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To the Editor

The summer of 1962 was like no other. As our family flew to the World’s Fair in Seattle, Dad made his way to the cockpit of our Boeing 727. Then I told Mom, “This plane is slowly turning and diving.” She said, “I don’t think so.” I was sure it was. Dad was smiling when he came back to his seat. Later our pilot came by and patted me on the shoulder, “Son, your dad is one helluva pilot!”

The World’s Fair seemed crammed to me, but we enjoyed the space exhibits and wild, modern kitchens and homes. I said, “That Space Needle looks too tall and spindly.” Even though a zillion people had been up in it, I wasn’t too sure about it. Once we got up top It was so different from the Washington Monument’s four tiny windows. The Space Needle was wide open like walking free and clear among the clouds.

Dad drove our cream yellow Chevy Impala hardtop with the 283 cubic inch engine. I started to get back in after lunch, but Dad handed me the keys, “You have your license. This will be good experience.” I couldn’t believe it.

Logging trucks each hauling three massive redwood logs chased us up mountains. I had to floor it. Mom tapped me on the shoulder and told me to slow down. Dad said, “No Libby we need to go! They must have V-12 diesels.” I wanted to see one of their engines.

Olympic Park was beautiful. Those redwoods put the three-hundred-year-old oaks in our yard to shame. The center of the base of one of the redwoods was cut out and the ranger said people used to drive their cars through it.

I drove south on Route 101, but when we got to Big Sur, the cliffs down to the Pacific were on Mom’s side. Dad took over the driving from there into San Francisco. We went swimming in the biggest swimming pool I had ever seen. The Fleishhacker Pool was filled with ocean water.

We visited the Carrigans, Aunt Midge’s folks. Mr. Carrigan showed brother David and me a caged basement storage area full of beautiful racing motorcycles. That was the first time I ever heard or saw the word HONDA. Mr. Carrigan was somber when he told us the young man who raced those bikes had wrecked and died.

As the folks visited, I got bored and told them I was going to walk down to the docks. From the end of a long pier, in the distance I saw a massive, black hulled ocean liner pass under The Golden Gate Bridge. Now that was a sight to see.

Dock workers in coveralls, heavy boots and gloves started to show up. Then five guys arrived wearing weird clothes. They were all dressed the same wearing brown sandals with no socks. Their white, high waisted, bell bottom pants were topped by shirts with big horizontal red and white stripes. Their sleeves were puffed out huge and their shirt necks were slit from shoulder to shoulder. I didn’t think dock workers dressed like that.

They weren’t busy and seemed friendly, so we started visiting. Mike, the shorter blonde guy, was very friendly. Brian, the tall guy with brown hair, was quiet and seemed interested in whatever he was thinking. The other three – Carl, Dennis and Al – occasionally jumped in to add to Mike’s and my conversation.

Mike glanced toward the ocean liner that was looming larger. He said, “We need to get out of sight in this shed. Come with us if you want to.” They were fun to talk to, so I ducked out of sight with them. It was really crammed with six guys in that small shed. Brian sat next to a window and stared outside.

Through a second stained window the liner was getting closer. Workers were setting stuff up on the pier and other workers clustered along the pier. But these five guys were hiding in the shed. I asked, “Don’t you guys need to go to work?”

Mike said, “Not yet.” And they laughed.

They were interested that my folks brought us kids across the country to the World’s Fair. They wanted to know details about the Space Needle. They nodded about Dad letting me drive our whole family down the coast. When I told them our new Impala was a whole lot different from my car. They couldn’t believe I drove a 1930 Model A Ford. As we talked, I told them we were going to Boulder Dam and then Las Vegas.

Mike turned strangely wistful, “We want to get to Las Vegas someday.”

Tall Brian grumped, “Or night!” The other four laughed, but I didn’t get it.

Just then loudspeakers sounded as someone blew into a microphone.

Then, “LAADDIIEEES AND GENTLEMEN, THE FABULOUS BEACH BOYS!”

Mike said, “Now we go to work!”

Even Brian laughed as they ran out to face throngs of people at the railings on every deck level.

I leaned against the shed behind them and thoroughly enjoyed their show. I had actually heard “Surfing Safari” and a few of their other songs. At the close of their show, they turned back to me, grinned and waved. Then I climbed up the hill toward the Carrigans’ apartment.

My sister Beth was great on the piano and she also had two boxes full of 45 records. She knew all the rock-n-roll songs, singers and groups.
When I told where I had been, Beth exclaimed, “But you don’t even know who The Beach Boys are!”

I grinned, “Do now.”

I really wished Beth had been with me. That would have made her trip.

Since that day when they took an interest in a wandering seventeen-year-old boy and the things I had seen and done, I have always liked The Beach Boys and their music. Over the years I’ve been concerned about Brian Wilson and his struggles. When he died on Wednesday, June 11th, I felt like I lost someone.

John Chiles Jr.

Southern Shores

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