TENNESSEE: MARCH 27
I am due in Franklin, North Carolina, tomorrow. Franklin is the far side of the Appalachian mountains. Today I ride east from Nashville on country lanes that dip and twist through green hills topped by woodland. The countryside is similar to my native Herefordshire. Cattle are the same breed: Herefords. Locals call them White Faces. Even today's weather is a reminder of home with low cloud and spits of drizzle. Lack of hedges is the prime difference; erecting fences is quicker; as is building in timber as opposed to brick or stone.
The houses are pretty when freshly painted, yet, to European eyes, lack permanence. Agriculture has changed. As at home, dairy herds have been superseded by fruit and vegetables. Our brick barns are converted into luxury homes. Here, out of use, they rot. As do houses and trailer homes.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
MYTH AND IGNORANCE
NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE: MARCH 26
Anyone who has tapped along to Country & Western music on the car radio knows Nashville. It is a small town on a flat dusty plain, maybe a dozen streets, battered black Ford pick-ups, a bunch of saloons, a couple of theaters, a few last-decade recording studios manned by over-weight white men who keep their pants up with red suspenders. We have been there, all of us, in our imaginations. A cowboy songster hopeful drops off the Greyhound bus with his guitar and heads for the Grand Ole Opry.
Or has Hollywood has been at it again - deluding us.
I am complicit with Hollywood through laziness.
Nashville is a big modern American city set in green rolling wooded hills and embraced by twelve-lane Interstate expressways.
The red brick buildings of Vanderbilt University dominate the high street. Glass and steel office blocks tower. The Grand Ole Opry is a minor also-ran.
I had imagined Vanderbilt as East Coast Ivy League. And I hadn't expected to ride ten miles from the city center to find a hotel room under $80. I will be out of here tomorrow.
Anyone who has tapped along to Country & Western music on the car radio knows Nashville. It is a small town on a flat dusty plain, maybe a dozen streets, battered black Ford pick-ups, a bunch of saloons, a couple of theaters, a few last-decade recording studios manned by over-weight white men who keep their pants up with red suspenders. We have been there, all of us, in our imaginations. A cowboy songster hopeful drops off the Greyhound bus with his guitar and heads for the Grand Ole Opry.
Or has Hollywood has been at it again - deluding us.
I am complicit with Hollywood through laziness.
Nashville is a big modern American city set in green rolling wooded hills and embraced by twelve-lane Interstate expressways.
The red brick buildings of Vanderbilt University dominate the high street. Glass and steel office blocks tower. The Grand Ole Opry is a minor also-ran.
I had imagined Vanderbilt as East Coast Ivy League. And I hadn't expected to ride ten miles from the city center to find a hotel room under $80. I will be out of here tomorrow.
A PERFECT RIDE
NATCHEZ TRAIL: MARCH 26
Trucks and commercial vehicles are banned from the Natchez trail. Speed limit is 50 mph: perfection for the small Honda. The countryside unrolls, meadows glimpsed through the naked trees, a herd of our native Hereford cattle - White Faces Americans call them. Azaleas and rhododendrons remain in bud but the yellows and blues and mauve of wild flowers sprinkle the grass. I am well muffled and sunshine offsets the Spring chill.
I pull into a lay-by and chat for a few minutes with a clean-shaved thirties on a gleaming blue 650 Suzuki.
Bikers are a community in the US. Every passing biker extends a hand as they pass.
What a magnificent ride! What joy it would be to ride it in summer shirt-sleaves.
The trail ends and I head into Nashville...
FORGET BREAKFAST
NATCHEZ TRAIL: MARCH 26
A white-tail stag bolts across the road. The road follows the wooded shores of a reservoir. The reservoir would dwarf any lake in Europe. A spur leads to a boat ramp and general store with a couple of gas pumps. A dozen vehicles with boat trailers line one side of the car park.
I pay $6 for gas. The store keeper left his smile in the bedside locker. Perhaps he has tooth-ache or had a fight with his wife.
Two men arrive in a pick-up and scoop minnows out of a tank for sale at the store.
I report seeing the eagle.
I am lucky. Eagles are increasingly rare.
I hoped for breakfast and use of the restrooms. The storekeeper has been replaced at the cash-register by an overweight wife who has forgotten to brush her hair.
The restrooms are back of an abandoned diner. Perhaps the diner isn't abandoned. Possibly it merely looks that way. Breakfast can wait. I remount, ride a while, irrigate a conifer.
BEAUTIFUL AMERICA
NATCHEZ TRAIL: MARCH 26
I have seen an eagle. This is a wondrous experience. The eagle flew directly overhead and its size startled the hell out of me. It flew up the road well below tree tops. Given time, I could have counted the bird's belly feathers: the bird was that close. Brilliant sunshine and I was riding the Natchez Trail. The Natchez Trail is glorious. The trail winds north through wooded hills from Natchez, Mississippi, to Nashville, Tennessee. Picture a private road through parkland to a Duke's castle in the Scottish borders - lengthened to 470 miles and not a single halt sign. I ride in brilliant Spring sunshine. Blossoms sparkle. Buds on broad leaf trees uncurl...
Monday, April 14, 2008
A SHORT TIRADE
NATCHEZ, MISSISSIPPI: MARCH 25
A parade of chuches marched through my head as I lay in bed at the Day Inn motel in Natchez. I intended spending a day here admiring the architecture. Natchez is pretty-pretty. Trees shade Southern houses. Southern houses have pillars. Pillars are romantic. So is the South. And the South is gallant. Both Hollywood and Southern tourism projects the image. Visit an old plantation house, inspect the slave hovels. Tourists go home happy...they have flirted with history.
Sadly, it is too recent a history for years to have softened the evil. Slavery existed in the South during my great grandfather's lifetime.
Racial segregation continued into my adult years...And Jews were banned from resorts and great hotels, not only in the South, but in New York City and Chicago and San Francisco - Restricted Clientele was the euphemism.
Institutional segregation and anti-Semitism continued through the Presidencies of Truman and Eisenhower. We knew of the Holocaust. We had seen film of Dachau and Belsen and of Ravensbruck where my Aunt Helen's sister was executed.
This is very recent history. The white elders of the myriad churches here in the South were complicit as are the white Southern pastors of my generation.
This is not company that I wish to keep.
I shall move on tomorrow.
A parade of chuches marched through my head as I lay in bed at the Day Inn motel in Natchez. I intended spending a day here admiring the architecture. Natchez is pretty-pretty. Trees shade Southern houses. Southern houses have pillars. Pillars are romantic. So is the South. And the South is gallant. Both Hollywood and Southern tourism projects the image. Visit an old plantation house, inspect the slave hovels. Tourists go home happy...they have flirted with history.
Sadly, it is too recent a history for years to have softened the evil. Slavery existed in the South during my great grandfather's lifetime.
Racial segregation continued into my adult years...And Jews were banned from resorts and great hotels, not only in the South, but in New York City and Chicago and San Francisco - Restricted Clientele was the euphemism.
Institutional segregation and anti-Semitism continued through the Presidencies of Truman and Eisenhower. We knew of the Holocaust. We had seen film of Dachau and Belsen and of Ravensbruck where my Aunt Helen's sister was executed.
This is very recent history. The white elders of the myriad churches here in the South were complicit as are the white Southern pastors of my generation.
This is not company that I wish to keep.
I shall move on tomorrow.
CHRISTIANITY IS A CASINO
NATCHEZ, MISSISSIPPI: MARCH 25
I have cruised, on this journey, the Beagle Channel and the Madeira River, crossed the Amazon, Orinoco, Panama Canal and Rio Grande (a muddy trickle). This evening I ride across the Mississippi into Natchez. The Southern States are a fine market for white paint: first the churches, now a casino disguised as a virginal white paddle steamer moored up-stream. Life is a gamble. So is the after-life. Pick your Christian sect or pick your number on the roulette wheel.
I have cruised, on this journey, the Beagle Channel and the Madeira River, crossed the Amazon, Orinoco, Panama Canal and Rio Grande (a muddy trickle). This evening I ride across the Mississippi into Natchez. The Southern States are a fine market for white paint: first the churches, now a casino disguised as a virginal white paddle steamer moored up-stream. Life is a gamble. So is the after-life. Pick your Christian sect or pick your number on the roulette wheel.
CHRISTIANITY OR THE DEVIL'S WORK
spring flowers in sunshine
LOUISIANA: MARCH 25
Massive trucks roar east on Interstate 10 from Beaumont to Baton Rouge. The Honda 125 is a flee. I am a plump tick on the back of the flee. Flee and tick quiver in the slipstreams. We escape north on State 165 towards Alexandria and Natchez. Louisiana is as flat as Texas. However fields are green and the road runs for mile upon mile through loose woodland. Broad leaf trees are faintly powdered with emerald green. Wild flowers edge the road. Brilliant splashes of deep pink azalea mark houses tucked amongst the trees. Trailer homes are common. Many are old and shabby; backs broken, they sag at each end as do old wooden ships beached on the mud.
And, of course, there are churches.
Christian churches painted in gleaming white serve or are served by a bewildering assortment of congregations. Is there a true difference between the dozen or more Baptist sects? Enough over which to divide a small rural community? Or merely sufficient to keep a pastor in food. There are Methodists and Independent Methodists, Seventh Day Adventists and Lutherans; best of all, the Church of Christ. What are the rest? Such exclusion, such splendid arrogance of faith...
LOUISIANA: MARCH 25
Massive trucks roar east on Interstate 10 from Beaumont to Baton Rouge. The Honda 125 is a flee. I am a plump tick on the back of the flee. Flee and tick quiver in the slipstreams. We escape north on State 165 towards Alexandria and Natchez. Louisiana is as flat as Texas. However fields are green and the road runs for mile upon mile through loose woodland. Broad leaf trees are faintly powdered with emerald green. Wild flowers edge the road. Brilliant splashes of deep pink azalea mark houses tucked amongst the trees. Trailer homes are common. Many are old and shabby; backs broken, they sag at each end as do old wooden ships beached on the mud.
And, of course, there are churches.
Christian churches painted in gleaming white serve or are served by a bewildering assortment of congregations. Is there a true difference between the dozen or more Baptist sects? Enough over which to divide a small rural community? Or merely sufficient to keep a pastor in food. There are Methodists and Independent Methodists, Seventh Day Adventists and Lutherans; best of all, the Church of Christ. What are the rest? Such exclusion, such splendid arrogance of faith...
WIZARD OF OZ AND BOLIVAR PENINSULAR
THE SOUTH: MARCH 25
I am back in my travelling persona: a weird old bearded Brit with crutches riding a small bike. There is a warming openness and generosity in the American character. A tangled gray beard in a hooded yellow rain slicker approaches while I wait for the ferry east from Galveston to the Bolivar Peninsular. Where have I come from? Where am I going? My replies are relayed to deckhands on the ferry and to what ever driver has a window open. I am made welcome instantly and bid Have a good one, as I disembark - though two seagulls squatting on the top of the ramp give me a cold eye.
Bolivar Peninsular is a narrow strip some thirty miles long. The road bridge spanning Rollover Pass is the highest point on the peninsular. Much is marshland and a haven for water birds. A gray heron stalks the rushes. A scattering of developments face the beach. Pillars raise wooden holiday homes in offering to a stiff cold breeze. I imagine a hurricane tearing the houses free and spinning them inland: a scene from the Wizard of Oz.
I am back in my travelling persona: a weird old bearded Brit with crutches riding a small bike. There is a warming openness and generosity in the American character. A tangled gray beard in a hooded yellow rain slicker approaches while I wait for the ferry east from Galveston to the Bolivar Peninsular. Where have I come from? Where am I going? My replies are relayed to deckhands on the ferry and to what ever driver has a window open. I am made welcome instantly and bid Have a good one, as I disembark - though two seagulls squatting on the top of the ramp give me a cold eye.
Bolivar Peninsular is a narrow strip some thirty miles long. The road bridge spanning Rollover Pass is the highest point on the peninsular. Much is marshland and a haven for water birds. A gray heron stalks the rushes. A scattering of developments face the beach. Pillars raise wooden holiday homes in offering to a stiff cold breeze. I imagine a hurricane tearing the houses free and spinning them inland: a scene from the Wizard of Oz.
HOUSTON ROCKETS
GALVESTON, TEXAS: MARCH 25
My replacement credit card arrived yesterday. This morning I drink coffee upstairs at Ed and Terry's for the last time. We dined together last night at Terry's favourite restaurant. Now Terry presents me with a ROCKETS shirt on which she has written: ya'll come back now, ya hear!
For the ignorant, the Rockets are Houston's basketball team
I shall sport the shirt with pride - and I would dearly love to return. Galvestonians share with folk from other islands that sense of being different - somewhat off the wall.
Memories of Terry and Ed will warm me through bad patches, as will memories of the Davies family. Carol has straightened my thoughts. Time to leave: Brrmmm Brrmmm
My replacement credit card arrived yesterday. This morning I drink coffee upstairs at Ed and Terry's for the last time. We dined together last night at Terry's favourite restaurant. Now Terry presents me with a ROCKETS shirt on which she has written: ya'll come back now, ya hear!
For the ignorant, the Rockets are Houston's basketball team
I shall sport the shirt with pride - and I would dearly love to return. Galvestonians share with folk from other islands that sense of being different - somewhat off the wall.
Memories of Terry and Ed will warm me through bad patches, as will memories of the Davies family. Carol has straightened my thoughts. Time to leave: Brrmmm Brrmmm
Saturday, April 12, 2008
TELLING BLACK FROM WHITE
GALVESTON, TEXAS: MARCH 18/24
I have heard white Liberals attest their inability to differentiate Black from white. I would be dysfunctional in not noticing that Carol is Black. Black is part of her beauty. It is also integral to an upbringing different to my own. We interest each other. We map who we are by exploring our recollections. Carol is a PhD. She has a disciplined mind. I am a High School drop-out. I have an untidy mind. I kid myself that I am moderately insightful. Talking with Carol clarifies my thoughts. Hopefully I will leave Galveston as a wiser man.
I have heard white Liberals attest their inability to differentiate Black from white. I would be dysfunctional in not noticing that Carol is Black. Black is part of her beauty. It is also integral to an upbringing different to my own. We interest each other. We map who we are by exploring our recollections. Carol is a PhD. She has a disciplined mind. I am a High School drop-out. I have an untidy mind. I kid myself that I am moderately insightful. Talking with Carol clarifies my thoughts. Hopefully I will leave Galveston as a wiser man.
EDUCATED BY HOLLYWOOD
GALVESTON, TEXAS: MARCH 18/24
Carol's students are attempting the conversation Barak Obama requested. They are discussing their attitudes to race and sharing experiences. I suggest that we are educated by Hollywood. I tell of the image Herefordshire High School students gave of Mexicans: fat, sweaty, big moustaches, big hats, comic accents.
A student relates his surprise at being shown home photographs of upland meadows by his Ecuadorian girlfriend. Hollywood Ecuador is sweat, bugs and jungle.
The class has run 30 minutes over time. Kai's babysitter is waiting.
Carol's students are attempting the conversation Barak Obama requested. They are discussing their attitudes to race and sharing experiences. I suggest that we are educated by Hollywood. I tell of the image Herefordshire High School students gave of Mexicans: fat, sweaty, big moustaches, big hats, comic accents.
A student relates his surprise at being shown home photographs of upland meadows by his Ecuadorian girlfriend. Hollywood Ecuador is sweat, bugs and jungle.
The class has run 30 minutes over time. Kai's babysitter is waiting.
Friday, April 11, 2008
TEXAS A & M
GALVESTON, TEXAS: MARCH 18/24
I am nervous. I sit in an upright chair with my back to a blackboard. Fifteen students face me. This is an Afro-American literature course at Texas A & M. I have an untidy mind. I waffle about Latin America.
Carol interrupts. She says, "Simon believes that Americans are obsessed by race. Do you agree?"
People in the US are reluctant to discuss race in mixed racial company. A brave blond student in the first row raises her hand lower than shoulder height. Others follow. All agree. A medium brown student in his mid twenties tells of a white co-worker asking what Black people were like.
"Like me," he said.
"Normal Black people."
"I'm a normal Black person."
Yeah, but you're not a proper Black person. You're educated was the unspoken comment.
A Latino student talks of an Anglo boy making her feel that she came from a different planet: asking how her family lived and what they ate at home (only beans and rice?).
A black student from a military family tells of switching from a majority white high school to a largely Black high school where her fellow students accused her of talking white.
She replied, "I'm talking English."
None of the students had listened to Barak Obama's speach.
Weird...!
I am nervous. I sit in an upright chair with my back to a blackboard. Fifteen students face me. This is an Afro-American literature course at Texas A & M. I have an untidy mind. I waffle about Latin America.
Carol interrupts. She says, "Simon believes that Americans are obsessed by race. Do you agree?"
People in the US are reluctant to discuss race in mixed racial company. A brave blond student in the first row raises her hand lower than shoulder height. Others follow. All agree. A medium brown student in his mid twenties tells of a white co-worker asking what Black people were like.
"Like me," he said.
"Normal Black people."
"I'm a normal Black person."
Yeah, but you're not a proper Black person. You're educated was the unspoken comment.
A Latino student talks of an Anglo boy making her feel that she came from a different planet: asking how her family lived and what they ate at home (only beans and rice?).
A black student from a military family tells of switching from a majority white high school to a largely Black high school where her fellow students accused her of talking white.
She replied, "I'm talking English."
None of the students had listened to Barak Obama's speach.
Weird...!
Thursday, April 10, 2008
PROUD TO BE AMERICAN
GALVESTON, TEXAS: MARCH 18/24
For the past week and more, TV channels here have been broadcasting a twenty second loop of Reverend Wright bouncing up and down in apparently insensate rage at the wickedness of the United States. The Reverend Wright was Barak Obama's priest/Minister. Barak Obama made a speech yesterday. I lay in bed in the studio apartment at Ed and Terry's and watched on TV. Obama addressed the most divisive aspect of the United States: Race.
Race is dangerous ground. Politicians avoid the subject. Obama wasn't speaking as a politician. He was asking people to confront the truth and think outside the proscribed box. The speech was the finest and most relevant I have heard uttered by an American. Much of what has happened recently in US Government must shame Americans. Obama should make them proud.
For the past week and more, TV channels here have been broadcasting a twenty second loop of Reverend Wright bouncing up and down in apparently insensate rage at the wickedness of the United States. The Reverend Wright was Barak Obama's priest/Minister. Barak Obama made a speech yesterday. I lay in bed in the studio apartment at Ed and Terry's and watched on TV. Obama addressed the most divisive aspect of the United States: Race.
Race is dangerous ground. Politicians avoid the subject. Obama wasn't speaking as a politician. He was asking people to confront the truth and think outside the proscribed box. The speech was the finest and most relevant I have heard uttered by an American. Much of what has happened recently in US Government must shame Americans. Obama should make them proud.
A YOUNG LADY'S GALLANT
GALVESTON, TEXAS: MARCH 18/24
Carol, Kai and I drive to town for breakfast. Carol parks and Kai takes my hand as we walk from the car. I am proud at being chosen.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
BIRTHDAY DRUMMERS
GALVESTON, TEXAS: MARCH 18/24
All four Davies brothers studied drums with a Cuban musician. The youngest brother, Chris, is excellent; the other three are merely good. The brothers play together on Easter Sunday in Peter and Carol's garden. Ostensibly they are celebrating their mother's birthday. Son Two is a Philosophy Professor at Loyola University. Son Three is employed in a Central American eagle protection program. Son Four teaches school in Colombia. The brothers have kept the birthday party secret from their mother. The brothers appear one by one. Their mother is truly surprised - and touched by their thoughtfulness. Many cousins are present - and three grandchildren. Kai is part Afro American. The other two grandchildren are half Japanese. The half Japanese grandson will be a good drummer.
THE PEOPLE WHISPERER
GALVESTON, TEXAS: MARCH 17/24
Galveston is a sandbar. Locals call it an island. Real locals wear BOI buttons: BOI - Born On Island. Peter's mother is 6th generation BOI. In company, she demands attention by speaking barely above a whisper. She is a school teacher by profession. Surely she must speak in a normal pitch to her students. Peter is the eldest of four sons. His three brothers have arrived to celebrate their mother's 70th birthday. Carol is Afro American. Son Two is married to a Japanese. Son Three is in company with a Parsee (Mumbai via the US) while Son Four has a companion from East Germany. Mrs. Davies must feel somewhat rejected.
Galveston is a sandbar. Locals call it an island. Real locals wear BOI buttons: BOI - Born On Island. Peter's mother is 6th generation BOI. In company, she demands attention by speaking barely above a whisper. She is a school teacher by profession. Surely she must speak in a normal pitch to her students. Peter is the eldest of four sons. His three brothers have arrived to celebrate their mother's 70th birthday. Carol is Afro American. Son Two is married to a Japanese. Son Three is in company with a Parsee (Mumbai via the US) while Son Four has a companion from East Germany. Mrs. Davies must feel somewhat rejected.
PEOPLE HEATING
ed preparing coffee
GALVESTON, TEXAS: MARCH 18/24
The ice cap would melt were Terry and Ed to live at the North Pole. They possess that intensity of warmth. They care. They care for the underprivileged, for those who suffer. They are enraged by the shenanigans of Washington. Terry is conversant with the shenanigans. She worked in Washington for the Government of Texas.
A spiral staircase leads up from the studio apartment to their living room. Ed doesn't sleep much. I climb the stairs and find him reading the newspaper through a magnifying glass. He has a bubble in one eye. The bubble should be absorbed over the next weeks. Meanwhile he is restricted to peripheral vision. He pours coffee. We watch morning news. Terry is working on other people's tax returns. Returns are designed to make work for tax specialists and to be incomprehensible to those on low incomes and who should profit from rebates and tax credits. Terry is a CPA. She gives free advice to those most in need of advice - those who can't afford advice.
GALVESTON, TEXAS: MARCH 18/24
The ice cap would melt were Terry and Ed to live at the North Pole. They possess that intensity of warmth. They care. They care for the underprivileged, for those who suffer. They are enraged by the shenanigans of Washington. Terry is conversant with the shenanigans. She worked in Washington for the Government of Texas.
A spiral staircase leads up from the studio apartment to their living room. Ed doesn't sleep much. I climb the stairs and find him reading the newspaper through a magnifying glass. He has a bubble in one eye. The bubble should be absorbed over the next weeks. Meanwhile he is restricted to peripheral vision. He pours coffee. We watch morning news. Terry is working on other people's tax returns. Returns are designed to make work for tax specialists and to be incomprehensible to those on low incomes and who should profit from rebates and tax credits. Terry is a CPA. She gives free advice to those most in need of advice - those who can't afford advice.
BAYWATCH REALITY
GALVESTON, TEXAS: MARCH 17
Peter Davies drives me to Beach Patrol HQ. I listen at a meeting of Peter and his crew. Peter relates diving for the missing girl in the last of yesterday's daylight, the helicopter pilot spotting the body, Peter's attempts at revival, waiting with the body. The drowning took place outside the Patrol's zone of responsibility. No blame is attached to the Patrol, yet a young girl died and these men feel responsible. Humor is the best antidote to tragedy and Peter does his utmost to lighten his account, to get the message across to his crew that he is OK: Spring Break and they need to be out on patrol.
Peter takes me to lunch at a Vietnamese noodle bar. The strain is there, noticeable in his eyes and around his eyes. He has no time to recuperate. His three brothers and their wives/partners are arriving for their mother's birthday. I try to normalise this one tragedy through a maze of statistics. How many lifeguards does he employ in the summer season? How many drownings? How many children get lost?
In the height of summer they have a tent on the beach manned by two lifeguards only for lost children. Ten or fifteen lost children in the tent at any one time is normal.
Later Peter drives me along the sand in his truck. A young dad waves us down; his infant has been stung. Peter copes equally well with a second man who only speaks Spanish. Peter calls a warning over the loud-hailer to a couple of bathers prancing in the sea between two DANGER signs. A rip current surges off the tip of a stone jetty. Two families comprising young children stand at the end of the jetty. Waves burst against the jetty and the children shriek. One slip and Peter would face another tragedy.
Teenyboppers don't mob us. So much for Baywatch...
Peter Davies drives me to Beach Patrol HQ. I listen at a meeting of Peter and his crew. Peter relates diving for the missing girl in the last of yesterday's daylight, the helicopter pilot spotting the body, Peter's attempts at revival, waiting with the body. The drowning took place outside the Patrol's zone of responsibility. No blame is attached to the Patrol, yet a young girl died and these men feel responsible. Humor is the best antidote to tragedy and Peter does his utmost to lighten his account, to get the message across to his crew that he is OK: Spring Break and they need to be out on patrol.
Peter takes me to lunch at a Vietnamese noodle bar. The strain is there, noticeable in his eyes and around his eyes. He has no time to recuperate. His three brothers and their wives/partners are arriving for their mother's birthday. I try to normalise this one tragedy through a maze of statistics. How many lifeguards does he employ in the summer season? How many drownings? How many children get lost?
In the height of summer they have a tent on the beach manned by two lifeguards only for lost children. Ten or fifteen lost children in the tent at any one time is normal.
Later Peter drives me along the sand in his truck. A young dad waves us down; his infant has been stung. Peter copes equally well with a second man who only speaks Spanish. Peter calls a warning over the loud-hailer to a couple of bathers prancing in the sea between two DANGER signs. A rip current surges off the tip of a stone jetty. Two families comprising young children stand at the end of the jetty. Waves burst against the jetty and the children shriek. One slip and Peter would face another tragedy.
Teenyboppers don't mob us. So much for Baywatch...
GALVESTON TRADGEDY
GALVESTON, TEXAS: MARCH 16
Peter Davies has been down the beach for the past three hours with a dead sixteen-year-old girl. The girl was spotted from a helicopter. Peter picked her up on the Beach patrol's Honda aqua-scooter. Peter tried revival. Too late. The girl was declared dead on the beach. The ambulance driver wouldn't take the body. The crowd exiting from the Rap concert had degenerated into riot mode and blocked the sea road. Peter sat alone in his truck with the body and with only his thoughts for company. Now he is home. I find him standing beside his truck. An Old Brit stranger is low on Peter's requirement list. He needs peace. I cross to Ed and Terry's studio apartment and watch late night political news on TV.
Peter Davies has been down the beach for the past three hours with a dead sixteen-year-old girl. The girl was spotted from a helicopter. Peter picked her up on the Beach patrol's Honda aqua-scooter. Peter tried revival. Too late. The girl was declared dead on the beach. The ambulance driver wouldn't take the body. The crowd exiting from the Rap concert had degenerated into riot mode and blocked the sea road. Peter sat alone in his truck with the body and with only his thoughts for company. Now he is home. I find him standing beside his truck. An Old Brit stranger is low on Peter's requirement list. He needs peace. I cross to Ed and Terry's studio apartment and watch late night political news on TV.
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