Moonies Part II (Excerpt from California Dreams)

Busking in Santa Cruz, tripping on 4-mile Beach, and the San Francisco Moonie house raid

I went down to Berkeley for the second time with a girl from the Sonoma State dorms who needed a ride to her mom’s apartment. She’d had a 3-way relationship with a guy and her red-haired roommate. They let me sleep there. It was strange but it was good coverage for my free ride. I would go to the cafeteria just like the other students each morning, get in line, and say, “I’ll have a 3-cheese omelet with sprouts and avocado.”

I was the high-class hippie once again living off the largess of pampered kids going to college. Matt’s friends were no longer digging me. They knew about me before I got to town. It was the other students I didn’t know who dug me and let me hang for free.

I was going to Berkeley to see Jerry Garcia and Merle Saunders at The Keystone. It was something I dreamt about doing back in Jersey. I left her at her mom’s after she took off her shirt to sunbathe on the balcony. This was not unusual in California, but neither was it an invitation to fool around. I enjoyed the view and bid her adieu.

I parked nearby on Telegraph Avenue and went to the show. I surprisingly got in way too easy with Mel’s driver’s license. My first time using it. We both had long hair and soft curly beards but that’s where the similarities ended. The drinking age in CA was 21, I was 18 Mel was 28. No clubs would let me in without the card. I met some hippie women at the bar. They invited me to sit at their table. It was so close to the stage that Jerry would be dripping sweat on me. One gave me two Seconal tablets. It would have been rude to refuse such a generous offer. I’d never been a prolific downer doer but never refused a Quaalude either. With a stiff drink from the bar I got high as hell.

After two tunes the room was spinning like the Leslie speaker on Merle’s Hammond B3’s amp. Last thing I remember I was stumbling out of the club. I somehow found my way back to where my truck was parked before. I fumbled for my keys, opened the door. Locked myself in and crawled over into the back truck bed. I slept diagonally on my foam mattress with a tapestry billowing above, overhead light perfectly dropped from the ceiling through a slit flush against it. I was safe in my mobile bedroom.

When I awoke, I needed to pee badly. I walked out in my skimpy swimsuit looking for a secluded spot. My bladder was ready to burst so I just peed behind a telephone pole between two closely parked cars in the street. It was apparently a normal thing to see on Telegraph Avenue. From there I went back to Santa Cruz where I could sleep in my truck at 4-mile Beach in the dirt parking lot without any harassment from the fuzz.

I was hanging out on the pristine promenade on Pacific Street. It had old Mission style touches everywhere. The main street in Santa Cruz was a walker’s paradise with smooth red bricks, fresh plants, flowers, and little trees. It’s where the California life is at its most flowing. Saw couple busking on the street doing some nice flatpicking.

I sat on the sidewalk, listened for a few minutes and asked if I could sing along and play a little harp. They were more than happy to have me join their duo. This kind of threesome I got. They told me they were from Shreveport, Louisiana now traveling the rails, seeing the country, and playing music for tips and food. Really cool people.

On the weekends there was a vibraphone player with a band out on the street. People relaxing and having brunch in this beautiful setting. It was the coolest place I’d ever been. I noticed a really pretty girl in the crowd with a boy cut digging the music.

During a break I saw she was part of their troupe passing the hat in the crowd asking for tips. Kansas born and bred with baby blue eyes, a wide toothy grin, and a loveable laugh that got caught right in my heart. She was recently married to a professional stock car driver and was traveling the rails while he was on the NASCAR tour. She always was landlocked and dreamed about seeing the Pacific Ocean and the beach.

Karen from Kansas had met the couple as they were passing through KC on their travels. They clicked as a wholesome threesome. She hopped the freight trains with them and headed out West. The old way. The way it was meant to be experienced.

We quickly became a foursome. It felt so good to be a part of a group after being the stranger in town. The Scout II always made me more welcome in non-vehicle road situations. After busking all day, we had acquired very little change, so Jan, the brassy blond belter made a suggestion, “Let’s get food stamps.” They knew the ropes. Luke her partner said, “It’s easy and with Steve we’ll get fed!” I went along with it. We filled out a short eligibility sheet and dinner was in the bag we bought at the local co-op.

Back at 4-mile Beach we started a fire and ate a hearty Louisiana Red Beans and Rice. I had a few tabs of acid on me from “The Wizard”, a dorm dealer dude who gave credit where credit was due. We dropped one each and sloshed it down with some ice-cold brews and soon started to fly way up in the sky as the sun began to set. Kansas and I began to feel something. We went off kissing down the beach in the twilight as dusk rolled in. We sank deeply into each other. We walked hand in hand to the beach on the other side of the natural bridge. We necked there like it was from here to eternity.

The natural bridges separating the coves by the ocean was the backdrop for our fully clothed lovemaking under the glowing moonlight. Later we danced around the fire like a small tribe of peaceful gatherers chanting old tunes in a new way. We were all complete, content, and after we peaked well-after midnight, she fell sound asleep on my shoulder, snuggling me tight. As the light was coming up, riding with lady luck, freeways, cars, and trucks, over the cliffs and far away i saw someting in the ocean.

It burst out of the water about 100 feet from shore. I yelled out “Thar she blows!” and there it was a pod of California gray whales migrating up the North coast frolicking in the ocean. A spout of water shot up. The fluke broke the placid surface of the ocean.

I rubbed my eyes, astonished it was real and not a hallucination. The dawn crawled up on our lost tribe recovering from our excursion into uncharted realms. Sitting around the burning coals no one believed me until…. one by one they all broke the surface.

Pictures or movies do not do these gentle giants justice. Nor do humans historically who have been hunting them and have systematically destroyed their ocean habitat. They were swimming right there in front of us. I had dreamed of saving the oceans. I was studying aquaculture at college which is sustainably farming the oceans. It had been my choice as my life’s profession until I left and hit the road. Now my study continued in the flesh, or blubber, for no credit. I always dreamed of seeing whales.

“Save the Whales” would be a clarion call for me yet again in a few weeks driving the stage for Jesse Colin Young’s tour of the same name, singer of the hit “Get Together” with the Youngbloods written by Chet Powers aka Dino Valenti, an original member of Quicksilver Messenger Service who had spent time in jail for marijuana rendering the song free for other hippies to record it and spread the gospel of peace, love, and hope. It was the very same song we sang twice a day every day at the Moonie Camp.

Oh, how the times had changed but we still got our share of the era’s embers that night tripping on the beach in Santa Cruz. They were peaceful creatures. Symbolic of how wrong man had gone by spoiling the oceans and killing them for petty things like lipstick and not so petty things like lamp oil but still killing these big feeling, singing, breathing, intelligent mammals without a concern for the consequences. Moby Dick was the past and now we humans needed to make amends.

I had left college in Florida pursuing this dream. They were right in front of me. I walked up to the water and in waded in about 20 feet. The Pacific is very cold so I knew I couldn’t stay long. I went in there with them, so close, I felt their presence.

Over the years you have been hunted
by the men who threw harpoons
And in the long run he will kill you
just to feed the pets we raise,
put the flowers in your vase
and make the lipstick for your face.

Over the years you swam the ocean
Following feelings of your own
Now you are washed up on the shoreline
I can see your body lie
It’s a shame you have to die
to put the shadow on our eye

Maybe we’ll go
Maybe we’ll disappear
It’s not that we don’t know
It’s just that we don’t want to care.
Under the bridges
Over the foam
Wind on the water
Carry me home. (Crosby/Nash “To the Last Whale: Critical Mass / Wind on the Water”)

There was still time to makes things right. “Mercy, Mercy Me the Ecology” was a Marvin Gaye song and a rallying cry of the 70’s. I was in there frolicking with the beasts from the deep. Then around the campfire they started cheering me. The sun was slowly rising in the East but here protected by the cliffs it was still a pre-dawn.

When the fluke broke the water’s surface and slapped down splashing water in the air my heart leapt. Their graceful bodies flying in the air and the water shooting upwards to the sky again and again. The new-born babes following their mothers on their first migration. The moments of nature’s beauty are etched in my mind forever. The rust-colored natural bridges as the sun crept over the cliffs were prehistoric. I could feel the earth moving as I swam around them. They were aware of me as I was of them.

I was freezing so I got out, trotted over to our newly formed clan, wiped myself off with a towel, warmed myself by the fire, and snuggled with Karen still wrapped in my down sleeping bag for warmth. The whales were gone. The day took shape. We got the eggs, bread, and coffee going. The lovemaking of the night before was settling back to being just friends on the road, ships in the night. Fun while it lasted. She was married.

I asked if they’d all like to go on an expedition with me up to San Francisco. I still had unfinished Moonie business I needed to attend to. They were planning to leave later that day which made me more determined to go with Luke and settle the score. He was good to go as long as they could catch the last train out. He knew the freights.

We drove up to the Moonie house on Washington Street where I had been shown the pictures of the farm with Alan before we got involved with that God awful cult. I was healed but still bitter at almost having been nimbly coaxed into becoming a zombie at their mercy. I was now living the free road life again, but it was time to get even, Even Steven, and maybe save a few poor souls who had given up their autonomy. Luke was up for it. I left the gals out of it. It might go sideways. They would be there in case.

First thing we needed was for each of us to have a six pack of well shaken Olympia’s in the can for ammo. My favorite beer I learned to drink with Mel. We had a few in the truck before shaking the rest in the plastic rings to get ready for the mission. We left Karen and Jan with the keys in the truck safely down the block and said we’d be right back.

It was time to Party!

We walked up to the front door and rang the bell, and I said, “I’m a friend of Brenda and Bernie’s from the farm and wanted to bring my new friend Luke here over for a free dinner and play some music. They said take off your shoes and I said, “Hell no I ain’t staying that long. You want a beer?” I opened fire with the shook up can and sprayed the bunch of them. “Oops sorry. Anyone want a beer? You can all still drink beer, can’t you? This is a free country after all, isn’t it? Or are your minds so blown by your fearless leader that you don’t have one single thought left of your own?”

I was ranting and raving and we opened fire! Sprayed beer on all those brainwashed flower selling Moonies. They were getting scared and I started yelling, “Don’t worry I’m Steve, I was up at the farm. I’m just passing by to see a few friends I left up there in Booneville. Play a few tunes. Maybe go for a ride?” I saw Fran, my last female guide who knew me, she said, “Hi!” and I said, “Well how you doin’? Fran, isn’t it? You sure are looking good. Wanna beer?” Then a group leader type was pissed I was charming her and said, “Please leave, before I have to call the cops.”

I must admit he asked us extremely politely to leave. I shouted one final plea, “If any of you want to get the hell out of this cult, I suggest you put your damn shoes on and follow me! This is a Moonie house you are in! You are all being brainwashed, get out while you still can!” Then released the rest of the beers into the crowd and sprayed them all. We ran out the door laughing and hollering covered in beer. I was feeling vindicated, but no one followed. They were gone for good. Yippee Yo-Ki-Yay! Moving to Montana soon, gonna be a mental floss tycoon. We ran up the street to the truck.

No cops came after us. Started up the Scout II and off we went into the sunset.

They are some loyal people those Moonies. Once you’re in you don’t get out. There’s no dragging you back in because you never get out in the first place, it’s worse than the damn mafia. Without professional deprogramming it’s over. They got you. I got out. Thank God. If I didn’t, I’d still be sitting behind some table somewhere selling the Epoch Times, Washington Times, or any other right wing “pro-conservative” propaganda rag along with flowers. Don’t kid yourself it’s your mind they need.

Only in America can some former CIA set up a tax-free religion hiding a for profit business whose main product is stealing the trust funds of disaffected youth looking for simple answers, when the real truth is there are no simple answers for any of us.

Sun Myung Moon a “religious leader” was known for his cult and various business ventures supporting “conservative causes.” He finally went to jail for tax evasion but what about all the thousands of minds lost to his greed? I for one at least made the effort to publicly ridicule his version of religion and the warped system that allows such scams to exist. Maybe the system is the scam? Maybe that’s the gag after all?

The great loophole in America: freedom of religion along with the fictional notion that there’s a “separation of church and state” well, just enough separation so some megalomaniac can take your soul claiming, “Your mother’s the devil, your father’s the devil” so give me your money, go sell some flowers, and recruit some more people.

I Was a Teenage Moonie. I did my time. I made my escape. But how many don’t?

All they care about is blind loyalty and idolatry.

If you ever question anything you are shunned and made to repent or face their wrath.

Now that our fun was over, we told the gals what we did. They were sure glad we left them out of it. They thought we were crazy. We could have easily gotten arrested. It probably was a bad idea, but I was feeling good about it. Now they were really ready to leave California and I was sad. They said park the truck and come with us. I wanted to but the road was calling me. I had vague plans to follow up on. I wasn’t ready to hang up my California Dreams. Hopping freight trains seemed the romantic thing to do but I was a lone wolf on the trail. Luke said, “Park your truck someplace safe and hop the trains with us it’s easy and fun. You’ll have the time of your life.” There’s a regret for sure but a few years later on I got to ride the rails from Winnemucca to Denver.

There’s always something down the road if you’re willing to go on the road.

I drove them to the place where the train went slow enough to jump on easy.

I watched them jump into an open box car.

I drove south on Highway 17 to Mel’s’ to tell him and Katherine I was safely out of the Moonie camp and that I would be spending some time in Sonoma County next.

I was the California Kid, the high-class hippie, living in the Hotel California and I was not ready to check out just yet. When I got to their house on a hilltop in Los Gatos, he had a letter from Carolyn waiting for me. She sounded ready to join me on my travels and shared my dreams to start a life together in the West. I knew I’d see her again. She was my first love and maybe I just wasn’t quite ready to let go of her. I was sure I’d go to Texas at some point and see her again down the road. The dream goes on forever.

Life was wide open.

People Magazine told us about the Moonies, but we didn’t listen. Now it seemed so obvious. I say, “Cults never tell you it’s a cult.” That’s it. That’s the big dirty lie.

Once you’re in any cult, you are no longer you, you are what they want you to be.

I follow Jimi Hendrix’s “Message of Love” - “Find yourself first. Don’t you be no fool.”