tip of the point so day users can enjoy the scenery.  Out in the ocean sit the majestic Channel Islands and the water is dark grayish-blue.  From a surfer’s point of view, El Capitan provides a point break type wave that tunnels in six inches of water.  The breaking wave throws inward farther out than it is high.  Although not as pretty as the Banzai Pipeline, El Capitan point breaks with more force and more danger.  The downside of El Capitan State Beach Point stems from its geography.  For the most part, the beach sits in the shadow of San Nicolas Island and Santa Rosa to the south.  For this reason, on a large West swell, El Capitan State Beach point will break half the size of Campus point and Rincon on the same west swell.  Additionally, the city of Gaviota to the north pumps all the farm waste and sewage directly into the ocean and the area has the notoriety as another shark pit in the red triangle of death.  The factor that allures all wave riders is the reality that El Capitan Point waves break in a tube that throws out farther than the wave is high.  For example, a six-foot wave will be a six-foot square cavern breaking down a long point in shallow water. Today four other wave riders brave the white sharks and sit in a pack at the peak. The time to surf El Cap is when the swell is really big and it will be smaller.   The tide looms high and backwashes from the point balloons the waves into huge monstrosities of pain.  Where Campus turns at twenty feet clean rulers, El Capitan at this moment vomits ten-foot ugly monsters down a gravelly, rock-strewn point. 

“I’m out,” says Koest. “I may never get the chance to surf it this big ever again.’

“Yeah Dah,” screams Kool.  “I’m goofy foot,” and he waxes his board with paraffin, smokes a cigarette and drinks a Heineken lager beer.  Kool pulls out a large beef stick food item, chews it down and washes the bolus down his throat with beer.   After hiding his car keys, Kool grabs his red Nat Pro pintail gun and runs to the water and is in and paddles.  A huge set rolls in and Kool pushes through a feathering lip and makes it outside alive and unscathed.  Koest and Wracks slowly wax-up and survey the lineup.  The sets arrive every twenty minutes and the biggest wave is either the first or second one.  Wracks and Koest hit the beach, time the sets, and set outward.  Wracks waits outside as usual so not to compete for waves in the pack.  Wracks want the big one.  Within a half-hour, a big one rolls in, Wracks commits and is engulfed a huge disgorging, upchucking beast.  At the bottom, Wraks turns, drifts up the face, sets his edge, puts his hands together, and prays.  The wave turns in front of him, closes around him, convulses, and disgorges the wayfarer after four seconds of pure speed.  Wracks glides out of the thing, makes a few turns, and kicks out of the wave.  As Wraks paddles back up to the peak with the pack, Koest screams by on a mutant clone, and Wracks see him grit his teeth as he holds his rail backside and accelerates past him.  Kool has the time of his life, screams, and starts to attract a big shark.  On his third wave, Wracks breaks the nose off of his board in the shallow water but paddles back out and surfs a nose less board covered with duct tape. 

“I might never catch El Cap this big ever again,” thinks Wracks.  Wracks is right.  He will never see El Capitan state beach like this ever again. 

“We are leaving,” says Kool “The waves drop in size as we speak.”  “Let’s go surf some lefts.”

The Three throw their boards into the brown and yellow van, strip their wet suits, have a cigarette, dress and enter the van.  Koest rides shotgun.  Wracks lie on the bed in the back with the boards.  Kool lights a cigarette and pulls another Heineken from his cooler, pops the top with an opener, and gulps the whole bottle down in a single draw.   The tuned exhaust on the van booms a raspy growl and the three head out of El Capitan State Beach Park.  Halfway done, the day rolls on, the sun, beams down proudly and a few clouds from the previous big storm remain.  Ten minutes down south from El Capitan, sits a deep water reef that breaks left.  At this instant, the reef shows at least twice overhead.  

“I am going out,” says Kool

“I too, says Koest.

The two drag on cold, cold, wetsuits, wax their boards, and head down to the reef.  Wracks sit in his Druid robe, smokes a cigarette, and watches.  The nose of his Nat Pro homebrew board will half to be glassed back on his board at home.  Wracks do not want to risk ruining the entire board so he refrains from joining the two and surveys the world.   Kool and Koest nab big waves on the reef and surf until they cannot paddle anymore.  Arriving quietly back at the van, they dress, and the crew drive down PCH back to Island view community. Back at the apartment, the gear stows inside, and Wracks sits down on the couch.

“I have to do homework,” says Wracks

“Me and Koest are going to Big D’s, says Kool

“Big D is having a party.”

The Wracks never has the chance to return to El Capitan State Beach Park.  Maybe the location sits too far away.  Maybe El Cap does not share the things that make a return visit possible.  Maybe the place looms too remote, too secluded, and too unpopulated to return to conscious memory.  Wracks never get to test the secret of El Capitan State Beach Park Point.  A local that day confides to him to check the break on the next huge southwest swell.  The Secret of El Capitan Point is this:  the spot locates exactly at the gap between Santa Rosa Island and San Nicholas Island.  On a big southwest swell, the waves sneak through the gap and focus on El Capitan State Beach.  The local says, “El Capitan breaks biggest and has the best form on a big southwest swell contrary to popular opinion.”  El Capitan breaks better in the summer and when time exists for you, be there on a big southwest swell.” Wracks never receives the luck to test the secret suggestion.  Possibly the local wants Wracks to be eaten by a big white shark, in the summer when they are most active.  The secret remains untested until the next generation in their youthful exuberance happens upon El Cap in the summer, on a road trip, when southern hemisphere cyclones generate huge swells.  Wracks sits in his little den, with a light, a cigarette, a cup of coffee, and a loaf of bread and study Newtonian Calculus.  In the den, in the apartment surrounded by a grove of trees in an obscured location shaded from the sun, Wracks stays nurturing Cools hydroponic garden until the quarter concludes and the stay in Island View comes to an end.