by Emmens, Joye
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, business establishments and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 Joye Emmens
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 0990687600
ISBN 13: 9780990687603
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014915362
Heart Rock Press, Ventura, CA
To Ché, Nick and David
My love and my thanks
All good things are wild, and free.
Henry David Thoreau
Contents
Chapter 1: Oil and Water
Chapter 2: Run
Chapter 3: Free People
Chapter 4: Moonchild
Chapter 5: The Moonstone
Chapter 6: Winter in Two Moons
Chapter 7: The Big Yellow House
Chapter 8: The Gestalt of Self
Chapter 9: Down on Peacock Farm
Chapter 10: Be Here Now
Chapter 11: Mill Race Cafe
Chapter 12: The Letter
Chapter 13: Castles Made of Sand
Chapter 14: Ticket to Ride
Chapter 15: 2000 Light Years from Home
Chapter 16: Back to Zero
Chapter 17: Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?
Chapter 18: You Say You Want a Revolution
Chapter 19: Central Underground
Chapter 20: New Digs
Chapter 21: Save the Planet
Chapter 22: The Weight
Chapter 23: All Good Things Are Wild and Free
Chapter 24: Walden Pond
Chapter 25: There is No Free Country Without a Free Press
Chapter 26: Sisters for Liberation
Chapter 27: Summertime
Chapter 28: The Three Jewels
Chapter 29: The Door Gunner
Chapter 30: Pussy Power
Chapter 31: I Got a Feeling
Chapter 32: Fireworks
Chapter 33: Magic Bus
Chapter 34: Helter Skelter
Chapter 35: History Lesson
Chapter 36: Dazed and Confused
Chapter 37: As Tears Go By
Chapter 38: Come Together
Chapter 39: A Band of Braless Bubbleheads
Chapter 40: She’s a Rainbow
Chapter 41: If You Could Read My Mind
Chapter 42: The Emerald Necklace
Chapter 43: Falling Stars
Chapter 44: Freedom’s Just Another Word
Chapter 45: You Can’t Always Get What You Want
Chapter 46: The Blue Hole
Chapter 47: Whisper Words of Wisdom
Chapter 48: Fly On, Little Wing
Chapter 49: She’s Gone
Chapter 50: Far Away Eyes
1
Oil and Water
The chop of a helicopter drew Jolie through the French doors and onto the deck of her parents’ Spanish style home. From there she could see the harbor, the red tiled roofs of Santa Barbara, and the iridescent catastrophe. It was February 1, 1969 and the fifth day that crude oil had been spewing uncontrollably from an offshore drilling platform.
Rage spread though her. Overnight, the brownish-black slick radiating from the Union Oil platform had increased in size. It thinned and meandered south along the coastline, melting together in a glistening sheen. Jolie squinted in the morning sun. A second slick had formed. It looked to be five miles long and three miles wide. Its rainbow hue snaked toward the Channel Islands that hovered on the horizon, blue and inviting, twenty miles offshore. A sickening sensation welled within her. Why did they have to drill in the ocean?
Twelve oil platforms rose from the water, twenty stories high, the island cliffs their backdrop. At night they sparkled like crystal ships floating in the dark ocean. She scanned the horizon. Her dad was out there now, advising on how to cap the well, a boiling cauldron, an ecological crime. He worked for one of the oil companies, fortunately not Union Oil. It was bad enough that he was an executive in the oil industry, but now with the blowout she felt guilt by association. All of the control efforts had failed, and the flow of oil from the new well was unstoppable. Two helicopters circled the massive slick. A single oil well was responsible for all of the devastation; the other eleven platforms loomed ominously.
Jolie went back inside. She’d see Will soon, at the protest. She warmed in anticipation, nervous and happy at the same time. She hadn’t seen him for a week.
She carefully picked out her clothes and dressed in a hand-embroidered peasant blouse and a short green skirt. She slipped on knee-high suede moccasins, brushed her long blonde hair, and slung her beaded purse over her shoulder.
“Mom,” she called, “I’m walking to Zoe’s.”
“Call me if you need a ride home.” Her mom’s voice came from the far reaches of the house.
Jolie walked down the driveway to the street, where she passed more Spanish-style homes with sweeping gardens. Deep red bougainvillea, white honeysuckle, and pink-throated jasmine spilled over walls, archways, and trellises. She breathed deep, inhaling the intoxicating fragrances. She paused to pick a sprig of honeysuckle and tucked it behind her ear.
At the main road, a safe distance from her neighborhood, she stopped, turned toward the first oncoming car, and stuck out her thumb. An older turquoise Chevy sedan pulled over. She scanned the driver’s face, a guy in his early twenties with shaggy brown hair framing soft brown eyes. He looked normal, nice even. She hopped in the car, tugging her skirt down as they drove off down the hill.
“Where’re you going?” he said.
“The harbor.”
“It’s a mess down there. I read in the morning paper the slick now covers one hundred fifty square miles. It’s boiling up around the platform.”
“There’s a protest today. We’re going to stop them from drilling.”
He looked at her and then back to the road. “You’re protesting? How old are you?”
“Almost fifteen.”
He glanced sideways at her.
As they neared the harbor, traffic stalled. A stream of pedestrians crossed the street, ignoring the traffic lights, headed to the protest.
“I’ll get out here,” she said.
“Sure, kiddo.”
She hopped out of the car. A few steps later she glanced back, smiled at the driver, and flashed him a peace sign.
A dense petroleum aroma hung in the air. Handmade signs with the slogan GOO—Get Oil Out were set up in front of a speaker’s platform. She eased her way through the crowd. There he was. Will stood tall in the sea of bodies. His tan, handsome face was set off by straight, dark hair pulled back neatly in a ponytail. He wore the hand-woven headband she’d made for him. She waved.
He smiled wide and strode through the swelling mass of protestors toward her. “You made it.”
She smiled up at him. “This crowd is huge.” They hugged, his faded jeans and T-shirt were warm from the sun. A soul-stirring current spread through her. Only he had this effect on her. He wasn’t anything like the boys at school.
Will was twenty-four, a political science graduate from U.C. Berkeley. She’d first seen him when she stumbled into a Vietnam War protest in Pershing Park. Will had stood on the stage of the amphitheater speaking to a large crowd. Jolie was mesmerized by his words. He argued to stop the immoral Vietnam War, put an end to racial discrimination and fight to create a classless and equal socie
ty. The crowd had erupted with chants of support. His words were simple yet eloquent and they struck a chord with her. She began attending all of the rallies hanging close to the stage, drawn to his words and presence.
After the rallies Jolie stayed on and joined Will and a small group discussing the need for change. Mature for her age, everyone assumed she was older. When Will asked her age months later she had told him the truth. She wouldn’t lie, not to him. But it was too late. They had fallen for each other. He treated her as an equal. He liked her innocence and her desire to make the world a better place. He said her age didn’t matter.
The crowd around them began to chant: “Get Oil Out! Get Oil Out!”
He brushed her lips with his. She glanced around, but there was no need to be anxious. Her parents or any of their acquaintances would never be at a protest.
A man in a yellow shirt and checkered sport coat stepped onto the platform. He seemed out of place amid the crowd dressed in blue jeans and sandals. When the chanting died down, the speaker introduced himself as their former senator and the leader of the newly formed GOO organization.
“We are calling for an immediate halt to oil drilling in the Channel and the permanent removal of all oil platforms and drilling rigs. The chemical dispersants aren’t working and their bales of hay can’t save us. Only we can Get Oil Out!”
The crowd resumed the chant: “Get Oil Out! Get Oil Out!” A defiant current surged through the protesters. Swallowed up in the moment Jolie joined the slow chant. They would stop oil drilling in the Channel.
At dinner that night, Jolie sat with her father and two older brothers as her mother served. “What’s happening with the oil spill?” James, one of her brothers, asked.
“The Feds have taken over control of the drilling operation,” her dad said. “They’re putting in log booms to contain the slick, and straw is being delivered to the beaches to absorb the oil and start the cleanup.”
“How can they start the cleanup when oil is still gushing out of control?” Jolie asked.
“They’re working twenty-four hours a day,” he said.
Her mother sat down at the other end of the table.
“I was down at the harbor today, and there was a group called GOO—Get Oil out—protesting. They’re demanding that oil drilling in the Channel be stopped,” Jolie said.
In unison, her brothers turned to look at her, their eyes cautioning.
Her dad shot her a stern look. “I don’t want you involved with that group.”
“I thought you were at Zoe’s house,” her mom said.
“It’s a disaster out there.” Jolie’s hand waved toward the oil rigs sparkling in the night. She looked at her brothers. Weren’t they going to say anything? They were just as upset as she was. Two days earlier, oil had first come ashore on black waves at their favorite surf break.
“I don’t want you hanging out with those beatniks and hippies,” her dad said.
“Well, I don’t want you working for big oil.” A stab of pain ran up her shin, a warning kick from one of her brothers.
Her dad’s blue eyes bored into her. “Oil puts a roof over your head.”
“Why do you have to drill in the ocean? It’s a crime against nature,” Jolie exclaimed.
Her brother Jon’s eyes widened at her open defiance.
Her dad’s cocktail glass hit the table with a sharp crack. “Go to your room. Anymore back talk and you’ll end up at Saint Mary’s so fast, you won’t know what hit you.”
She rose and moved past her mother. Their eyes met. Jolie knew the look. She’d gone too far again. But hadn’t they taught her to stand up for what she believed in? He’d been threatening her for some time now with Saint Mary’s, the strict Catholic girls’ school. She was already on thin ice at school, and her father didn’t know the half of it. The latest incident was getting caught selling a baggie of oregano as pot to another student. The principal was not amused. She smiled inwardly. She and her mom hadn’t told her dad and they didn’t plan to. Her mom tried to protect her from his strict ideals, but he was adamant about the threat he’d made. One more incident, and she would be enrolled in Saint Mary’s—and they weren’t even Catholic.
In her room Jolie put on a Buffalo Springfield album and turned up the volume to “Something’s Happening Here.” How could her dad be so uncaring? He was the one who had taught them to appreciate the beauty of nature. On their first trip to the Channel Islands, she’d been in paradise. The wild and rugged coastline was a haven to birds and foxes. On the boat she’d seen her first whale and dozens of dolphins. Her dad had taught her to snorkel, and for hours she floated blissfully, undulating in the swell, in the underwater world of colorful fish and sea grass. Now it was all threatened by an unstoppable blowout.
A week later, Jolie was in the kitchen making a carrot cake from scratch, her dad’s favorite. It would be easy to get back on his good side. Her mom worked beside her, cooking dinner while the kitchen radio serenaded them with top fifty hits. On the deck, her dad sat reading the paper. She glanced out the kitchen window at him and the panoramic view of the ocean. There was no ignoring the oil slick that flowed like a glistening black river, constantly changing its course with the current and tides.
The phone rang and she shot into the dining room to answer it. It was usually for her. “Can you talk?” It was Will’s deep voice. She had told him not to call in the evenings. It was too risky.
She glanced at the French doors open to the deck and then to her mom in the kitchen, intent on her recipe. “Briefly.”
“I know you’d want to hear this. President Nixon has temporarily suspended drilling in the Channel.”
“Really?” She smiled into the phone. Their efforts had paid off. “We have a victory.”
“It’s only temporary. I don’t trust that warmonger.”
“I’ve got to go.”
“I love to hear your voice.”
“Same here.”
She hung up the phone. She had to be more careful. The smell of the cake wafted in from the kitchen.
“Who was that?” her mom asked.
“A friend. Oil drilling has been stopped in the Channel. But it’s only temporary.”
“You’re not still on the anti-oil thing, are you?”
“Mom, everybody is talking about it.”
“Don’t get involved. It’s too close to home.”
“But it’s a big deal. Look out there.” Jolie turned her gaze out the window at the slick. “It’s a world gone wrong.”
“Your dad is serious about Saint Mary’s. I can’t talk him out of it. Don’t pit me against him.”
A wave of resistance rose within her. Not Saint Mary’s again. They couldn’t force her to go, could they? She’d seen what happened to girls that went there. First they were stripped of their identities, made to wear uniforms. Pleated skirts, cardigan sweaters, knee-high socks, and ridiculous Oxfords or Mary Jane’s. Their one and only choice was between the two shoe styles. In the end they came out like lambs, without an individual thought in their heads, brainwashed with Catholic doctrine and devotion, the hypocritical religion hardwired in their brains. All that Catholic dogma would destroy her soul. She would never go. She’d stand up for her beliefs no matter what the consequences.
The oil blowout was finally controlled eleven days after it began. The Santa Barbara News-Press reported that two million gallons of oil had flowed into the Channel. Small fissures still seeped oil and the slick randomly drifted up and down the coast two months later.
On a Friday afternoon in April, President Nixon was scheduled to view the environmental disaster and cleanup effort. Under an overcast sky, a crowd of three thousand people gathered in a roped off area at the harbor, waiting for his arrival. Over one hundred news crews were set up to report on the event.
Jolie and Will stood with the GOO supporters, holdi
ng signs and chanting “Get Oil Out.” She had skipped her last two classes to get there on time, to be a part of it. She was invisible in the mob, but her voice would be heard.
Jolie scanned the crowd. Aside from the boisterous GOO protesters, everyone stood politely in military attention, waiting for their savior, the president. Didn’t they know the truth about him? He was a warmonger who was destroying their country. He couldn’t be trusted. The Vietnam War was supposed to be ending but more and more troops had been deployed and the casualties grew each month.
“Here he comes,” someone shouted.
Nixon and his wife landed in a helicopter after flying over miles of oily ocean and tar-drenched beaches. Surrounded by reporters, the mayor and presidential party walked the beach. Jolie strained to see Nixon. Even now after seeing the disaster she doubted he would do anything permanent. Although the oil leases were on federal land owned by the people, big corporations would win. They would change that. She began to chant louder.
At the shoreline, Nixon chatted with the cleanup crew while they raked oil-soaked straw into piles. He paid no attention to the roped-off crowd of onlookers or the chanting GOO group. As he stood talking, a small black wave came ashore and soaked his shoes. A wild cheer went up from the GOO supporters. Nixon nonchalantly looked down at his oily shoes, walked toward the helicopter, and the presidential party was airborne, whirling away toward the Union Oil platform.
That night, Jolie and her family sat in the living room for their nightly ritual—watching the news of the Vietnam War.
The news announcer could hardly look at the camera when he announced that 386 US troops had been killed in Vietnam that week.
“If I get drafted, I won’t go,” Jon, her oldest brother muttered.
“You’ll do what your country asks you to do,” her dad said.
The coverage of the president’s visit to view the oil spill came on next. Jolie could see the protesters off to the side. They’d gotten some good footage. Her bare toes gripped the beige shag carpet. What if her dad found out she’d been there? She wanted to change the TV channel, but he watched with rapt attention.