I left the compound as I’d come in, feeling about the same. Although the Beach Patrol part of my life with the San Clemente Police Department was unsettled, it was at least predictable and there also seemed to be no inherent danger in working with the personnel, the equipment, or the people the department was supposedly set up to serve. The Western White House was a hotbed of seething and fomenting intrigue, near silence, and extremely high-strung tension. Only the Marine guards ever smiled at me when I entered or left the place. Nobody else smiled or laughed inside the compound that I’d ever witnessed.
I drove my fire engine red Volks to the police parking lot, got out, and walked the short distance to where the Bronco was parked. The keys were inside at the front desk in the control of whoever was running the dispatch counter, which, it being day shift, was almost always Bobby Scruggs. I’d decided, after discovering the way things were likely to develop with the real beach patrol, I couldn’t carry the keys to the vehicle anymore. Others were going to need the rig, and that might happen at any hour on any day or night. I might be the Reserve Commander, but in effect, I was really just another minor player in a performance I had no clue about. Accepting that position, without an understanding of what it entailed in my current life was the key to my survival and that of my family, and I knew it.
What was the Chief of Police in San Clemente expecting of me? What was known of my military background, either good or bad that might come to affect my life in intensive ways, aside from my own seemingly and occasionally not totally in my own disciplined control?
I drove the Bronco to my apartment, intending to have an evasive but still likely helpful discussion with my wife about how, since I’d stepped through the ‘door of reality’ in Vietnam and then been repatriated to the supposed real world, nothing seemed to make much of any sense. I was just going from day to day with no real plan other than a plan to react with a survivable response to all the changes that were being thrown at me.
I left the apartment in uniform, intending to work a shift on the beach, possibly my last shift alone, although most of the life down on the stretch of beaches I patrolled was filled with teeming amounts of human life. I was alone, for the most part, on those beaches but alone among so many others. Somehow that made life acceptable between the times when I was actually working at something productive, like taking care of the necessities of my wife and daughter while also trying to demonstrate that I was okay. At my age, I already knew that I was never going to be able to fit in with the throngs of associates, friends, workers, and even family I circulated among, but I had to be among them. I had to do a good job of imitation, I knew. The young neighbor girl who’d called me Mr. Perfect had been revealing, as I’d thought through her childish but brilliant conclusion. I was toeing the line too closely. I was watching and controlling myself, in every action, too tightly. That kind of behavior could work to protect me unless others were able to spot the same behavior and come to the same conclusion. And then, questions would be asked that I knew I couldn’t answer.
The beach was nearly full when I got through the gates into the access road that ran from the pier to the Lifeguard headquarters. The Bronco cruised slowly and without difficulty through the throngs of people moving about the wide old wooden pier. A quarter mile of the pier was a long walk and not a short drive at about one mile per hour. The Bronco’s low register lever, once pulled, allowed the capable vehicle to run that speed while in idle with the clutch engaged.
The restaurant at the end of the pier was not as filled as I was used to. Shauna Murphy, one of the daughters of a local fireman was on duty behind the counter. I parked the Bronco and went in, noting just how many fishermen could work their sport almost shoulder to shoulder around the walkway that extended out and then around the small restaurant complex. There was a bait shop but it was separated from the restaurant by a twenty-foot open space.
I sat down at the half-filled counter and checked the place out. There were no threats. In fact, there were no tourists of much interest at all. Fishermen, and families with little kids. After a few cups of free coffee (Shauna was the only person in the area I allowed to comp my coffee), I moved on. As I moved the Bronco back on down the pier I felt like I was a predator of some truly unaware sort or simply a lost member of the passing prey that I thought myself the better of or more powerful than.
Turning toward “T” Street, it was easy to conclude why my wife had not been home. She was lying on the beach, down near the water, while Julie, our daughter frolicked quietly in the sand at the very edge of the lapping water.
I stopped briefly and my wife and I exchanged waves. She didn’t care for it at all the times I’d stopped the Bronco to visit with her. She said she couldn’t stand the attention it brought. I’d gotten used to being in uniform, first the Marine one and then the police one. After a while, it was hard to notice the attention such attire brought, but that wasn’t so for my wife.
I ended up north of the front of the compound, on the other side of the railroad tracks to see what I could of places where the Bronco, if on the tracks when a train came, could hastily exit and be far enough away not to get hit, or even anything but vaguely visible to anyone on a train that might rush quickly by.
There was no train, however. The sound of the Bronco’s whispering, but husky, gentle exhaust was inaudible once I climbed up on one of the larger rocks that lined the track on the surf side. The water’s own voice took over until I heard distant laughing sounds echoing up from the beach further south near the compound’s most sensitive area. I was more than surprised, before being irritated.
What was I supposed to do with a bunch of young idiots celebrating whatever the hell they were celebrating on the portion of the beach that was more hypothetically than really protected as a perimeter keeping the public away from entering, or even seeing the compound area? I sat in the Bronco, in the night, as the sun had gone down hours before. I didn’t want to go home and had no other place to go. My wife would have gone to bed and Jules many hours earlier. One day soon I would not be able to prowl through the night on my own. I wanted this time, although I also didn’t want to be alone, those two feelings were something I couldn’t quite come to bring together in my mind.
The fire they’d built was large and beautiful, as it wavered red and yellow flames up into the dark sky above the naked sand of the pristine beach area. I knew the group of what had to be college students had worked among the rocks guarding the railroad tracks to come upon the many bits of thick and dried wooden chunks of drifted in wooden debris. Their celebration fire rose hot and bright into the night sky, with flickers of still-burning embers shining bright, like tiny fireworks, into the black sky.
The group of about fifteen young people had chosen their place to build a huge beach bonfire and gather around it, poorly. From my perspective, viewing the participants through Leica 50mm brilliant binoculars, the group’s presence was too close to the compound. Although the beach area they’d chosen was a bit distant from the invisible and unknowable line that separated the public beach from private ownership it was still too close to the Nixon estate.
I couldn’t just let it go. If this group’s celebration fire was on video from the surveillance equipment emplaced around the outer edges of the compound then my Bronco was on video, as well. Based upon that suspicion alone, I had to act. But how?
I backed the Bronco slowly toward the San Clemente Pier on the path running over the tracks at “T” Street. It didn’t matter as I wasn’t going far enough to reach either one. I found what I was looking for, which was another break in the rocks that the Bronco would fit through. It took no time to reverse direction and put the Bronco’s fat tires onto the tracks. I drove, once again, toward the fire the young people had built. When I got close I stopped the vehicle and go out. There was no place to ‘rest’ the Bronco off the tracks. I would have to gamble, and it was something of a serious gamble, that no train would come along and destroy the thing, and I’d have absolutely no decent explanation for my conduct.
I left the Bronco running in neutral and exited the vehicle. There were three giant boulders that triangulated out toward the surf line from where I’d stopped. The boulder located furthest out onto the dry sand rose up over and above the area the young people had chosen to make a small portion of the beach home for their party.
I climbed silently out over the tops of the boulders until I was on the largest and outermost of the three. I gazed down. The party of beach revelers were all leaning back from the heat of the fire and talking. It took no time at all to realize that they were all students from Berekley, a California State University campus located up further north in California. I was disappointed. There was no way I was going to make a group arrest of a bunch of college students smoking pot and enjoying a night around a fire on the beach. It just wasn’t in me. But I had to do something, if nothing else I had to take action to get them off the beach and off a surveillance recording system they not only had no clue about but also a system I couldn’t tell them about.
Totally without thinking it through I acted upon an instinctive physical decision. I leaped outward from my rock and flew through the night air, noting the rising cascade of sparks I flew through. I landed on both feet in the middle of the fire, before leaping quickly to one side. The tinder and sparks that flew from my landing showered the group with undamaging fire.
The students lined the fire in a circle, all having thrown themselves upon their backs at the violence and shock of my fiery arrival. I looked into their eyes and saw unbelievable shock and horror in their eyes.
“Get the hell off this beach right now,” I forced out in a commanding whisper. “You are on U.S. Government property and the forces that run this beach are gathering for your incarceration, or worse. Now move!”
The last two words I yelled out, as they were the only ones I hoped the sensitive Marshals’ sound equipment might pick up. The surf and lapping water nearby would hopefully block the warning. I knew I wasn’t there to give warnings and I also knew the other agents might see such a thing as weakness or cowardice.
The students reacted, jumping to their feet and running. Two turned back to retrieve items they’d abandoned.
“Get!” I yelled, and they disappeared down the dark beach with their friends.
I sat down on a closed cooler and stared into the fire. I waited, but no other security showed up. Slowly I smiled. Somehow, the bleakness and abandonment I’d been feeling was gone. I wasn’t sure why so I reflected for longer as the fire slowly burned down and the dark began to regain its hold over the sand once more.
It finally occurred to me what it was. I’d done something good for those students, most of whom had been high on Marijuana, a felony in California to possess, much less smoke. If they’d encountered the Marshals and Secret Service on private property, as potential threats to the president and also in possession and smoking Marijuana, then their college careers would have been over, and likely much worse.
I got up, stretched, made sure the fire was out and looked toward the rock I’d jumped from, amazed just how high it was, and the fact that I hadn’t broken an ankle at the very least. And then I heard the train whistle.
I ran for the Bronco, still sitting on the tracks, just waiting to be smashed into an unrecognizable hulk, just like my career. I literally ran up and over the huge rocks worried that I’d not get to the Bronco in time or be able to maneuver it off the tracks so the coming train could pass. I thanked God that I’d somehow left the driver’s door open. I literally dived in, pulled myself up, hit the clutch, and threw the transmission into reverse. I stared at the orbiting single light of the approaching train. I punched the accelerator and let up on the clutch. The Bronco shot backward. I pulled my eyes from the approaching train to stare into the rear-view mirror. I had one hope. Steer the center of the Bronco backward down the center of the tracks and hope to reach the cleft I’d discovered earlier. The cleft where there was room for the Bronco to pull off and avoid being torn apart, along with me.
I could not find the cleft or even look for it while concentrating on keeping the Bronco on the tracks. The giant tires, almost uninflated for beach sand travel, draped over the steel rails but their continued ability to do so as the speed of the vehicle went up to its maximum in the low reverse gear differential was not likely to last. I didn’t know where I was, but I knew the train was inexorably bearing down.
My eyes closed for an instant as I made my decision. I jerked the wheel of the Bronco to the left, which instantly careened the vehicle off the rails and into the rocks. I stood on the brakes as the Bronco bounced so wildly, that I thought it would turn over. And then everything was consumed by the train’s arrival and passing. It was over in seconds. I sat there, my upper body draped across the steering wheel, not having to look outside. I’d somehow, through blind luck, backed into the cleft, the only area large enough for it to get deep enough in not to be struck.
I got out after a few minutes and checked the Bronco. I wished at that point that I had somebody to show the situation to. The Bronco cleared the rocks by four inches, almost exactly, on a side. I could not have made that happen on purpose, not so accurately, even if the Bronco had been turned around to go the other way.
I got on the tracks once again, heading toward the pier and the lifeguard headquarters. I took the first opportunity to get off and back onto the sand, where I stopped the vehicle to sit for some time before heading back to the station to swap the thing out for my Volks, a car that would never fit on the tracks even if such an attempt was made.
The second mission warning or preparation comment lay in the very front of every conscious thought I had. I laid awake in the night, having already spent a few hours making certain that all was quiet in the areas I could observe around the apartment’s outer grounds. When I was financially able, hopefully soon, I would purchase a home where the fields of fire were open, flat, and clear of all rising vegetation. The alternative of failing to keep flank security out was death, not just for me but for my family. I breathed in and out deeply. The second mission was on my mind. Would it be another test, and at what point was I to be deemed as trusted or simply let go? There was nobody coming outside the building. I thought about the fact that I knew there was nobody out there and yet could not let my guard down enough to relax into a more ‘normal’ kind of life.
I finally fell into a deep but short-lived sleep. I was up at six, my eyes popping open with the first sign of dawn’s early light. Astronomical dawn, I knew it was called. The kind of light only somebody coming out of a combat situation a scientist might notice or care about.
I got up as silently as I could, but there was no amount of slow or gentle care I could take that would not wake my wife. I’d seen television shows where the husband sneaked in or out of bed without the wife waking up. Those character roles had nothing to do with the sensibilities my wife possessed.
“Where are you going?” she whispered.
“Coffee, paper, and waiting to see what the day will bring,” I replied, throwing my robe on and slipping my feet into a pair of deerskin slippers, both items I’d left strewn beside the bed that I’d gotten in earlier.
I moved away from the bed, and headed for the stairs, but stopped and turned to wait and listen. My daughter’s gentle breathing reached out to me across the short distance from her door to the top of the second-story stairs. She was okay.
I went down, not to check security but to make the coffee and hope that the newspaper was tossed to the bottom of the outside stairs. There was no television news on until eight a.m. so the local Sun Post newspaper was all that might have anything interesting in it to occupy me. The paper wasn’t there when I went down to check, but a limousine was. I stood near the bushes at the bottom of the stairs, making myself as invisible as I could without letting anyone see that I might be doing that on purpose. The car was a black Lincoln Limo It was obviously from either the Marine Base or the compound. Why was it there at such an ungodly hour? I could not see into the vehicle, as it was parked on the far side of Cabrillo, but I could see that smoke occasionally appeared outside near the top of the driver’s side window. Someone was inside the car, waiting. He, or she, could only be waiting for me.
I crouched down where I was, trying to think. Why was the driver there waiting? Where was the car really from? I shivered at the idea that I was so seemingly important as to cause such an out-of-character reaction on anybody’s part. Then I almost smiled at how important I might really be, even though I had no special talents or experience anyone might know of that might put me into such an uncommon position.
I turned slightly to look up the concrete staircase. How was I going to get back up without the driver seeing me, or maybe it didn’t matter, as he or she might have seen me when I came down?
It was a conundrum and an uncomfortable one, but it didn’t last long.
A van pulled up and rubber-banded slim newspaper flew through the air from the passenger side window. The paper struck me in the head and then bounced into the bushes.
“Hey, Lieutenant, what are you doing hiding in the bushes, like you did your whole time in the valley?”
The van took off without any other comments from the driver and with no reaction from the person sitting in the limo across the street.
I stood up. There was no point in trying to hide. Mislovik had outted me. Mislovik, one of the lieutenants from my own Basic School Class in the Marine Corps. Mislovik had come home from the Nam seemingly unharmed. But he wasn’t unharmed. He was mentally screwed up. Normally, he wouldn’t even talk or reply to me if I tried to confront him. I didn’t know who he’d been with in combat, although I was certain he’d been in hard contact, and he wouldn’t give me anything to go on except his near-insane lack of communication and behavior. He called me lieutenant, for example. Lieutenants didn’t call other lieutenants by that rank, ever. His comment about me hiding in the bush wasn’t nearly so bothersome as how he knew I’d been down in the A Shau. Where was he getting such accurate information? Why was he using it? Why was I some sort of coward to him and why did it matter?
There was no reaction from the car parked across the street. More smoke puffed out from the top crack of the window, but that was it.
“The second mission,” I whispered to myself, grabbing the newspaper and heading back up the stairs to re-enter our apartment. Except the door was locked. I sighed and my shoulders sagged. I’d installed a lock that automatically engaged when anyone closed the door, like the kind commonly found on hotel doors. My wife never locked anything, so I felt I had to protect her. I knew, without either the key, which I did not have or advanced lockpicking equipment, which I also didn’t have, that I wasn’t getting through the front door. If I pushed the doorbell button I also knew that I’d be waking up my wife and also my daughter. I checked my cheap Timex watch. It was six-fifteen in the morning.
I tossed the paper up onto the small upstairs balcony that opened into the master bedroom through a large double glass door, where my wife was sleeping. It was never locked. I climbed up the pipe supporting one corner of the balcony and swept my right knew up and over the railing.
“Really nice view,” an ancient female voice said from below.
I froze, looking down. Mrs. Dunow, a renter from further back in the complex was standing just below, staring up.
I scrunched my robe closed with my right hand, hanging on to the railing for dear life with my left. My wife’s complaint that I didn’t wear pajamas under my robe rushed painfully into my mind.
“Sorry,” I breathed out, before carefully sweeping up and over the railing. I retreated back toward the sliding glass windows, finally somewhat happy that I could not be seen by either Mrs. Dunow or the driver of the limo. I grabbed the handle and pulled.
I tried again, in shock. The door was locked.
There was nothing left for me to do, other than to knock on the glass as quietly as I could.
My wife leaped from the bed, grabbed her nightgown, threw it over her head, and opened the door from her side.
I stood, with the newspaper in my right hand, and a disbelieving expression on my face.
“You got the paper, climbed up the balcony, and then woke me up to get in here?” she said. “What the hell is going on? Have you lost it entirely?”
I went inside, walked through the bedroom, and then went down to get a cup of coffee, expecting at any moment for the person in the limousine to be knocking at the front door. There was little question that someone sitting out on the street and watching the apartment, could not fail to guess that everyone was now up and active.
I cared but didn’t care. I wasn’t about to make the first move, and combat had taught me many vital lessons about confrontation. The best confrontation doesn’t exist, because it’s no confrontation at all that yields the best result, but of course, if the confrontation was only avoided until a later time then it would still likely be caused to occur on (quite possibly) more unfavorable ground. I decided to wait for the driver of the limo out unless the phone rang or somebody else showed up. Normally, a limo was not used as either a confrontative or aggressive vehicle, but normally didn’t have one sitting, exposed like a big red and sore thumb in front of my apartment, either.
I finished two cups of coffee, read the newspaper, and then, when my wife came down, explained what I thought was the role of the car parked across the street. Mission two was what I went into, being as detailed as I could, although there wasn’t much to be detailed about. I also explained why I was reticent to confront the driver out in the street. My wife wasn’t happy about the situation, however, much less understanding. She wanted no more to do with the ‘mysteries’ of my possible work.
“Go out there and ask the driver what the hell he’s doing there and what you are supposed to do,” she finally ordered.
My wife didn’t understand, I knew, possibly because I hadn’t told her enough truth about my real position with the Western White House crew. I couldn’t demand or force anybody to act or even reveal anything to me. I had no authority at all, even over the driver of the limo, which is what I presumed was the position of the man waiting in the car.
Of course, I was going to have to approach the driver of the limo. I knew I had to do that unless he or she took the initiative and came to the door, which didn’t appear likely to happen. I was coming to understand the rules of the game. I was, indeed, nobody, but not to the driver. I was his mission, his charge, and the reason there was a job to be done by him at all, instead of his usual gig of sitting in a parking lot or out on an airport tarmac waiting for someone. I had to act like I was important, even though I knew inside myself, that that wasn’t really true. The driver wanted me to be important or he wouldn’t still be waiting outside.
I slowly dressed in leather shoes, shined, dark socks, khaki trousers, and a short sleeve button-down white shirt, hoping the doorbell would ring and the mystery would be resolved. I knew instinctively that I couldn’t wear my police uniform. Business at the Western White House level was all about suits, jackets, white shirts, and ties. Uniforms were for low-class blue-collar types, no matter what their rank in that order. As I walked across the street I noted that the driver didn’t get out of the vehicle. Instead, he lowered his window and pointed toward the rear of the vehicle. The car wasn’t a real full-size limo. It was a 1966 Lincoln Limousine.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
Berkeley is a “University of California” campus, not a California State University campus
True
Mysterious and more mysterious!
Loving the unusualness of the situation you are setting up.
Super happy you are back to writing – best to all.
Thanks Craig, good to be back.
It’s been a hell of a run in regular life too…but here I am, back at it.
Semper fi,
Jim
Welcome back LT. Good to be reading with you again.
Thanks Steven, really means a lot to me to hear that.
Semper fi,
Jim
Glad to see you back in the writers saddle once again James !!
Did I ever mention that I was picked up on that “special” San Clemente beach with a couple of high school friends while on leave after boot camp and before Pendelton in 1964 ?? Good times LOL !!!
Pretty funny SgtBobD. Why did they pick on you and who were they? Nixon made it all very
dicey and special to be about those beach areas when I was part of it, but before I have no clue.
Semper fi,
JIm
Thank you once again James.
You ar most welcome Ted, as I write on into this night. Hope to have IX out by Friday.
Semper fi,
Jim
Thanks James, for another charter. I must say, the part where you were clearing the students off the beach, two certifiable miracles in a row: the fact that you leaped off the boulder into their fire without breaking anything or burning yourself, and the exit off the tracks ahead of the train! Fantastic!
Yes, I was a bit into risk at the time, and, in fact, still am a bit.
Thanks for the comment and the support…I will continue on.
Semper fi,
Jim
Jim I’m asking myself “why am I so captivated?” I don’t have an answer but I’m frustrated when the segment ends and I’m hanging on with both hands! I just want more and I want it now! Don’t make us wait so long. Semper Fi. Batman
Tom Thorkelson makes his debut in chapter IX…which will be out in a few days.
Interesting times and you were one hell of an impressive man who really did change
much of my life at that time.
Semper fi, my friend,
Jim
Enjoyed it.
Can’t thank you enough for liking it and then commenting in your laconic fashion here…
Semper fi, Jones
Jim
Dan got all I saw. Nice to see you back in action. Trusting you are well.
Thanks Michael, and I’m doing much better.
The next chapter is up as I write this.
Glad you like it and say so on here.
Semper fi,
Jim
Sir/LT/Jim,
Good to see your keyboard smoking and your having penned and posted another chapter,
Relieved that the choo-choo did not do damage to your Bronco–or YOU!
You are masterful at weaving suspense and anticipation into the ever-present intrigue of what lies around the next bend of your amazing story. Your other readers and I probably have more unanswered questions about all this than you did at the time.
Stay healthy and keep the chapters coming.
Thanks ever so much Walter. It’s good to have you still aboard after all this time.
I am well and writing away. The next chapter should be up tonight if Chuck is paying attention and God is willing.
Semper fi, old friend,
Jim
Glad you are back Lieutenant. You have been missed. I bet those kids on the beach still remember that night vividly.
Thanks Gary, yes I am back. The next chapter should be up as this is written, although Chuck may take a few hours.
Semper fi,
Jim
You have won these battles before Lt., keep marching forward !!
That is true Don, although sometimes I forget or lose a little faith along the way. Comments by you and others on this site
help me a whole lot.
Thank you!
Semper fi,
Jim
So great to read
Jumping into fire! Sounds like running toward gunfire- where can a man learn such unnatural acts? I know, it is Catholic education?
Great writing and great using the situation to build drama and tension. One passage touched me deeply. Some will say this guy is ready for the who-who hotel.
I look forward to buying a home with a field of fire that is open, flat and clear. What kind of human ever thinks of those being criteria for purchasing a home? People who have seen and lived in the darkness.
My father was of Polish heritage, depression era , college educated accountant and a world war two vet. In 1960, we live in a large multi-unit apartment building until April when we bought our first two flat. His rationale was that the tenants would pay off his mortgage, and he always bought on a corner lot. My mother asked why a corner Barney? His reply, no neighbors on one side, more space. We always live on the second floor. The high ground.
It never occurred to me until I finished OCS, and had my time in MAMA Corps’ loving , nurturing bosom did I realize the real reason for such an odd criteria for a home. A flat, clear, and open fields of fire from high ground.
We share not having father knows best relationships with our fathers and yet their relationships to the universe were forged in their darkness.
You are my soulmate.
Brayer. You are a delight to read and also to know. It is a great pleasure to be considered your friend
and I look forward to seeing you at your earliest convenience. Soulmates are few and very far between…if given the opportunity to have even one.
God is wonderfully munificent about some things and very stingy with others!
Semper fi,
Your friend,
Jim
I remember the Bronco well. We Cadets used it for performing “Traffic Surveys” which were required by the Vehicle Code. We found a red spotlight in the box on the back seat and began making “car stops” on some of the violators (thank code we never got caught or killed!).
Much enjoyed the rare opportunities I had to work with the cadets. What a wonderful ragtag group of young guys. And guys that would keep their
mouth shut. When I shot those motorcycle assholes with birdshot that night my cadet never breathed a word and the Hell’s Angels macho men could not exactly go to the department and complain
that night. Wild times.
Semper fi, your friend,
Jim
Welcome back LT, and happy belated 224th birthday, Been waiting for you to resume your story patiently! Thank you Sir. Each chapter get more murky as it goes, keep up the great work.
thanks Bob and I really appreciate the comment and loyal following along with the continuing story.
The next chapter should be up tonight if Chuck Bartok is on top of things.
Semper fi,
Jim
Wondering what’s up here, some possible illegal job? Can’t wait to find out.
Illegal, you say? Oh please, in my life what the hell does the word ‘legal’ really mean? Back then or even now.
Thanks for the comment and the loyal following.
Semper fi,
Jim
Welcome back James,
I hope your health is much improved.
Some minor editing suggestions follow:
as I’d thought her childish but brilliant conclusion through.
Reads a bit smoother if “through” goes after “thought”
as I’d thought through her childish but brilliant conclusion.
The restaurant at the end of the pier was not as filled as I was used to and Shauna Murphy, one of the daughters of a local fireman was on duty behind the counter.
Makes perfect sense but seems to be a run on sentence
Period after “to”
Begin new sentence with “Shauna”
The restaurant at the end of the pier was not as filled as I was used to. Shauna Murphy, one of the daughters of a local fireman was on duty behind the counter.
She was laying on the beach
lying instead of laying
She was lying on the beach
exit and be far enough way
Maybe “away” instead of “way”
exit and be far enough away
The sound of the Bronco whispering
Possessive of Bronco Bronco’s
The sound of the Bronco’s whispering
keeping the public away from the entry, or even visibility of the compound area?
If I understand correctly maybe
keeping the public away from entering, or even seeing the compound area?
I backed the Bronco slowly toward the San Clemente Pier, or the once running over the tracks at “T” Street.
I don’t understand “or the once running over the tracks at “T” Street.”
Seems to need more explanation.
A wild guess:
I backed the Bronco slowly toward the San Clemente Pier on the path running over the tracks at “T” Street.
Berkley, a California State University
Berkeley
Berkeley, a California State University
I forced out in a forced whisper
Two “forced” Maybe change one
I forced out in a commanding whisper
Marshal’s sound equipment
maybe Marshals’ sound equipment
I laid awake in the night
Maybe lay
see: https://www.writerswrite.com/grammar/lay-lie/
I lay awake in the night
there was no amount of slow or gentle care could take that would not wake my wife.
Add “I” before “could”
there was no amount of slow or gentle care I could take that would not wake my wife.
near the bushes at the bottom of the stair
Maybe “stairs”
near the bushes at the bottom of the stairs
letting anyone see me that I might be doing that on purpose.
Maybe change to
letting anyone seeing me suspect that I might be doing that on purpose.
Why was it there at such an ungodly o hour?
Maybe drop the “o”
Why was it there at such an ungodly hour?
balcony and swept my right knew up and over the railing.
Maybe “knee” instead of “knew”
balcony and swept my right knee up and over the railing.
I
went
Backspace to connect words. maybe do a carriage return to separate
paragraphs.
I went
would still likely be caused to occur on (quite possibly) more unfavorable ground.
Maybe drop “be caused to”
would still likely occur on (quite possibly) more unfavorable ground.
I knew that unless he or she took the initiative and came to the door, which didn’t appear likely to happen.
I read this two ways:
Add a comma after “that”
I knew that, unless he or she took the initiative and came to the door, which didn’t appear likely to happen.
Or seems to need a few more words
Maybe add “I had to do”
I knew I had to do that unless he or she took the initiative and came to the door, which didn’t appear likely to happen.
Chevy’s air-conditioning fans
Maybe add “the” before “Chevy’s”
the Chevy’s air-conditioning fans
“No for here, but for where we’re going,”
Maybe “Not” instead of “No”
“Not for here, but for where we’re going,”
The part that really touched me was: “My daughter’s gently breathing
reached out to me across the short distance from her door to the top of
the second-story stairs. She was okay.”
Blessings & Be Well
Again Dan you are priceless.
Thank you
I am looking forward to getting back in the race
One more edit: My daughter’s gently breathing
Change “gently” to gentle”
My daughter’s gentle breathing
Good on getting back into the race; but at a pace that is sustainable.
All fixed.
Thank you again, Dan
Semper Fi,
Jim