Treasure Ship of the East Bay

Part II of the Hetch Hetchy Saga

1979.

I was ten.

Carl and I found the Airstream the way pirates find treasure. Searching for something. Not knowing what. Not legally. Not wisely. A lot of conviction. Zero sense.

Another storm had torn open part of the fence line in Hetch Hetchy alley, and there it sat behind the broken boards, silver, quiet, waiting.

To us, it was treasure.

A fortress.

A ship.

A hideout.

A command post.

A private world had drifted into Fremont and landed where two boys with pirate blood and no smarts could claim it.

To a grown man, it was somebody’s trailer.

We never called it trespassing.

We discovered it in the wild.

We were taking what was ours.

There’s s a difference when you’re ten, especially when you have Carl next to you and both of you are operating under the kind of confidence only boys and other lunatics understand.

Carl looked at me.

I looked at Carl.

We dropped our bikes in the dirt and ran toward it.

The fence sections lay behind us. The alley smelled of dank wood, weeds, and wet dirt. Fremont had weathered the storm, and to us, the storm had opened a passage.

A passage had to be used.

That’s just boy law.

The Airstream sat there.

Calling us.

A thing with wheels meant escape.

A door meant entry.

Both meant destiny.

The handle was right there.

Available.

That should have scared us.

It didn’t.

I reached for it.

The door opened easier than it should have.

That alone should have told us something. A locked door gives a boy a boundary. An unlocked door translates to meant to be.

We stepped inside.

That fast … we became kings.

The air inside was warm and stale. Dust. Old fabric. Sun-baked silence. It smelled closed up.

One thing was certain: this was the single greatest treasure we had ever found.

We stood still.

For a second.

Then the inspection began.

Living room.

Kitchen.

Bedroom.

Table.

Cabinets.

Windows.

A sink.

A bed in the back.

We went straight for the kitchen.

I checked the cabinets with captain authority. I opened doors. Pulled handles. Looked into corners. Studied the sleeping quarters. Measured the room in my head. Decided where our supplies would go.

Hostess fruit pies.

Chico Sticks.

Astro Pops.

A flashlight with batteries that actually worked.

We would need provisions, of course.

We sat down in the living room and began planning our empire.

Conquests.

Where we would go.

What we would do.

Who could stop us?

Nobody, according to us.

We weren’t thieves in our minds.

We were pioneers. Explorers. Free men. I could see us rolling out of Fremont before dinner.

Lake Elizabeth behind us.

Mission Peak over the horizon to the East.

The whole Bay opening to us.

Maybe we would make Oakland.

Maybe San Francisco.

Maybe we would head across the bridge and into a wild grown-up world that had been waiting for us.

Maybe we would point the ship eastward and keep going until Fremont turned into legend behind us and Brooklyn waited ahead.

I had no idea how Airstreams worked.

Details never matter when you’re ten and living from one adventure to the next.

A boy doesn’t need knowledge to build a legend. He needs a steering wheel, his next colossally bad idea, and somebody next to him giving a good nod.

Carl nodded.

We checked the spaces again, excited by how easily this one had come to us. Slower this time. Ownership was settling over us.

Once a boy touches something twice, he can imagine a future.

This would be our headquarters. Our escape craft. Our clubhouse. Our dream ship. Our rolling kingdom.

The Airstream was ours.

Then gravity arrived.

The door flew open.

Fast.

Hard.

It slammed against the side of the Airstream.

Metal hit metal.

Carl and I jumped up.

Backward.

Eyes wide.

Mouths open.

Hearts stopped.

Then came the voice.

Deep.

Hard.

Adult.

The kind that fills a small space fast and wipes every bad idea from the room.

“What are you boys doing in here!?”

That voice will adjust a boy’s mind in a hurry.

I could already see the front page of The Argus.

Black ink.

Giant block letters.

The kind of headline they saved for robberies, fires, and grown men making decisions so bad the whole town needed to read about them.

FREMONT BOYS FOUND DEAD.

Under that, a grainy photo of our bikes dropped in the dirt. Class pictures beside it, both of us wearing those forced school-photo smiles, probably saying cheese.

I could picture Mama reading it at the table while sipping her coffee.

Carl started crying.

The messy kind.

I was too scared to cry.

My chest locked tight. Mouth dried. My brain searched for words and found nothing.

Any legend was sucked from me.

All that remained was a ten-year-old boy standing inside another man’s Airstream.

I had a sudden interest in lawful living.

The old man looked at us.

Faded T-shirt.

Work hands.

A face cut by sun, years, and whatever patience he had already spent before we arrived.

His wife stood right behind him.

Her calm scared me worse.

That was the part I remember.

He had the voice, but she had the look of a woman who had already decided we were idiots and needed proper lessons.

Carl cried harder.

I just wanted to survive the moment.

Then he started laughing.

Hard.

“I’m Everett. This is my wife Maurine. We watched you boys awhile before I decided to come scare the hell out of ya.”

I was relieved.

Then furious.

He laughed more. Even harder.

Yep.

Maurine laughed too.

Everett pointed toward the open door.

“Now ... get the hell out of my Airstream.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ten-year-old vocabulary under pressure.

We moved fast.

Out the door.

Into the dirt.

Steps were not needed.

Past the fence line.

To the bikes.

I don’t remember the ride home taking more than a few seconds. Maybe less.

No police.

No Mama.

No explanation.

Alive.

That should have been it.

It wasn’t.

Life had a way of circling my block and coming for me.

A few days later, I was in the street playing three flies up with the guys. Regular afternoon. Regular Bullard Street. Ball in the air. Boys knocking each other around. Jesse claiming a catch he trapped in his shirt and demanding respect we never gave. Bare hands or nada.

Boys being boys.

That was the beauty of a neighborhood forever game.

A form of rules.

Kind of.

Truth teetering on prevarication.

Outright lies existed too, but they had to survive witnesses. That kept the game honest enough for boys.

I was trying to settle back into ordinary life.

Let the Airstream disappear into the part of my mind where I stored bad ideas, especially ones that almost got me killed.

That was my plan.

Play ball.

Just be me.

Then I saw them.

Everett and Maurine.

Walking the neighborhood.

Never before.

Of course.

Terror punched me in the gut.

They saw me.

They smiled.

The look on my face.

They started laughing.

Everett came toward us.

I knew that walk. Adult walk. Consequences-coming walk.

He stopped in front of us.

“Where do you live?”

I shook my head.

Total tactical silence.

There is a boyish confidence that stands strong right up until it falls weak.

Everett looked to my friends.

“Well, okay then. Boys? Where’s he live?”

Every one of them pointed at my house.

Every one of them.

Together.

Some even pointed twice.

Just then, Mama walked out onto the porch.

Great.

And that, right there, is hard East Bay truth.