The Legendary Chronicles of HoneyBear

(A bluetick hound bays out there in the fog,
running around scared and lost because he can’t see.
No tracks on the ground but the ones he’s making, and he sniffs
in every direction with his cold red-rubber nose and picks up no scent
but his own fear, fear burning down him like steam.)
It’s gonna burn me that way, finally telling about all this, about the
Island, and the FMF, and the Kids - and about HoneyBear. I been
silent so long now it’s gonna roar out of me like floodwaters and you
think the guy telling this is ranting and raving my God; you think
this is too horrible to have really happened, this is too awful to be the
truth! But please. It’s still hard for me to have a clear mind thinking
on it. But it’s the truth even if it didn’t happen.
1

The sea's only gifts are harsh blows,
and occasionally the chance to feel strong. Now I don't know much about the sea,
but I do know that that's the way it is here. And I also know how important it is in life
not necessarily to be strong but to feel strong. To measure yourself at least once.
To ﬁnd yourself at least once in the most ancient of human conditions.
Facing the blind death stone alone,
with nothing to help you but your hands and your own head.2
!e Le"ndary Chronicles
of HoneyBear
D$patches from Santa Catalina Island
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods;
There is a rapture on the lonely shore;
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar;
I love not man the less, but Nature more...3
The very basic core of a man’s living spirit is his passion for adventure. The joy of life comes from our
encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing
horizon, for each day to have a new and diﬀerent sun.4

So %eak &t l&d of
'e 'ings y& are pr&d
And if y& love '$ coa(
!en keep it clean as it hopes
'Cause ) way 'at it *ines
May ju( dwindle wi' time
Wi' ) chan"s it will confront
So hold nice and close I want to "t to y&r s&l
So 'at when it $ cold y& won't feel so alone
'Cause ) roads 'at y& take
may ju( crack and break
Wi' ) chan"s y& will confront
Wi' each gi, 'at y& *are
Y& may heal and repair
Wi' each choice y& make
Y& may help someone's day
Well I know y& are (rong
May y&r j&rney be long
And now I w$h y& ) best of luck
Well I know y& are (rong
May y&r j&rney be long
And now I w$h y& ) best of love
5
So now come sit do-
Will y& talk wi' me now
Let me see 'r&gh y&r eyes
Where 'ere $ so much light
We are bi.ng &r time
For 'ese my's to unwind
For 'ese chan"s we will confront
So please beware wi' every place 'at y& had
Look to y&r s&l for ) 'ings 'at y& know
For ) trees 'at we see cannot forever brea'e
Wi' ) chan"s 'ey will confront
Y& know some people 'ey ju( won't under(and
No I ju( won't under(and 'ese 'ings
!ank y& for y&r messa" but I don't under(and
No I ju( won't under(and 'ese 'ings
For '$ sacred land, it has seen many hands
It has weal' and gold
Yet it $ fragile and old
And all ) greedy s&ls
Ju( don't care to know
Of ) chan"s it will confront

Aaron “Honeybear” Honig
Adventures on
SantaCatalinaIsland

De.cated to ) (udents of Holy Family,
and 'eir adventures on Catalina Island.
Congratulations on y&r 8 grade graduation!
KEATING
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may. The Latin term for that sentiment is “Carpe Diem.”
Anyone know what that means? “Seize the Day!”
Seize the day while you’re young, see that you make use of your time. Why does the poet write these lines?
Because we’re food for worms, lads!
Because we’re only going to experience a limited number of springs, summers, and falls. One day, hard as it is to
believe, each and every one of us is going to stop breathing, turn cold, and die! Stand up and peruse the faces of the
boys and girls who attended this school sixty or seventy years ago.
Don’t be timid, go look at them! They’re not that diﬀerent than any of you, are they? There’s hope in their eyes, just
like in yours. They believe themselves destined for wonderful things, just like many of you.
Well, where are those smiles now, boys? What of that hope? Did most of them not wait until it was too late before
making their lives into even one iota of what they were capable? In chasing the almighty deity of success did they not
squander their boyhood dreams? Most of those gentlemen are fertilizing daﬀodils!
However, if you get very close, boys, you can hear them whisper.
Go ahead, lean in. Hear it?
(loud whisper)
Carpe Diem, lads! Seize the day. Make your lives extraordinary.6
Best W$hes,
HoneyBear

Chapter 1: !e Fir( Adventure
Chapter 2: !e Echo Lake Snorkel
Chapter 3: Dea', D$location, Rebi0h
Chapter 4: Foxes Barking Amid( ) Tall Grasses, Waves Cra*ing Again( Cliffs;
Hummingbirds Gli.ng Over Waterfalls
Chapter 5: Introducing Chil3en to ) Sea
Chapter 6: An Island, !ree Kayaks and an Inflatable Monkey
Chapter 7: !e Torpedo Ray Rescue
Chapter 8: Scuba-Hiking to Santa Barbara
Chapter 9: Sharks Out of ) Deep: !e Epic Chum
Chapter 10: !e S&4in at Torqua; Sharks In ) Forest
Chapter 11: Con(ellations Below ) Waves; !e Epic Dive and !e Gho( Dolphins
Chapter 12: Bu6erflyf$h in Underwater Caves, Camping !r&gh ) Sand(orm
Chapter 13: !e Cha0ered Dives; Santa Cr7 and Farnsow0h Banks
Chapter 14: Exiled in A(rocamp; Po6ery, Karaoke, Cliff Hikes and Waterfalls
Chapter 15: Bass River Sailing, El Pollo Diablo Style; Before Honeybear Was Honeybear, Pa0 I
Chapter 16: Of Wildflowers and Helicopter Rescues; Before Honeybear Was Honeybear Pa0 II
Chapter 17: Shipwrecked on Monomoy; Before HoneyBear Was HoneyBear Pa0 III
Chapter 18: Burning Tires in ) Streets, Lurking Bu*ma(ers in ) Cl&d Forest; Before HoneyBear
Was HoneyBear Pa0 IV
Chapter 19: Tip to Tip; !e Island in Review
Chapter 20: !e La( Season: A Look to ) Pa( From ) Present
Chapter 21: Moonlit Nights on Co(a Rican Beaches, Sea Tu0les Nesting Under ) Stars
Chapter 22: Surviving ) Roa8ng Rapids of Sarapiquí
TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER I: The First Adventure
Robyn gently handed me a torn
map of the island, telling me to try
out some of the local paths which
delve into the five ridges descending
from the inland mountains towards
the island’s rugged rocky coastline.
These geologic fingers seem to
gently embrace this, the eastern tip
of the island’s widest breadth,
simultaneously blocking the strong
marine wind-driven currents sweeping
down the coast from the northeast
and amplifying the heavy winds which
frequently sweep down their
canyons and shake the very
foundations of the buildings within
our beloved cove of Fox Landing.
“Go exploring,” she said. “The
Airport in the Sky is a good goal;
bring us back some cookies.”
I had been on the island for
a week, my first days in California
filled with training classes and
activities to prepare for my new
job as a marine science instructor
in an isolated cove on one of
southern California’s offshore
Channel Islands. When I had first
arrived, I gazed in wonder at the
steep coastal cliffs descending
from the ragged peaked vertebrae of
Santa Catalina, hiding its immense
backside Grand and Silver Canyons
and its large-wave battered surfing
and camping oases of Shark
Harbor, Ben Weston Beach and
Salta Verde Point, all spectacular
destinations within the island’s
protected wilderness. I had yet
to explore this interior; I was
dying to head out.
I grabbed a water
bottle, my iPod and a small
backpack I had prepared full
of snacks, my favorite blanket
and my favorite book and fled
up into the hillsides. In
three years of exploring the
island, after hiking the island’s
highest peaks several times
over, rolling down its hidden
pine forest slopes, snorkeling
forgotten inland lakes, and
sleeping peacefully along many
of the island’s intimate
beaches, after hiking the
entire length of the island in a
single day, those few simple
items are all I’ve ever needed.
Having the privilege of
living amongst other young
adventurers in the forms of
fellow teachers and willing
students, it has been my
profound pleasure to share
one of my most treasured
passions with great friends,
both young and old: to
discover the road less traveled,
within and without.
I bounced up the steep
corridor of loose rock
comprising the opening section

of Bible Peak Trail. This path
climbs along the slope of the
northernmost finger of the five
ridges of Fox Landing, extending
outwards towards the rugged
peninsula of Long Point. A
small anchored rope railing
borders the left side of the trail
through the
steepest section
of the rocky
path. I skipped
past this
artificial handicap
and followed the
path as it bent
around a large
lemonade-berry
bush, devoid of
its small, red,
extremely tart
namesakes. I
climbed higher
and higher, hiking
over several
wooden crossbeams, supporting
the eroded path of packed dirt
and rock. Up through a narrow
deeply channeled switchback, I
made my way to the narrow
saddle between Bible Peak above
Long Point and Bald Spot, a peak
farther up the ridge to the
West. From this ridge, I now
enjoyed my first glimpse of my
new home from high above the
cove.
Eager to gain more
elevation, I pushed on, up the
ridge to the broad ridge of
False Bald Spot, a flat plateau
beneath the shadow of its
taller sibling, Bald Spot. After
pausing for a quick breath, I
pushed myself up the ridge
past the near-vertical
shoulder of Bald
Spot to its broad
peak, devoid of
vegetation save a large
berried lemonade-
berry shrub beside
the peak’s northern
cliff. I looked for
the first time to the
north, the rugged
cliffs above Twin
Rocks along the
water’s edge rising
behind the large open
bay of Italian
Gardens. From this
vantage, the rising hills of
Palos Verdes, north of Los
Angeles across the thirty-mile
San Pedro Channel, were now
visible across the faint ocean
mist.
Although Bald Spot itself
was sparse, the trail continued
downhill behind the peak’s
summit. This was the Spring
of 2007, and though the
island was in its third year of

a severe drought, the crimson
lemonade-berries, fuchsia prickly
pear cactus fruit and emerald
leaves of the low-lying wood
sorrel “sour-grass” covered this
verdant patch of ridge.
Forsaking these delicious
treats for a little while longer, I
continued farther along the trail,
following the ridge as it climbed
out of the cove. Ascending
further, I encountered a steep
loosely packed
slope scarred
by two waist-
deep ravines.
Skirting the
ravines along
the left edge
of the slope,
I continued
forward, past
the faint
markings of a seldom traveled
crossroads and up into the
beginnings of a steep grove of
scrub oak and lemonade-berry.
The path continued climbing,
through the forest and to the
wide dirt road which runs down
the southern ridge of Fox
Landing Cove.
From this road, for the
first time the undulating ridges
and canyons of the island are
first seen; first dark green
slopes of scrub oak, paired with
the lighter, earthier tones of
sagebrush and prickly pear.
This dual pattern continues on
to every ridge of the island, a
product of differential solar
exposure of southern
California thus affecting each
slope’s water table.
I began now to truly
leave the only home I’ve ever
known on the island, moving
inexorably forward into this
unknown interior, and
away from the
comforting
metronome of the
waves breaking along
our rocky shore.
The ultimate border
between these two
realities: a barbed
wire fence with a
closed locked gate
barring the climbing dirt road.
After a moment’s hesitation, I
quietly unlocked the gate and
close it behind me and slide
east around a large hill
obscuring the hidden valley of
Echo Lake, now desolate and
dry.
The approach to Echo
Lake is slightly uphill, when
hiking from the coastline, so
each time I come up, since
that first adventure, I imagine
a small herd of bison and

endemic island foxes waiting for
me amidst shallow, clearwater
pools and abundant prickly pear
patches laden with ripe fruit.
Once revealed after rising above
the apex of the road, the valley
seldom presents the expected.
On this first occasion
there were indeed a small herd
of bison, the first I had ever
seen on this island, let alone any
island. The valley remained dry
and barren, as it had for several
years through the drought.
Unsure of how to proceed
without drawing unwanted
attention, I quietly slid along
the sloped hill east of the
valley, struggling to keep my
footing amidst the slippery dry
grass above the valley road. The
bison curiously turned their
bulky horned heads in my
direction, unsure of the intent
implied with my intrusion into
their secluded valley. After a
moment’s hesitation, they
quickly turned back to grazing
whatever they could harvest
from the dried basin of Echo
Lake.
Past the valley lies the
central asphalt depot for the
nearby paved Airport Road which
runs along the high ridge of the
island, from the city of Avalon
to the Airport in the Sky, its 8
miles the only paved road
through the island’s interior. A
tiny airport with a short
runway and cozy café, its road
is also one of the few roads
traveled with any regularity. I
rose up to this island byway,
pausing satisfyingly to gaze
outward at my progress along
this elevated landmark of over
1500 ft.
A quick glance at the
torn map in my pack revealed
that the road to the airport
twisted away to my right,
Avalon to my left, and the
summit road of Mt. Blackjack
dead-ahead. Robyn had
mentioned the airport as an
optimistic goal, with great
bison burgers and beer
rewarding the resilient hiker,
yet the day was still early and
the bulk of the island still lay
ahead of me, invitingly.
Another quick glance at the
map convinced me that I had
plenty of time to do some
more exploring before I
should be rewarded and I was
determined to move on. From
the map, it seemed clear that
if I headed towards Blackjack
and down towards the western
backside of the island, I could
approach the airport from the
West, and hit the café on the

way back home to Fox Landing
and Long Point. Only after this
ten-mile excursion over the
island’s highest peaks would I
be deserving of warm meat and
cold beer. I decisively walked
forward, along the road which
wound around the foothills of
Mt. Blackjack before climbing
around its upper slopes to the
lofty peak of 2007 ft., the
second highest on Santa Catalina
Island.
Feeling like I had the island
entirely to myself, away from
paved roads and tourist aviators,
I meandered along the dirt road
singing to myself, gazing in
wonder at the isolated groves of
island vegetation and sunken
valleys west of Mt. Blackjack.
The road continued around the
outstretched roots of the
ancient volcano, patiently
searching out a slope broad
enough to support its wide
passage up to the summit.
Impatient to reach the top, I
impetuously reached up into the
gully of a switchback and
climbed upon the mountain’s
shoulder, unwilling to walk the
road’s full measure around the
circumference of its foothills.
Each vertical step brought me
closer to the gently sloping
grassy western shoulder of Mt.
Blackjack, as more of the
island unveiled itself to each
new elevated vantage point. At
last, the slope leveled off
before the final ascent to the
rocky summit, reuniting with
the winding dirt road spinning
upwards towards the
volcano’s eroded cone. I
climbed on, now grabbing rocks
to steady myself to the near
vertical ledge of the summit.
As I looked up, I found
myself impeded by something I
had not noticed before: a tall
chain-linked fence surrounded
the perimeter of the summit,
circling the tall red radio
tower which can be seen from
almost every vantage point on
the island. Hung from this
fence was a posted warning
concerning the high levels of
radiation from the tower, and
not to approach its base at
the summit.
Satisfied at reaching this
barrier, only feet from the
true summit, I looked around
to see the entire island from
its second-highest peak. The
far narrow canyon of Avalon
spread out to the East, the
deep isthmus valley of Two
Harbors which lay behind
several unnamed hills, and the
backside of the island were

now all revealed to this new
adventurer. While before I lived
in a small cove on a large
landmass which was in name, an
island, I could now see the bulk
of Santa Catalina Island, from
one horizon to the other; a
small land yet mountainous and
canyoned with hidden valleys and
peaks waiting to be
explored. My island
was small, yet large
enough for my own
ambitions to
discover all its
secrets, though
always finding the
new amidst the old.
I slowly
wandered down along
the winding dirt road
around each facet
of the mountains’
shoulders, continuing to survey
the breadth and width of this
amazing island. Towards Avalon,
a deep valley with a dried riverbed,
a small ridged pinnacle and wide
slopes with far-off pine trees
stretched before me. This valley,
with all of its gifts, would in
later years become my favorite
place in all of the interior, my
personal wilderness playground
to climb rocks and roll through
pine forests and even row in
forgotten wooden dingy beneath
the island’s ancient volcanoes,
Mt. Blackjack and Mt. Orizaba,
the highest peaks of my new
island home.
I looked upon these new
sights and future adventures
with eagerness and wonder as
my current path led down to
the mountain saddle between
the two peaks.
Weathered signs with
unfamiliar names passed
by as I continued
forward towards the
lofty plateau of the
island’s tallest peak, Mt.
Orizaba. Middle Ranch,
Cape Canyon, Little
Harbor; these unknown
places would have to
wait patiently, though
they all would become
part of my beloved
portfolio of treasured island
destinations. The path
continued farther on, past an
unexpected pavilion of shade
and bench at which I rested
and drank from my water
stores. Up and up the road
climbed, beyond a forlorn
rusted-out water tower. The
sage and scrub-oak covered
slopes of the interior
descended around me as I rose
up the winding path towards
the peak of nearly 2100’, a

humble height yet proud alone
above the rest of the desert
island.
Narrowly through each
horizon the island stretched, the
definition of its limits hidden in
shadow, though end it must.
And though I knew not how,
from that moment on I became
determined to walk to ends of
the island, if it were possible.
Yet at that moment, my
way was barred. Another fence!
Another safety warning! I fear
the peak of peaks of my island
now exceeds public safety limits
just as its lesser sibling
through the modern miracles of
wireless technology and
innovation. Resigned to move on
for the moment, for the Earth
under me still moved against the
Sun even if I remained paused in
reflection, I turned away from
Mt. Orizaba. I descended the
narrow rib of the mountain back
towards the nadir of its embrace
with Mt. Blackjack and returned
to faint side-trails I had
previously forsaken.
The small trail that I had
passed by disappeared below,
between the folds of Mt.
Blackjack’s western roots. I
made my way down a wide
passage, twisting downward into
the valley, amidst tall scrub-oak
and toyon-berry trees. A quick
check of my map assured me
of the road’s faithful pursuit
of Escondido Ranch, named for
its hidden location beneath the
higher ridges of the island’s
eastern backbone. The trail
continued down, winding back
and forth while hugging the
rippled canyon slopes. The
cool shade of nearby toyon-
berry groves kept out the
worst of the hot afternoon
sun, now past its scorching
zenith.
As I continued, I began
to hear a low rumbling sound.
I quickly turned the trail’s
sharp corner and witnessed
the first running freshwater I
had ever seen on the island: a
small brook beneath a
beautiful poplar tree, its
cotton-like blossoms floating
above the stream-bed through
the afternoon’s warm glow.
Stirred by the surprising
beauty of this hidden stream,
I quietly stepped over its
gently flow and continued
down the path towards the
canyon’s inevitable end at the
island’s western shore.
The steep grade of the
slope lessened as the path
began to open up into the
valley floor. I effortlessly

strolled along the road, nestled
between two higher ridges. Tall
groves of planted eucalyptus and
palm scattered across the wide
path, offering occasional shade.
I continued on, until looking up
to my right I noticed several
side paths meandering up the hill
to the northeast ridge. Looking
up, I could see the first horse
barns of Escondido Ranch and
the short fence posts of its
fledgling vineyard just beyond.
I made my way up the hill,
forsaking the valley floor which
continued all the way to the
ocean, at the twin bays of Shark
Harbor and Little Harbor. I
finally reached the crest of the
ridge and walked through the tall
gates of the entrance to the
ranch, past its corral of prized
Arabian horses and into the wide
Spanish-style courtyard. It
seemed deserted in the middle of
that quiet afternoon, and after
some searching I found a small
water fountain to refill my
empty bottle. I lingered a while,
walking along the corral, admiring
the beautiful brown glowing
flanks of the horses.
Rechecking my map, I continued
on, eager to complete the long
trek back east, towards bison
burgers, beer and home.
The road continued up
along the crest of the ridge,
climbing back towards the high
eastern backbone of the island
via the Airport in the Sky. The
road became very dusty as it
widened, now exposed to late
afternoon wind gusts sweeping
across the waves of ridges
spreading behind me. Although
the road was well-graded, it
continued up and up, now
entering the first of many
switchbacks twisting around
the broad contours of the
hills. This was one of the
major approaches to the
airports and occasionally a car
or truck rumbled by in a
spiraling cloud of dust as I
made my way through the many
switchbacks.
One van stopped nearby,
however, and I looked out
curiously as its window rolled
down. “Who could possibly be
stopping,” I thought to
myself, since I had met only a
small handful of people within
my new island home. The guy
stretched his head out of the
window and I quickly
recognized him as Brandon, a
fellow “new fish” at Fox
Landing. “Hey, Honeybear!
How’s it goin’, man?” “Great!”,
I managed. “Just out for a

walk. How did your surf trip
go?” He had spent the day on
the backside of the island with
some of the other biology
instructors from Toyon Bay, and
was on his way back. “So much
fun, man!”, he said. “Hey, do you
want a lift back?” “Nah,” I
replied. “Came this far, gotta
make it all the way back on my
own legs. Thanks though!” “All
right, man. See you back home!”
The suburban sped off behind a
column of dust as I slowly
continued up after it, every step
bringing me closer to the shaded
café of the Airport in the Sky,
and salvation.
Switchback after
switchback led me to believe
that the Airport was just
around the corner, only to find
just another cactus-ridden
slope. Finally, the edge of the
runway appeared over the ledge
beyond the road, and I knew the
end must be nearby. Yet the road
continued south, away from the
airport. Confused and frustrated,
I quickly walked off-trail
amidst the cacti and sage, and
over a small swell of hill. A
mere fifty feet ahead lay the
road, now speeding straight
towards the airport’s main
cluster of buildings and
warehouses. I had just
bypassed another major
switchback in my haste to
find sustenance. Trudging
tiredly towards the buildings
and café, covered in dust and
grime, my small backpack
clinging to my sweat-soaked
shoulders in the lingering heat
of the late afternoon, I
reached towards the door of
the air conditioned cafe and
stepped inside.
One of the more
luxurious ways of visiting
Santa Catalina Island is by
private plane; families of
wealthy tourists who want to
visit the island’s interior in an
afternoon frequently stop at
this small café to dine before
continuing on to the ample
luxuries of Avalon, the
island’s tourist hub. It is
into this bourgeois tourist-
trap that I now walked,
surrounded by flies and dust
and sweat, approaching the
food counter amidst trendy
knickknacks and postcards and
authentic Catalina Island
pottery tiles.
“Are you okay, sir?” “My
God, how did you get here?!”
“Look at him, are you sure
you’re okay?” “Would you like
something to drink?” All I can
manage is a weak “yes please”

before sinking down into a chair
in the back by the tables,
composing myself before I
attempt an entire sentence which
might conceivably end with a
steaming pile of bison meat being
presented in front of me.
After a much needed drink
of cold water, I step up and
order a bison burger and corona.
In a blinding moment of clarity,
I first took a bite of the
burger, realizing that if I had a
swig of Corona after hiking ten
miles and over two-thousand
feet in 90 heat with little to
eat, I’d probably pass out right
there. I heavily sank my teeth
into this delicious burger, just
letting its taste envelop my
senses, as I settled down into
the chair and went over my map.
I traced the mountains and
ridged I had already passed over,
and looked at the next stage of
my journey home along the paved
Airport Road back towards Echo
Lake and Long Point. Eager to
move on, especially before dark,
I wolfed down the food, downed
the beer, and left the café as
suddenly as I had entered.
The bulk of the adventure
now behind me, I turned up my
iPod, began singing and walked
lightly down the hill and through
the paved switchbacks
towards home.
No longer worried about
getting lost, I spent more time
looking at the hills, noticing
the prickly pear in bright
yellow bloom, several already
with glowing purple fruit,
delicious and ready for the
taking. Waiting patiently until I
found just the right one, I
turned left around another
switchback to find a prickly
pear patch rising a full five
feet above a nearby ledge. I
scrambled up to take a closer
look and was amazed to find
some fruit as large as my fist.
Wanting to save a few of the
delicious monsters for later,
if I ever returned to this
spot, I gently twisted one off
of its emerald pad. I
carefully sliced the surface
of the fruit with my fingernail
and began peeling the purple
skin down one side, ruby juice
dripping down my fingers. Of
course by this point, despite
focused dexterity, my fingers
were punctured by countless
Lilliputian spears, nearly
impossible to extract. This
stinging penalty was inevitable
given the mouthwatering
sweetness of this purple
bounty.

Gingerly, I attempted to
pull some of the spines out, to
no avail, as I continued walking
and singing down the road. The
skin now peeled back, I began
taking nibbles at the
underlying tender flesh,
though I quickly learned
to scoop some out with
my fingers, as my lips
now had nearly as many
spines as my fingers. It
was delicious! Hard
seeds like pomegranate
amidst sweet juicy
flesh, it was a perfect
dessert at the end of a
long day. In a moment probably
inspired by Pan’s Lost Boys (or
Lord of the Flies) I dipped two
fingers in the jelly of the center
of the fruit and drew them
across my cheeks. I was now
Honeybear, now and forever,
Undaunted Adventurer amidst the
mountains and canyons of
Catalina, unconquered and
invincible.
I proudly walked back
down the road, over the cattle
gate and to the broad feet of
Mt. Blackjack, trying to look
fierce and feral as shuttle-
buses carrying tourists passed,
their curious eyes staring out
from open windows at this
depraved native islander. As dusk
settled in, I finally made my
way off the paved road and
began the long switchback
down to Echo Lake, the
shadows lengthening through
the narrow opening
between the
surrounding hills of its
hidden valley. The bison
had left the basin long
ago, settling down
somewhere warm for
the evening, leaving me
wandering home
through the desolate
mud pan alone, thinking
about the magical day,
the placed I’d seen close-up
and afar to which I knew
someday I was destined to
return, about the new life I
had chosen and the new family
which it was now my fortune
to embrace.
As I walked over the
shallow hill concealing the San
Pedro Channel and the island’s
eastern coasts, I realized I
couldn’t wait to return and
tell Robyn where I’d been,
what I’d seen. My fellow new
fish, Brandon, Dunkle, Dr. Woo,
Mary-Animal, Sonia, Codfish,
Mallow; I couldn’t wait to
show them where I’d been and
go exploring with them later.
There were miles and miles of

open space, with no boundaries
except the rugged coasts and
the frigid sea, and all of us had
a great sense of adventure and
unquenchable curiosity, which I
quickly discovered later.
As evening approached, I
carefully made my way down the
narrow ledges and steep slopes
that twisted their way down the
valley and back down to the
rocky yet comforting beach of
our cove. Relieved to be down, I
walked across the field, standing
tall with my head held high, back
to the lodge where my friends
were all learning to enjoy each
other’s presence.
As I passed the office, I
stopped for a moment in front
of the pier, looking down its
length to the open ocean, its
surface darkening with the
coming of night. Yet before the
light finally gave way to darkness,
I noticed something strange:
small red lights dotted the far
coasts of California, though the
sun had just set behind the
hills in the west, far behind my
back. I will always remember
these red lights, small yet
dazzling as they welcomed me
home: the reflected sunset
against the windowed mansions
of California’s coast across the
San Pedro Channel, thirty miles
wide and three thousand feet
deep.
Awed by the beauty of
the entire island, I walked back
up the hill to the lodge as the
final indigo hues of the day
reluctantly faded away into
night. I could hear my friends
loudly celebrating the end of
another magical day with
music and singing and laughter;
Robyn and Justin on the
soulful mandolin, the rhythmic
beat of Brandon’s drums,
Oster and Woo’s guitars
strumming joyfully, the lovely
chorus of Mary and Codde and
Dunkle’s voices mingled
together, singing the treasured
songs of the FMF, the Fox
Mafia Family into which I’d
been adopted in that fateful
Spring of 2007, whose love I
will never set aside, though
the seasons be long and the
island lay far away. I walked
proudly up the stairs and
through the door, smiling as I
entered into the lives of this
new family in this new lodge in
this new cove in this new life
in this new world. I was
home at last.

Well, I’m livin’ in a foreign country but I’m bound to cross the line
Beauty walks a razor’s edge, someday I’ll make it mine.
If I could only turn back the clock to when God and her were born.
“Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm.” 7
”Twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood
When blackness was a virtue and the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form.
“Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm.”
And if I pass this way again, you can rest assured
I’ll always do my best for her, on that I give my word
In a world of steel-eyed death
and men who are fighting to be warm.
Not a word was spoke between us,
there was little risk involved
Everything up to that point had been left unresolved.
Try imagining a place where it’s always safe and warm.
I was burned out from exhaustion, buried in the hail,
Poisoned in the bushes an’ blown out on the trail,
Hunted like a crocodile, ravaged in the corn.
Suddenly I turned around and she was standin’ there
With silver bracelets on her wrists and flowers in her hair.
She walked up to me so gracefully
and took my crown of thorns.
“Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm.
“Now there’s a wall between us, somethin’ there’s been lost
I took too much for granted, got my signals crossed.
Just to think that it all began on a long-forgotten morn.
Well, the deputy walks on hard nails
and the preacher rides a mount
But nothing really matters much,
it’s doom alone that counts
And the one-eyed undertaker, he blows a futile horn.
I’ve heard newborn babies wailin’ like a mournin’ dove
And old men with broken teeth stranded without love.
Do I understand your question, man,
Is it hopeless and forlorn?
In a little hilltop village, they gambled for my clothes
I bargained for salvation an’ they gave me a lethal dose.
I offered up my innocence and got repaid with scorn.
“Come in,” she said,
“I’ll give you shelter from the storm.”

If I ever leave '$ world alive
I’ll 'ank y& for ) 'ings y& .d in my life
I’ll come back do- and sit beside y&r feet tonight
Wherever I am, y&’ll always be, more 'an ju( a memory
If I ever…..………..leave '$ world…………….alive
I’ll take on all ) sadness
'at I le, behind
If I ever leave '$ world alive,
) madness 'at y& feel
will soon subside
So in a word don’t *ed a tear
I’ll be here when it all "ts weird
So when in d&bt ju( call my name ju( before y& go insane
If I ever leave '$ world, I may never leave '$ world,
But if I ever......... leave '$ world………........alive
She says, “I’m ok, I’m al8ght.
Don’t y& have gone from my lif9
Y& said 'at it w&ld, Now every'ing *&ld,
Be al8ght.”
8

CHAPTER II: The Echo Lake Snorkel
Martin, who was Catalina’s
answer to both Mr. Clean and the
fishermen from “The Most
Dangerous Catch”, ambled around
the corner with a pickaxe slung
over his big shoulders, his work
jeans and heavy boots grimed with
week-old mud. He paused once as
he saw me around the corner of
the building. “I don’t even want to
know”, he said heavily,
and kept walking with a
double shake of his
head, as if trying hard
to forget what he had
just seen.
I, of course, was
about to embark on
another dream
adventure of mine,
which is usually the
most embarrassing of
public moments,
before the full glory
and courage of the
quest is able to be fully
appreciated by a bewildered and
unsuspecting audience.
A visage to behold, I was
donned in bright blue 3 mm neoprene
pants, purple long-sleeve neoprene
jacket, black booties diligently
tucked inside said pants, my hair,
usually falling past my shoulders,
now tucked inside my jet-black
wetsuit hood. My beloved maize
and blue Wolverine duffel bag
strapped to my back, a leather
belt wrapped around my waist,
acting as a bandolier of assorted
snacks, alternating packages of
Gushers and gummy Scooby-Doo
snacks tucked in for safekeeping.
I felt invincible: I am Honeybear!
Hear me roar!
Dashing and daring,
Courageous and caring,
Faithful and friendly,
With stories to share.
All through the forest,
They sing out in chorus,
Marching along,
As their song ﬁlls the air.
Honey Bears!!
Bouncing here and there
and everywhere.
High adventure that’s beyond compare.
They are the Honey Bears.
Magic and mystery,
Are part of their history,
Along with the secret of prickly pear juice.
Their legend is growing,
They take pride in knowing,
They’ll ﬁght for what’s right, in whatever they do.
Honey Bears!!
Bouncing here and there and everywhere.
High adventure that’s beyond compare.
They are the Honey Bears.
They are the Honey Bears!!
9

That season I had found a
willing partner-in-crime to my near-
constant foolishness in Becky
Gericke, an innocent sweet
Midwestern girl with a mouth like a
dead hooker. In three months of
working together, I came to
treasure the conversations and
banter-filled squabbles we’d fight
at 3:00 AM almost every other
night. A strong, incredibly
intelligent woman, I relished the
experience of throwing my brash
ego and philosophies against her
stubborn pragmatism. The many
adventures I shared with her are
moments I will never forget and
always treasure. The best thing I
can say about her is that she is a
woman who knows how find
Monoceros. She’s that great.
A couple of days before, I
had been talking about some of the
adventures I had undertaken
through the interior of the island
and how beautiful the inner island
truly was. Most remarkably, after
the long drought and climactic fire
that had devastated the eastern
island in the spring of 2007, the
island had miraculously bloomed in
full glory, a wet winter birthing a
spring full of wildflowers and
flowing streams unimagined. The
island was more beautiful in its
renaissance than any of us had ever
seen it, and I was determined to
experience the full splendor of
its vitality. Even Echo Lake, which
had always been a complete
misnomer to my eyes, a dead
mudflat of dried filth and
choking, swirling winds, had
actually filled with water! Dirty,
coffee brown, mud-water caked
with bison dung, but water! I
HAD to see it for myself, had to
experience it for myself.
A relaxing Saturday afternoon in
the lodge, a few hours shared
together in the hallway, someone in
the hammock, another on the couch,
looking out at the wide ocean
through the porch sliding doors,
contemplating whether or not we
should go scuba diving with angel
sharks, kayaking with sea lions or
watch some baseball and “Surf’s
Up” on TV, one of our favorite
movies. For three years, those were
pretty much my life’s options.
“It’s dangerous business,
Frodo, going out your front
door”, Baggins once said. “You
step into the Road, and if you
don’t keep your feet, there is no
knowing where you might be
swept off to. Do you realize
that this is the very path that
goes through Mirkwood, and that
if you let it, it might take you to
the Lonely Mountain, or even
farther or to worse places?”
Similarly, Route 6, the humble

two-lane backbone of Cape Cod,
Massachusetts, runs west, leaving
the defiant seaward arm of the
Northeast, unnoticed and
unheralded all the way to the
borders of California before ceding
its traffic to larger distributaries.
I had undertaken that same journey
two years previously after
graduating college not fifty miles
from where I was born, in the ever
misspelled and forgotten city of
Worcester, in the geographic heart
of Massachusetts.
The mysterious, wondrous and
occasionally perilous roads which
are born outside of our front door
lead towards unknown lands, often
to exhilarating triumphs and
devastating failures. Yet to live
fully is to walk undaunted and
courageously down these oft dark,
oft blinding roads to wherever they
may lead. It was with a simple
phone call, a single plane ticket, a
single ferry ride, that I found
myself starting a new life on a
nearly uninhabited island west of
California, along a coastline I had
never seen.
It was with that same
impetuous, intuitive sense of
destiny and fortune that I found
myself getting closer and closer to
convincing Becky to join me in
visiting the now glistening pools of
Echo Lake which had for years lain
barren and desolate. Yet that in
itself was insufficient. Anyone
could walk to Echo Lake. We
were Foxies, of the crazy Fox
Mafia Family, the most
adventurous, loving and above-all
badass family of teachers to ever
rule Catalina’s Long Point and
Buttonshell Beach. We were the
mysterious warrior-poets of the
island and simply walking up to
Echo Lake would never suffice,
not for Godfather Jeff Chace,
not for Top Dawg Tyler Korte,
certainly not for their loyal
disciple Honeybear. Never, for the
FMF.
Did you see the sky
I think it means that we’ve been lost
Maybe one less time is all we need
I can’t really help it
If my tongue’s all tied in knots
Jumping off a bridge,
It’s just the farthest that I’ve ever been
Anywhere you go, I’ll follow you down
Anyplace but those I know by heart
I’ll follow you down, but not that far
How you gonna ever find your place
Running in an artificial pace
Are they gonna find us
Lying face down in the sand
So what the hell now,
We’ve already been forever damned
Anyplace but those I know by heart.....
10

We would hike up the
mountainous paths of our cove up to
1200’ Echo Lake, in students’ wetsuits
in 85° heat, at noon, and snorkel Echo
Lake. The Goal, the only possible
option, the unthinkable yet inevitable.
No one had ever done it before, and no
one would ever do it again. Thus are
legends born amidst the living gods of
Santa Catalina Island in the annals of
recorded history of the infamous FMF.
I took a step up with great
effort against the firm inflexibility of
thick neoprene and extended a hand
downwards to pull Becky up past the
ancient trailhead, the letters of its
engraved sign etched into the erected
driftwood like hieroglyphics just
dusted off after being buried in sand
for a thousand years. “You fucking
asshole,” she muttered. “How the
fuck did you convince me to do this
shit? Ah, bullshit!” That’s how I
knew exactly how brilliant my ideas
were. A guy could fall in love, you
know?
She stepped up next to me,
and I gave her a quick high-five
before grabbing the anchored rope-
railing that lines the steepest part
of the trail, feeling like Sir Edmund
Hillary on the Step of the world’s
highest peak. We walked for a solid
half-hour, finally reaching the
saddle between Bible Peak and False
Bald Spot, dripping sweat and
sucking air. We looked at each
other smiling, then burst out
laughing hysterically, nearly falling
off the nearby cliff before I
started running along the trail,
then climbing up the ridge which
led out of the valley and into the
clouds and history books.
She continued up after me,
pausing every twenty feet or so
to tell me to go fuck myself. I
reached the narrow plateau of
False Bald Spot first and
collapsed on my back, panting into
the sky. Becky’s head bounced
over the cliff’s horizon as she
gingerly stepped up onto the ridge,
falling down beside me. I ripped
a Gushers packet out of my
bandolier belt and tossed it to
her laughing. “C’mon,” I said.
“We still have a ways to go!” I
grabbed her hand, pulled her up,
and pushed her up the ridge ahead
of me.
“I don’t know if I can do
this!”
“Nice and slow, one step at a
time, c’mon Becky!”
“You’re an asshole.”
“I know, I know.”
We climbed further up the
narrow ridge together, now using
our hands against the loose
rocks along the ridge when our
feet faltered. Finally we reached
the broad empty peak of Bald
Spot, the halfway mark of our

epic journey to our mud pit of
destiny. Trying to quench my
thirst, I ripped open several more
packets of Gushers, as my water
bottle was in my pack and it was
extremely cumbersome to take off.
After at least a second’s
consideration, I also grabbed a few
prickly pear fruit with my bare
hands, eager for the juicy flesh
lying within despite the fact that
my fingers now stung with a
multitude of needles embedded in
my sweaty, salty skin. I adjusted
the duffel bag on my back, wiped
the sweat dripping from my brow
and turned to see Becky stand up
and begin making her way down the
backside of Bald Spot. The trail
descended a ways before resuming
its climb up the ridge and towards
the hidden valley of Echo Lake. I
turned west and followed her up
the hill, determined to reach the
top of the mountain through the
next landmark on our journey, the
Great Ravine scarring the loose
rocky slope just around the
corner.
One foot forward meant one
foot slipping backwards amidst the
rolling eroded pebbles as we bent
forwards, determined to conquer.
It was amidst this diagonal
wasteland that we found two of
our friends kneeling beside a tall
solitary Mariposa lily, admiring its
proud white cup contrasting
with the burnt orange wreckage
of the corroded hillside.
Erica reluctantly looked
away from the oasis of her
island’s favorite flower as she
saw us approach. Some lost
depraved thirsting wanderers,
daring snorkelers who had either
gone insane in the sweltering heat
or perhaps were simply a few
million years too late and
expected deep ocean instead of
this strange uplifted island.
Maybe they were waiting for a
rove tidal wave surging across
the wide Pacific crashing over
the coast’s humble peaks to
rescue these bizarre misplaced
travelers, who for some reason
were hiking up over a thousand
feet in full wetsuits, under the
murderous afternoon sun of
southern California.
I looked at the horizon, but
no tidal wave returned my gaze,
though if one had I would have
thrown my arms wide and happily
stepped off the cliff into its
surging fountains. It was that
hot, and I was that tired. Nick
turned beside Erica and looked up
at us once, and looked back at
Erica, perhaps unsure of what he
was seeing. They both turned to
looked back at us and together
uttered a single syllable: “Yes!”

united in affirmation. Afterwards
came the unanswerable “What the
fuck are you doing?” and “Aren’t
you guys dying in this heat?” and
“What the fuck?” But for that one
instant, they understood.
Yes! An affirmation of life, a
vigorous embrace of the absurd and
quixotic dreams of the young, the
irrational impulses of the new and
startling explorers of this wide world.
Uncertainty and hesitation were thrown
aside for exuberance and friendship, for
adventure and novelty.
Our critique began as all critiques begin: with
doubt. Doubt became our narrative. Ours was
a quest for a new story, our own. And we
grasped towards this new history driven by
the suspicion that ordinary language
couldn’t tell it. Our past appeared frozen in
the distance, and every gesture and accent
signified the negation of the old world and the
reach for a new one. The way we lived
created a new situation, one of exuberance
and friendship, that of a subversive
microsociety, in the heart of a society which
ignored it. Art was not the goal but the
occasion and method for locating our specific
rhythm and buried possibilities of our time.
The discovery of a true communication was
what it was about, or at least the quest for
such a communication. The adventure of
finding it and losing it. We the unappeased,
the unaccepting continued looking, filling in
the silences with our own wishes, fears and
fantasies. Driven forward by the fact that
no matter how empty the world seemed,
no matter how degraded and used up
the world appeared to us, we knew that
anything was still possible. And, given
the right circumstances, a new world
was just as likely as an old one.
! The camera that Erica had
been holding quickly turned to
these displaces marine mammals.
She snapped off a few quick
shots before standing up with
Nick, both of them turning to
us, saying, “Lead on, McDuff!”
Becky and I turned again to look
up at the insurmountable craggy
slope of the ravine and continued
forward, climbing higher. With
encouragement from our newly
formed entourage, we crawled up
and up, hand over hand, foot
beyond foot, as we gained on the
flat pause beyond the horizon of
loose rock, before the ridge
climbed even higher. Closer and
closer it seemed, yet still beyond
reach as the sweat dripped from
our brows onto the curvature of
our eyeballs, stinging brightly,
perhaps waking us up from the
tired resignation and dull magnetic
desire to rest for a bit, to sleep,
to not climb any higher.
Somehow, my hand reached
up to find its next grip of loose
substrate and instead found
11

emptiness. Groping, I felt the
obtuse angle of the slope’s rim and
pulled myself up, heaving onto the
flat plateau of momentary
salvation. I collapsed forward
breathing rapidly, my lungs rising
and falling like a bellows being
tended by an overenthusiastic
pyromaniac, or the gills of a great
fish which, after fighting the line
for several hours, suddenly finds
itself flung against the wooden
deck of an old ship, a heavy rubber
boot pressed against its slimy
scales as it struggles to harvest
any available oxygen in the dry, alien
atmosphere.
A few seconds later, Becky
herself appeared over the edge of the
world, settling heavily beside me and
patting me on the chest, perhaps trying
to calm its palpitating fibrillations.
“Almost there, guys! C’mon!” came
the much-appreciated
encouragement of Nick and Erica
and with the help of two
outstretched hands, we rose to
our feet and made our way towards
the shaded oasis of the scrub-oak
forest. The broad road which ran
the length of the ridge to our left
was lay just above this forest,
leading to the valley of Echo Lake
and the end of our torment.
We stepped into the blessed
coolness of the forest understory,
struggling to lift our neoprene-clad
legs over two large branches
which crossed this narrow path
through the woods. Though
shaded, this section of the trail
was still a struggle, as it rose
steeply to the top of the canyon.
Loose rock gave way to tall dry
grass, making the climb even more
slippery and we began grabbing
branches to pull ourselves up
the hill, twisting from tree to
overhanging tree.
A quick break, another few
shuffled steps, another barked
pull-up bar, another quick rest,
another slippery step up, we
made our way to the top of the
slope, around a corner and the
trees finally gave way to sky and
open road. The road at this
junction was fairly steep and it
took a little more effort to
reach the flat broad crest of the
mountain. The breeze here was
fantastic, blowing back the
flowing ripples of sweat from
my face and cooling the thick
layers of neoprene, now steaming
gently in the blurred afternoon
heat along the exposed dirt road.
Becky and I walked side by side
with Nick and Erica, now along the
easiest part of the journey,
meandering down the wide swath of
ridge, laughing and swearing at each
other, the miraculous triumph of
our quest within reach. This sudden

awareness was an ephemeral yet sweet
and dizzying intoxicant of pleasure, our
attempts at innocuous conversation
washed over by fits of laughter at the
sheer ridiculousness of our
afternoon’s dreamlike adventure into the
rabbit-hole and through the looking-
glass. Drunken with our dreams and
fantasies made real, we stumbled
forward towards the last climb of the
road just ahead of us, as I had told
Becky, as I had been telling her for the
last three hills. Her heavy breathing
behind me was intermixed with
muttered swears and curses as I
regaled her with images of clearwater
pools and tropical breezes within
shaded valleys lying just over the
horizon.
The final big challenge: a steep
slope of wide loosely packed dirt,
deep tractor footprints compacted
by the sedimentation of time and
abandoned ground-wires reaching up
to grab our weary ankles and heavy
feet as we fought our way
upwards against the constant
bonds of gravity. And finally, there
it was! Another hill. “You Fucking
Asshole!”, she cried, disheartened
with grief at the unending road.
“Ah, but that was the last BIG
hill, this next one is the last small
one”, I replied enthusiastically.
“Becky, you’re awesome! Almost
there!”, cried Erica, her camera
ready to record the historic
moment of our agony and ecstasy
waiting at the top of the
mountain.
Over a small bump, a weary
hand pushing forward a large
metal gate, the clank of its heavy
chain being relocked behind us as
we pushed forward to our
destination; all these sounds
became an echo in the back of
our minds, our hearts and souls
dancing above among the heat-
blurred desolation of sage and
prickly pear which must, we
believed, birth some small wet
pool of life-giving water and
hope.
The road curved to our left,
forsaking the summit of a large,
unnamed peak upon whose flanks
the barbed-wire fence now
climbed like the flattened blades
on the backside of the world’s
largest stegosaurus. Thankful
that the torment of scaling this
higher peak was not demanded of
us, we slunk beside the tall
walls beneath the hill’s shoulder,
and the hidden glade which still
holds the gleaming cache of
bones and dull red tendons of
many of the island’s mule deer,
feral pigs and goats which
hunters had leveled to legislated
population limits. Feeling only
slightly more alive than these
cast-aside remains, we wound

around the broad shoulder of the
hill and crept forward up the road,
nearing our goal.
Each determined to be the first
one to see the mocha-colored mirage
of the Echo Lake oasis, we slowly
picked up the pace; walking fast, then
a slow jog, faster and faster, finally
hurling our bodies forward at the last
small gravitational resistance. Behind
this small rise, the golden valley rose
higher and higher, the large prickly pear
patch along the water’s shore
becoming visible, and finally, after
hours of struggle and adversity, water,
dozens of feet of brown liquefied
bison poop for us to play in. Words
cannot describe its pure simple beauty.
We stumbled forward in victory
and throwing my duffle bag off my
back, I bent down to unzipper its
contents and prepare for the main
event. Slowly, reverently, I
triumphantly drew my fins, my
snorkel mask and my reckless
sense of adventure from my bag and
turned my manic grin towards
Becky: “You ready?!”
“What now?” she asked.
“Exactly what sort of madman’s
errand had she joined, where did
this unimagined Road lead now?”
her wary expression demanded as
she looked back at me. I stepped
forwards, sinking my feet into the
thick mud along the edge of the
lake, its cool fingers wrapping
themselves around my extended
toes. “Now? Now we jump!” I
turned back and sat down,
slipping my blue Mares fins onto
my feet, and spat in my mask,
leaning forward to rinse it in the
filthy water of Echo Lake before
donning it.
“Wait. You brought fins?!
I’m not going barefoot through
that thing if you aren’t! What am
I supposed to do?” I shrugged
and took one fin off, offering it
to her. “Let’s share. I’ll take
one, you take one.” “No, it’s
okay,” she said. “Well, if you’re
going barefoot, so am I,” I
replied. She stretched her mask
over her head and stepped
forward next to me, our bare
feet now engulfed by the
refreshing chill of the lake’s
mud and coffee-brown water.
“On the count of three. You
ready?” The expression on her
face, apprehensive yet prepared,
still suggested that she had no
idea exactly what madness I had
in mind. I motioned with my
hands, curving them upwards and
then plunging them downwards,
palms down, fingers splayed out
with a sound of a giant crash.
Her eyes widened in surprise as I
took her by the hand and led her
forwards into the muck. “Okay,
you ready?” asked both Beck and

Erica, who had brought her camera
up to record the foolishness of
the moment. Both nodded in
anticipation. “Okay. One, Two,
Three!”
With a great
effort, I threw
myself forwards,
gripping Becky’s hand
with my left, my right
arm out
perpendicularly from
my body as our bodies
crashed down into the
liquid mud, both of
us laughing hysterically into the mouth
pieces of our snorkels as we came up
floating, our wetsuits now cold and
soothing. I reached backwards, and
then pushed the dark water alongside my
body in an exaggerated backstroke as I
swam across the lake, not daring to
reach down with my feet to some
unimaginable depth of
ooze. I signaled Becky
forwards with one hand
and she swam forwards
after me. “Let’s go to
the other side!” I said.
With a splash she
darted forwards, and I
chased after her,
determined to beat her there. She,
however, had already reached the
shallow rise on the far side of the lake,
not forty feet from where we had so
brazenly entered.
We both swam out to the middle,
hovering in space as we treaded the
unknown depths below us. “Okay. On
the count of three, legs down, okay?”
“Okay. Ew, ew, ew.” One, Two, Three,
we reluctantly let our
legs drift down,
recoiling against the
soft resistance of the
lake’s benthic sludge.
Pressing down further,
I gently sank my weight
with one foot and
stood up, nearly up to
my chest in water.
I looked up at Becky’s comical
expression of utter disgust and
surprise as her own feet sank down
into the water’s dark depths. I just
started laughing, deep belly laughs born
from the strange union of bliss and
revulsion alternating over both of our
faces. Laughing at the filth of Echo
Lake, at our foolish
immersion in its dark
waters, at Life, the
Universe and Everything.
After playing
around for a while, after
making mud-angels and
swimming the perimeter
of the valley, we packed
up our soaking wetsuits and started
off for home, behind Erica and Nick
who had already started down. Our
hair dripping brown water, the smiles

For now, we just basked in the impressive and absurd
accomplishments of the day and the random luck and serendipity
that had brought each member of the FMF to this island, to this
moment, with these true friends and loving family. We were young,
life was free, and the future was full of the unexpected, the
mysterious and the beloved dreams of tomorrow.
plastered to our faces with the recent memory of a fun and
unheralded afternoon adventure. We walked down the road,
silently watching the sun descend behind us. The entire valley
of our home waited below as we gazed at the wide hemisphere
of mountains and canyons of Catalina Island. As we made our
way down, we knew that each had its own peculiarities and
sweet secrets waiting to be discovered, to be experienced in the
later days of our time on the island.

Chapter III: Life, Death and Dislocation
I’ve just seen a face I can’t forget
The time or place where we just met
She’s just the girl for me
And I want all the world to see we’ve met
It’d have been another day
I might’ve looked the other way
And I’d have never been aware
But as it is I’ll dream of her tonight
La, La La, la la la……..
I stumbled and rolled down the
berm’s the steep, sandy embankment
towards the shore. The dark sea surge
crashed in perfect rhythm; the rough
soundtrack of the blurred world in
front of me. Tears rolled down my
warm cheeks as I stumbled blindly
down the beach, lost in agony as I
finally sank down and collapsed upon my
back. I couldn’t begin to think
coherently, I just knew that nothing
had gone as planned and I was drowning
in pain.
What came ﬁrst, the music or the misery?
People worry about kids playing with guns
or watching violent videos, that some culture
of violence will take them over. Nobody worries
about kids listening to thousands, literally
thousands of songs about heartbreak, rejection,
pain, misery and loss. Did I listen to pop
music because I was miserable or was I
miserable because I listened to pop music?
The night ended as expected:
high-fiving my friend as we both
threw up a blood-red mixture of
several different red and white
wines, and expensive and varied hor
de oeuvres, all over our friend the
Harbor Master’s porch. A great
night. One of the Worst nights of
my life.
She was tall, skinny, long
streaked light brown hair in a
disorganized tangle like a long mane,
swishing back and forth whenever
she shook her head. She was
constantly alternating between
totally aggressive bitch and utterly
lazy slacker collapsed on the
couch. I had fallen in love.
In my defense, let me simply
say I do not fall in love carelessly.
Strong liking, undeniable lust, sure.
But for some reason, I really fell
for this girl. By my own admission,
I can be a fairly complicated guy;
underlying meaning and purpose in a
seemingly incomprehensible universe.
Hidden structure within apparent
chaos. It takes a while to see the
forest through the trees. Someone
once told me what they thought
the fundamental difference between
East-coasters and West-coasters.
West-coasters know everybody;
there’s a large amount of people
with whom they are friendly, but
few true lifelong friends. East-
coasters are friendly with fewer
people, but most of these are and
always will be very close friends
12
13

who genuinely love each other. I
don’t think it’s as simple as that, but
that dichotomy is definitely something
that resonates with my experience
growing up in Massachusetts. There
are several friends who have been very
close to my heart since kindergarten,
high school, college and work, who
will always be important in my life
whether they are near or far.
Someone once described me as one of
the friendliest, most patient person
that she’d ever met, and I’d like to
think that that’s true. But my heart
is a very treasured place, somewhat
selective, and once embraced, I’ll
never set that love aside. “Don’t
expect me to follow through on
anything, but I’ll go through hell for
you,” one of my heroes once sang.
And I will, and often have.
So I certainly don’t fall in love
on a whim. But being Hispanic and
attractive seems to help. Puerto Ricans
are on the outer edge of this tendency,
I mean she was fairly insane. Seriously.
She believed that cancer was caused
solely by retaining negative thoughts. But
I still couldn’t help myself, as much
as I wanted to.
One of John Cusack’s
characters once said, “It doesn’t matter
what you’re like, it matters what you
like. And by that measure I was having
one of the best dates of my life.”
Waking Life, What the Bleep Do We
Know, I Heart Huckabees, the game
Myst, Ferngully, Complexity Theory;
few people have heard of these things,
let alone take them seriously. But
upon these few ideas and philosophies
and worlds, my soul balanced, my
universe explained.
I remember the exact day. I
was enjoying my day off, lying on the
couch watching Waking Life eating my
bowl of dried ramen (delicious by the
way), when she walked by, glanced at
the screen and sat down. “Do you
think that that’s true? That everything
in life has already happened and acting
it out? Then how do you explain free
will?” And that was that, I was
hooked.
As the movie continued playing,
we began discussing philosophy,
arguing, commenting, proposing new
ideas, refuting old ones. One of the
most interesting and entertaining
conversations I’ve ever had, with
anybody. The existence of God, his or
her gender, the underlying purposes of
human society throughout history,
everything was on the table. The power
of the individual, the futility of
progress within human civilization;
millennia of philosophy and thought
passed between us through near
constant discussion and debate. It
was bliss. Nothing is quite as sexy as
a girl with a mind bursting forth with
new ideas of the world, guided by
passion and reason. After hours of
arguing back and forth, pause and

thought, then theory, then revision, we’d
be yelling at each other across the
counter. “The means God is everywhere
and part of everything!” “No, she’s
nowhere, it doesn’t matter!” “No!
Everything is” “Nothing!” “Everything!”
“Nothing!” “Everything! Every night, the
whole of the universe was refought,
rethought and reborn in new light and
perspective. I’ll always look back fondly
over these philosophical battles that
left both of us smiling and gasping for
breath. We had become close friends,
and I was happy.
[Meg]: If there’s a prize for rotten judgement
I guess I’ve already won that
No man is worth the aggravation
That’s ancient history, been there, done that!
[Muses:] Who’d’ya think you’re kiddin’
He’s the Earth and heaven to you
Try to keep it hidden
Honey, we can see right through you
Girl, ya can’t conceal it We know how ya feel
and Who you’re thinking of......
[Meg:] Ohhh.....No chance, no way
I won’t say it, no, no
[Muses:] You swoon, you sigh
why deny it, uh-oh
[Meg:] It’s too cliche
I won’t say I’m in love
I thought my heart had learned its lesson
It feels so good when you start out
My head is screaming get a grip, girl
Unless you’re dying to cry your heart out
[Muses:] You keep on denying
Who you are and how you’re feeling
Baby, we’re not buying
Hon, we saw ya hit the ceiling
Face it like a grown-up
When ya gonna own up
That ya got, got, got it bad
[Meg:] WRONG: No chance, no way
I won’t say it, no, no
[Muses:] Give up, give in
Check the grin you’re in love
[Meg:] This scene won’t play,
[Muses:] You’re doin flips read our lips
You’re in love
[Meg:] You’re way off base
I won’t say it
Get off my case, I won’t say it
[Muses:] Girl, don’t be proud
It’s O.K. you’re in love
[Meg:] Ohhhhh
At least out loud,
Maybe my time to make a move had
come and gone. A quiet walk through
the canyon, pointing out stars and
talking about her troubled family as
talked below Orion the hunter and
Sirius his faithful companion, below
the twins Gemini and the horns of
Aldeberon. I probably should have
held her close, and told her how
special she was. Maybe she had
caught me gazing at her beautiful face
one too many times, wondering what
she might be thinking about. Maybe she
just wanted to stay friends. Maybe
14

dating someone you work with when you
live in a tiny cove on a small island with
fifteen other people for six months at a
time can be very complicated. Maybe all
of these things. Maybe none of them.
But it was obvious that I had begun to
lose her; I’m not THAT oblivious. She’d
walk by, and we’d actually fight, about
petty things, about serious work issues.
We stopped hanging out in the same
room and we stopped talking. Several
times I tried to mend the breach. I told
her how much I missed our nightly
discussions. Nothing. I talked to my
friends, I talked to her friends; useless
advice. Nothing I wanted to hear. And
nothing got better. It probably didn’t
help that I didn’t work hard to hide my
affection for her while both working and
living with my ex-girlfriend, a relationship
which didn’t end on the best of terms.
For whatever reason, I decided to
back off for a while, to let her figure
things out on her own, to let emotions
settle and let the situation evolve on its
own. Maybe I was scared to confront
her directly and tell her how I felt.
Would she never talk to me again? Would
she request to not work with me
directly? Or worse, would things
between us become even more awkward?
I backed away from this uncertain
confrontation.
I don’t remember how it started.
Maybe she went over to Toyon Bay, our
sister school, to catch a ride to the
backside beaches of the island for the
day. Maybe Toyon sponsored a party
and she hung in the cove for the
afternoon. The details are irrelevant.
Somehow she was introduced to
Nicholas, or “Olas” to his friends. A
definite “West-coaster”, friendly to all,
loyal to none, especially the ever-
increasing roster of girls he’s thrown
aside or cheated on, great looks, long
flowing blonde hair, not a reflective or
self-conscious bone in his entire
body. Everyone knows the type; the
dumb blonde surfer with the killer
body. “Olas”. Ugh. The guy you will
never introduce any girl you care about
to, be it a friend, a girlfriend, a sister,
a wife. Total man-whore.
Days passed, weeks passed.
Relations still hadn’t improved a whole
lot. She started going over to Toyon a
lot more to hang out with friends, to
catch a ride to the backside, to do
whatever. I’m far from stupid. I knew
what was inevitable. Maybe I was
convinced she wouldn’t do anything so
stupid as to hook up with this
complete jackass. That she’d see
through his façade of compassion.
That she’d have an ounce of self-
respect. “There’s no way she could be
that dumb”, I thought. So I let it be,
I said nothing. I did nothing. And the
days passed. And I missed what was.
Maybe I missed what could have been.
You miss most what you never knew.
Every season on the island
there is a big festival to look forward

to. In the Fall, the town of Two
Harbors hosts an annual festival called
Buccaneer’s Day, a 24-hour rum-infused
gathering of thousands of self-
proclaimed pirates for a day of activities
and parties which usually culminates in
an evening of amateur fire-dancing, palm
tree climbing races and even more rum-
drinking along the hamlet’s sandy beach.
A thoroughly excellent time. Conversely,
every spring an annual wine-tasting
festival is held at Toyon Bay. All the
guests bring a bottle of wine, and
hundreds of different varieties are
sampled throughout the party. A
catered banquet and great live music
complete the
scene. A great
chance to catch
up with friends all
over the island,
wine tasting is also
everyone’s one
chance to dress up
in nice clothes and
dance, fully
enjoying our special
lives on the island
together.
Everyone from Fox Landing had
been talking about Wine Tasting for
months, and we excitedly loaded into our
boats and snapped photos as we began
to drive over. It’s always a fun night
full of gossip and drama and drunken
acts of debauchery and general
craziness. Everything Fox Landing is all
about. Foxies DO have a certain
reputation to uphold. One year, two
of our bosses tackled each other
breaking one’s wrist, while another
year, one of them stole every handset
from every single phone in camp as a
prank. The secretary was not amused.
The stuffed island fox in Toyon’s
museum collection almost always
comes back home with us,
triumphantly raised in drunken rapture.
If anyone’s going to steal the
microphone from the live band and
start singing drunkenly about marine
mammals and the deep sea, it’s going
to be a Foxie, and it’s going to be all
of us.
I should have
walked up to her. I
should have told her that
I cared about her. I
wanted to tell her that
being used by someone
who didn’t give a shit
about her wasn’t going to
make life any better or
easier. Maybe she wanted
to be used, or was using
him. Really, it was nothing I wanted to
think about for any length of time.
Maybe I should’ve just stuck with
asking her to dance. All I could do
was walk around, chat amongst friends,
dance a little and watch the ticking
time-bomb of seduction from a
distance. He walked up to her and
made small talk. No big deal. Took her

hand and led her onto the dance floor.
Whatever, let her have some fun, it’s
just dancing. Let it go. Take a deep
breath. Have some more cheese-cubes,
drink some more wine. Play it cool. Play
it safe.
I can see now I never really committed to Laura.
I always had one foot out the door and that
prevented me from doing a lot of things, like
thinking about the future, and I guess it made
more sense to commit to nothing, keep my options
open. And that’s suicide, by tiny, tiny increments.
And then I looked around, and they
were gone.
I looked around wildly, nowhere
in sight. There’s no way, I thought.
Totally impossible. I looked around.
Nowhere. Unbelievable. Thoughts were
screaming through my head. What a
fucking slut! She fucking deserves to
be treated like shit
by that asshole.
Fuck her. I grabbed
a bottle of wine
and walked away
from the party.
Some of my friends
stopped me on the
way out. “You okay,
man? Where are
you going? What’s up?” “I’m fine, I
just need to go for a walk. I’m fine. Let
me go. Talk to you guys later.” I walked
away angrily, away from the lights and
the music and towards the dark shore
and long stretch of beach and palm.
Thoughts continued racing through my
head; should I have done something?
Should I now, having done nothing, try
to find them and confront her? I had
to work with her, see her face every
day for the next 3 months. I thought
about the times we shared together,
how long ago it seemed, how happy I
was then. I thought about how much
I had lost, through action, through
inaction, I didn’t know. I had gotten
advice, good and bad, from many friends
I knew what a character in one of my
favorite books or movies would have
done. I just felt lost and humiliated.
I sank down on the soft sand and
raised the bottle to my lips.
God I feel like hell tonight
Tears of rage I cannot dry
Be the last to help you understand
Are you strong enough to be my man?
Nothing’s true and nothing’s right
So let me be alone, tonight
‘Cause you can’t change the way I am
Have a face I cannot show
Make the rules up as I go
Just try and love me if you can
When I’ve shown you that I just don’t care
When I’m throwing punches in the air
When I’m broken down and cannot stand
15

After a while I walked back to
the party. I dried my eyes and hugged my
friends. I laughed and sang and danced
with the family I loved. But inside there
was nothing.
Word came that the boat had come to
pick us up and take us back to our
cove. Someone had the unlucky job of
trying to collect all the drunken Foxies
and bring us back home. My friend Abby
and I stumbled together down the path
to the pier, nearly falling at every step.
Halfway up, we gratefully found a
porch step to rest on. We collapsed,
huddled against one another
for warmth and balance. A
nice rest. But then I felt
sick. I quickly turned to my
right in time to throw up
alongside the edge of the
porch. Within seconds, Abby
joined me, making loud retching
sounds of the copious
amounts of the crimson
alcohol trying to make its way
through our systems. A long
time it seemed, before we got
control of ourselves and
managed to stand up. We smiled weakly
at each other, then continued on,
determined not to be left behind in this
decidedly evil canyon. We stumbled
blindly forward into the night towards
the sound of the crashing waves. The
rest is darkness.
I woke up the next day, 6:30
as usual. I think I was still drunk.
Painfully I rolled off my bed and
wearily rose to my feet, wincing at the
blinding light of dawn coming through
the glass sliding doors of the porch,
across the ocean and through the
palm trees. I threw some clothes on,
stumbled down the hill and pushed
the door to the cafeteria open with
one hand. There was still a half-hour
till breakfast was served, so I grabbed
some fruit and walked back out. I
thought about today. I thought about
yesterday, bitterly remembering. I
decided it was time
for a change.
I’ve been talking to myself,
But I don’t believe me
Wakin’ up to nothing new
Except the ceiling, now,
Keeps gettin’ closer somehow
People keep on sayin’
That I’ve got potential
Lately I haven’t been feelin’
All that special
Now, I’m gonna
Turn it around
Everybody has a moment when they wake up
Everybody has a mornin’
When they’ve had enough,
Everybody gets to decide
What they are gonna believe in
16

This is how I feel, this is where I stand,
This is what I can do, and this is who I am
And now I see my face like it was the ﬁrst time
I don’t know what’s changed,
But now it feels like mine
‘Cause I’ve drawn a line in the sand
I couldn’t cross it, now I can
Time to do things I always said I’d
do, wanted to do, but had never done.
With a step forward, I moved in a very
familiar direction but with new purpose.
Walking forward slowly, then faster,
jogging, I made my way past the Bible
Peak Trailhead and began hiking upwards.
I ran forward, my lungs starting to burn
with the effort, my calves waking with
the upward strain. Jumping from each
rocky outcrop towards the peak, I rose
higher above the valley, pushing myself
faster, around corners, through
switchbacks, ignoring my screaming
muscles, my burning lungs, my throbbing
head. I rose up to the saddle between
Bible Peak and higher western ridges and
saw the ocean waves glistening with the
brilliance of the new sun reflected in
their myriad facets. With this beauty
still reflected in my eye, I climbed
onwards to the summit, up the ridge.
Someone once asked me how many
times I had walked up Bible Peak Trail.
After a moment of serious reflection, I
guessed somewhere between 500 and
800 times. This was a trail that I
could walk blindly at midnight during a
new moon, and often had. But there was
one thing I still had never done, and I
hadn’t heard of anyone else doing it
either. “Well, there’s no time like the
present”, I thought. I quickly made it
to the top of the peak and kept going
down its long eastern face towards
the ocean cliffs. Determined to make it
to the end, I carefully stepped
between two small cactus pads,
putting my weight down on one foot
and balancing as my calf pressed
tightly against long sharp spines. I
leaned forwards and put my other foot
down on the other side of the patch
while leaning right, away from the
thirty ft. cliff less than a foot to my
left. I carefully followed a narrow
deer-path down along the curved ridge
down to Long Point. I crawled along
my hands and knees under a lemonade-
berry bush as the trail wound around
a steeply sloping ridge. I laid flat
against the ridge as my right hand
gripped the cliff ledge, inching along
the last steep section of Long Point
before a flat wide ledge. I slowly
stood up and walked forward down to
the metal base of Long Point Light and
the peninsula of the island’s widest
girth.
Looking back at our cove in the
morning’s early glow, I thought about
how fortunate I was to live and work
here. To love such friends. To be part
of something important and great and
true. I had a great life here. I should
be happy. Why wasn’t I? Was it this
17

girl? Maybe. But I wanted to believe that
there was something deeper, something
more subtle and profound. Maybe it was
time for some serious reflection and
insight. It was time for an adventure. A
true Honeybear Adventure. With this
renewed commitment, I stood up tall
and turned east into the wide open
ocean, closed my eyes and began to chant
the words of the Shma,
the holiest of Jewish
prayers. “The next chance
I get”, I told myself, “I’d
be off.” Somewhere.
Anywhere. I needed this.
And there’s been a few times
That we, we thought it felt right
To take the west-bound signs
And just leave town tonight...
It’d be three days
before I had a break in
work. I decided it was time to start on
the quest I had openly declared some
time ago: to touch every light-beacon on
the island. Long Point was already
conquered. East End Light, West End
Light, Bird Rock and Ship Rock Lights
remained. The most distant light seemed
the best choice, as it would require a
multi-day adventure to the farthest
rocky crag of the island, some fifteen
miles in a line, up to 1600 ft. in elevation
before descending to sea level and
reclimbing over 1800 ft. peaks to Land’s
End. It would allow me to spend an
entire day of pure hiking, leaving the
tortured memories of the past week
and the once-comforting hearth of my
cove behind. I needed perspective on
life, the universe and everything, among
the forgotten wilderness of my
island’s farthest peaks and most
hidden canyons. I proposed a three-
day hike and camp-out, leaving Long
Point no more than a
half-hour after my
classes ended Wednesday,
sleeping in the hills
around Two Harbors,
crossing the desolate
ridge of the West End to
the West Tip on
Thursday and returning to
the hamlet of Two
Harbors by sunset. This
would allow me to return
to Fox Landing Cove and
work by Friday night,
after my successful conquest of the
West End and silver Peak.
I probably mentioned this plan to
a few of my friends in the cove, but
on Wednesday, Abby was the only one
to see my hunched-over form begin
the ascent of Bible Peak with my fully
loaded pack, sleeping pad clipped
securely to my back. Two days later,
after surviving what would prove to be
one of my most dangerous island
endeavors, I walked out of the
hospital and made my way back home.
As I said to my friends when I
18

recounted the many trials of the
adventure, I knew what I had to do to
survive. So I just did whatever was
necessary; I had no choice if I wanted
to make it out alive. I feel the same
way about my choice to embark on the
journey in the first place. If I was
ever to move on, to survive this past
week of my young life, emotionally,
spiritually, I knew I had to leave the
canyon for adventure, excitement and
really wild things. I had no choice. The
later mistakes I made, minor at first
later becoming catastrophic, were my
own. But that first step out of the
cove and into this journey of self-
discovery, to learn what was missing
from my theoretically perfect existence,
that first step was necessary for my
continued survival as a human being, full
of passionate zeal and hope for the
future, for myself. I simply did what
I knew I had to do.
I feel like a bird must feel when fall comes
and it knows…somehow it just knows it has
to ﬂy home. It’s instinct, babe….and I guess I
believe instinct’s the iron skeleton under all
our ideas of free will. Unless you’re willing to
take the pipe or eat the gun or take a long
walk oﬀ a short dock, you can’t say no to
some things. You can’t refuse to pick up your
option because there is no option. You can’t
stop it from happening more any more than
you could stand at home plate with a bat in
your hand and let a fastball hit you. I have
to go.
The sea’s only gifts are sharp blows, and
occasionally the chance to feel strong. Now
I don’t know much about the sea, but I do
know that that’s the way it is here. And I
also know how important it is in life not to
necessarily be strong, but to feels strong.
To measure yourself at least once in the
most ancient of human conditions. Facing
the blind death stone alone, with nothing
to help you but your hands and your own
head.
And thus this story of pain and
loss, of personal reflection and
redemption, of the rebirth of this
embattled island warrior, enters into
the recorded history of Honeybear and
his journeys through Santa Catalina
Island. Needless to say, my life has
never been very dull for any significant
length of time.
I started up the hill, turning my
iPod volume up and loudly started
singing out to some Foo Fighters,
Chili Peppers, Blink 182 and Everclear.
With each vertical step, I let out all
of my anger, fear and resentment as I
shouted lyrics into the hillside. I
scaled the ridge, trudging upwards
under the weight of my pack, willing
myself forward with my damaged ego.
“Who the hell does she think she is?
I’m fucking Honeybear! There’s
nobody stronger, nobody more
intelligent, nobody who cares more
about her! She doesn’t fucking
19
20

deserve me at all! Hope she’s happy
with that two-bit piece of shit! Bet he
gets bored of her in a week, what a
dumb slut!” Before I knew it, I had
passed Echo Lake and was along the
road to the Airport, surging forward,
fueled by hard rock and crushed
feelings. I pushed myself harder,
sensing my emotions burning away with
each step in the hot afternoon sun.
I’m not saying it was your fault
Although you could have done more
Oh you’re so naive yet so
How could this be done
By such a smiling sweetheart
Oh and your sweet and pretty face
In such an ugly way
Something so beautiful
That every time I look inside
I know that she knows that I’m not fond of asking
True or false it may be
She’s still out to get me
Soon I was at the start of the
long switchbacks which climb towards
the Airport in the Sky. I looked at my
watch: only 3:50. I only had ten minutes
to get to the Runway Café to pick up
the bison burgers I planned to eat for
the next few days. I launched myself
forwards up the rising incline of the
paved switchbacks, determined to make it
there before the grill closed. Dripping
sweat, I pushed myself harder, jogging
for as long as I could before falling to
a fast walk then jogging as soon as I
could manage it. As I made my way
through the last long switchback
before the Airport gates, I could only
walk slowly, my legs exhausted by the
effort up to the high ridge of the
café. I walked through the
entranceway and opening the door of
the café, prayed I made it on-time; I
was starving. I stumbled in and
dropped my pack beside a booth on the
back porch and walked back inside the
cool, air-conditioned café. I
sauntered up to the counter to ask if
they were still cooking on the grill.
“Oh, yeah. We just switched over
to summer hours. We’re open an hour
later than usual.” I sighed heavily,
wondering how much energy I had
spent trying to get to the airport as
fast as my legs could carry me. I
ordered three burgers, eating one of
them on the spot and saving the other
two for later, and the side of fries.
After the quick jolt of food, I threw
my pack back on my shoulders and
headed back down the hill. Eager to
make time, I pushed on past the small
ponds behind the runway. I continued
past the Sheep Chute Rd. junction,
and into a part of the island that I
had never seen, let alone navigated. If
I could find my way through these
ridges, finding my way through the
twisted folds of my psyche should be
easy.
My primary objective was to stay
along the crest of the ridge. I knew a
21

few side-roads broke off and descended
to the far coastline to the campground
of Little Harbor, while others steeply
fell to the near-coastal mining
community of Empire Landing. Going
down any of these roads would only
force me to rescale the ridge later on, a
significant waste of time and effort. I
continued along the main road for now
and although it curved left, it appeared
to maintain the high ground. I walked
forward along the ridge and into the
remote hills and valleys through the
wilderness between the Airport in the
Sky and Two Harbors.
I slowed down to a steady walk as
my emotions cooled, as my legs tired
from their powerful exertion up to
Echo Lake and the airport. I looked
around at the island around me, taking in
its beauty, planning my next passage
through its large expanse beyond the
road. I did this halfheartedly; I wasn’t
really worried about navigation. I knew
I’d get over it somehow. Two Harbors
lay beyond those hills somewhere. The
island is not very big, and I was
confident enough in my personal hiking
ability to scale any hill in my way even if
it was a significant climb, or far out of
my way.
My conscious mind returned to my
home at Fox Landing, to my first season
with Tyler and Robyn, Justin and
Saiward, Oster and Laura. Not a week
went by that I didn’t tell Tyler that this
was one of the happiest times of my
young life. And life was not easy for
me in those days. When I started
training, I was self-conscious,
tentative, cautious. In truth, I was
not a very good teacher. I was too
excited, too nervous. I rambled on and
on towards and between obscure
topics, losing my audience. I was lost
as a teacher, and so were my
students. And my older friends were
not very patient with me. Saiward
consistently harped on me for
forgetting to do specific tasks a
certain way, for leaving this rope
untied, for spending too much time in
a class. Oster pretty much ignored me
with the passive bemusement of an
older brother. I consistently sought
Tyler’s advice. I desperately wanted to
get better, to earn my rightful place
alongside great teachers and
adventurers and friends in the Fox
Mafia Family. In that struggle, I
grew up. I became a man.
Let’s get down to business
To defeat the Huns
Did they send me daughters
When I asked for sons?
You’re the saddest bunch I ever met
But you can bet before we’re through
Mister, I’ll make a man out of you
Tranquil as a forest but on ﬁre within
Once you ﬁnd your center you are sure to win
You’re a spineless, pale pathetic lot

And you haven’t got a clue
Somehow I’ll make a man out of you
I’m never gonna catch my breath
Say good-bye to those who knew me
Boy, was I a fool in school for cutting gym
This guy’s got ‘em scared to death
Hope he doesn’t see right through me
Now I really wish that I knew how to swim
(Be a man)
We must be swift as the coursing river (Be a man)
With all the force of a great typhoon (Be a man)
With all the strength of a raging ﬁre
Mysterious as the dark side of the moon
Time is racing toward us till the kids arrive
Heed my every order and you might survive
You’re unsuited for the rage of war
So pack up, go home you’re through
How could I make a man out of you? (Be a man)
We must be swift as the coursing river (Be a man)
With all the force of a great typhoon (Be a man)
With all the strength of a raging ﬁre
Mysterious as the dark side of the moon
It was the season of The Landfill
and the season of The Fire. Both of
these events changed our individual
lives and cemented forever our lived as
a family. The YMCA, which had
previously owned the lease on Fox
Landing Cove from the Santa Catalina
Island Conservancy, had secretly been
burying all of their garbage and waste
in unlined pits towards the back of
the canyon, apparently for decades.
When Guided Discoveries took over,
these buried pits were discovered
during the site inspection. And every
day, for weeks on end, it ultimately
fell to us, the trained lifeguards and
marine biology instructors, to don
protective masks, thick gloves, plastic
goggles and clean up the mess. We
stood inside these ten ft. deep pits
and pick out shards of glass and
broken plastic and rusted batteries
soaked in acid. Then a front-loader
would scoop out a large mass of dirt
and dump it on top of an industrial U-
screen filter. The huge machine would
begin to shake, separating dirt from old
tires, cardboard, glass chunks, you
name it. Our job was then to climb
atop the machine and individually pick
out every single rock that inevitably
became embedded in the metal mesh of
the sifter before the new load of
unfiltered soil was dumped on top.
Everyone helped out with this grim
duty. Everyone. It brought us
together, and became a proud symbol
22

of the unparalleled toughness and unity
of Foxies.
My first rotation as a Program
Coordinator, in charge of an entire
school’s stay on the island, was a
complete disaster. Eighth-graders, for an
entire week; not an easy first
assignment. And I struggled. I was
ineffective, and was asked to share
responsibilities with another instructor.
Nobody was harder on me than myself;
I took it very personally. Tyler called me
into his office to talk about it, and he
asked me to sit down. “Do you know
how I know that you’re going to be a
great teacher?” I could only shake my
head silently. “Because you are one of
the hardest goddamn workers I’ve ever
seen. I put you in the landfill for a
week straight with no breaks and you
haven’t complained once. Work as hard
on this, and I promise, you’ll get
better.”
So I worked harder. And I became
better. Every free second I had, I
worked on my lesson plans. I thought
of and invented new educational activities
and interactive games daily. I watched
the two best teachers on the island,
Robyn and Justin, connect with their
students in profound in meaningful
ways. And I learned. I talked to several
of the talented “new fish” instructors
who were teaching on the island for the
first time just like I was. Two of the
best, Brandon and James, taught me a lot
about class presentation and control,
and we became fast friends. Sarah
taught me to keep myself in check,
for as I became more effective and
regained my confidence, I would often
push myself and my students far,
trading a few physical risks for
greater educational opportunities. So
I continued trying new things. I
experimented and in so doing, lost my
cautiousness. I started having fun.
And I finally stood up to Saiward
when she yelled at me for something
minor. A week later we were close
friends.
When I first came to Fox
Landing, one of the things that was
immediately obvious to me was that
everyone who worked at Fox Landing,
belonged at Fox Landing and no where
else. All the instructors were great
minds, incredibly hard working and very
caring and friendly. But more than
that, they all embodied the inherent
intangible qualities of all Foxies:
tough, dependable, adventurous, gravely
serious and devilishly comedic in the
same breath. Truly in their element on
land or sea, capturing the wild fierce
and unconquerable spirit of
McGumbo, our personal island deity.
Biologists who almost died pulling
pranks on other unsuspecting
islanders on scuba at 100 ft. at 3 AM.
A place apart from the benign laugh of
America!

Our critique began as all critiques begin: with
doubt. Doubt became our narrative. Ours was
a quest for a new story, our own. And we grasped
toward this new history driven by the suspicion
that ordinary language couldn’t tell it. Our past
appeared frozen in the distance, and our every
gesture and accent signified the negation of the
old world and the reach for a new one. The way
we lived created a new situation, one of exuberance
and friendship, that of a subversive microsociety,
in the heart of a society which ignored it. Art
was not the goal but the occasion and the method
for locating our specific rhythm and buried
possibilities of our time. The discovery of a true
communication was what it was about, or at
least the quest for such a communication. The
adventure of finding it and losing it. We the
unappeased, the unaccepting continued looking,
filling in the silences with our own wishes, fears
and fantasies. Driven forward by the fact that
no matter how empty the world seemed, no matter
how degraded and used up the world appeared to
us, we knew that anything was still possible. And,
given the right circumstances, a new world was
just as likely as an old one.
The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones
who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved,
delirious of everything at the same time, the ones who
never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn,
burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles
exploding like spiders across the stars and in the
middle you see the blue center light pop and
everyone goes “Awww!”
My father’s people say that at the birth of
the Sun and his brother the Moon, their
mother died. So the Sun gave to the Earth
her body, from which was to spring all life.
And he drew forth from her breast the stars,
and the stars she threw into the night sky to
remind him of her soul. So there’s Cameron’s
monument. Mine too, I guess.
You’re right, Mr. Poe. We do not
understand that is happening here. And it
is not as I imagined it would be, thinking
of it in Boston or London.
Sorry to disappoint you.
No, on the contrary, it is more deeply
stirring to my blood than any imagining
could possibly have been.
When it was over, all I could think about
was how this entire notion of oneself, what
we are, is just this logical structure, a place
to momentarily house all the abstractions.
It was a time to become conscious, to give
form and coherence to the mystery, and I had
been a part of that. It was a gift. Life was
23
24
25

raging all around me, and every moment was
magical. I loved all the people, dealing with all
the contradictory impulses. That’s what I love the
most -- connecting with the people. Looking back,
that’s all that really mattered.
I stepped through the looking glass
and into this new world, and I was in
paradise. It was a very happy time in my
life. And then the island caught fire.
Again, adversity forced our family to
unite, or perish.
I remember that afternoon very
clearly. I was driving our flat-topped
boat, the Queen
Mary, lifeguarding
for a kayak group
that had just left
the cove. Some
low-lying clouds
blanketed the
southern tip of
the island, but
above be there
was clear sky.
But just over the ridge-line of Whitley’s
Peak, a small grey plume of smoke was
slowly rising. And by 3 AM that night,
that same hill was rose-red and
orange, loud flames crackling and
shooting upwards into the starry sky
as we fled our island home, knowing
we’d be back but to cabins full of
students or ashes spread across the
canyon, no one could say. I returned
that afternoon to the news that
Toyon Bay had been evacuated and that
all of their students and faculty were
being boated over to our cove.
Momentarily at twice our normal
capacity for students, the field in our
cove was suddenly filled with kids
from schools spread across several
western states.
But we were Foxies. Everything
that needed to happen was happening,
double-time. Kids were being taught
impromptu classes on oceanography,
ichthyology, marine mammals, squid
dissection and plankton amidst several
other marine topics. Dinner was being
prepared for an
unprecedented
number of
students. Beds and
cots were being set
up every minute.
And still the fire
crept closer,
spreading
southeast towards
Avalon and its over
3000 densely settled residents and
northwest, towards the isolated coves
26

and settlements dotting our local island
coastline. The sound of hovercraft and
helicopters arriving from LA could be
heard far off as we worked to make
camp ready for the unexpected.
As the fire spread through the
drought-ridden sagebrush and scrub-oak,
the word finally arrived that our cove
had to be evacuated as well. Some of
us were given mere minutes to collect
anything valuable from our rooms to be
stored on a boat anchored offshore;
others simply had no time at all and
everything dear had to be left behind.
And we continued working through the
night, entertaining and distracting the
younger students as others arranged for
a ferry to carry us over to the safety
of the far shore. By 3:00 AM, we had
managed to board one of the last ferries
and departed, away from the now fiery
slopes of nearby canyons.
A week we spent at another
company school up in the San
Bernandino Mountains, huddled in dorms,
watching CNN, waiting to hear any
possible news about the LAFD’s
efforts to slow the spreading flames.
Others wandered around the nearby town
of Idyllwild while some friends and I
went hiking up into the mountainside.
Many great adventures were had; my
friend Mistral thought I died a few
times, slipping off a cliff ledge onto a
tree branch below, during one expedition.
But together in the confusion and
stress of an uncertain future we
became the strongest of families,
devoted to each other and connected
through the Fox Mafia Family forever.
We came back to an island scarred
with twisted black trunks and still
smoking ashen grasslands, though our
buildings remained untouched. And two
days later, we were teaching again,
amidst nightly fire-watches and
constant trail maintenance. No smart
boards, no electronic crutches, just
the most impassioned, most informed
marine science education we could
provide. Leading students towards new
ideas, new frontiers of experience,
understanding and awareness.
Everything true FMF Foxies pride
themselves on. And life at Fox Landing
went on, constantly evolving as before.
It was once again a very happy time
for me, in the fertile Spring of my
young life.
I delighted in my life. I
embarked on new adventures. I made
new friends. I even met a girl. The
seasons passed. Sunrise, sunset. Was
that the last time that I was truly
happy? Maybe. Maybe. There have been
many, many special moments and
special people since those days, and
many happy times. But maybe things
weren’t exactly that they seemed.
Maybe underneath my life’s shining
veneer there were seeds of malcontent.
I hiked on, determined to learn the
truth.

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