To the three funniest, trippiest, Cape Cod amigos I ever knew-Tommy Grew, Kevin Morgan, and Ross Riley.
I salute you three, tonight, in this fullness of time. Cheers.
I just got back, from a quick, end-of-day photo jaunt at famed Chapin Beach, Dennis.
So many memories. Shit man. I was happily trippin, lost in a gentler, more innocent, more carefree time in history.
As a child, my family beach was Smugglers Beach, in Yarmouth, with warmer waters and more accessible swimming, facing south toward Nantucket Sound.
My adolescent beach, the trippy, hippy, dippy side of me, and my amigos was definitely Chapin Beach.
The Chapin Beach waters, facing Cape Cod Bay, were colder than the South beaches, and the low-tide, tidal flats (also called mudflats), went on for seeming miles. It was truly heavenly.
It was the best place for rebellious and somewhat lost teens to play catch, throw a frisbee, lie in the sand and nap, avoid the man, and, of course, the most important part, drink, and smoke:)
Who would have possibly known that, within these beachscapes, all we really sought, amidst the confusion, insecurity, and unknown, was independence and self-expression
Richard Nixon who? Vietnam War? Civil rights? Free love? Racial conflict? Seriously? WTF?
We didn’t know shit and, frankly, we didn’t care much either. We, sadly, cared about being beach bums.
As we happily sat in the dunes, summer day after summer day, talking about girls and sex but never seeming to be getting either, with our Twinkies and Twizzlers, stoned and buzzed, listening, on our shiny new transistor radios, to the sounds of War, Crackling Rosie, Mama Told Me, American Woman, all that are we really and honestly sought was a good high and freedom from authority. Period.
Anyone got a Bic lighter so we can torch up a fire and get these dogs cooking? Did any remember to bring mustard? A couple cold beers? A bag of Wise chips?
We we slackers, beach bums. We were. Through and through.
Tommy, remember that bad-ass two-door, convertible MG, you proudly drove. Epic. I, still, feel the wind on my face
Or when you borrowed your Dad’s fancy Mercedes…
We were privileged….lucky…fuck-up-all in one. Yes. Glorious beach bums.
And Ross, wherever you are, that 70s show, Jeff Beck riffs and long hits of Acapulco Gold spliffs.
I still remember your stoner eyes. Dust to dust.
Kevin, you were a tireless beach bum, boogie-boarding in the tidal flats, laughing, non-stop smoking whoever had available Winstons, Marlborough’s, Kool’s, Tareyton’s, it didn’t matter, you were too damn cheap to buy your own.
Btw, I was the main dude for keeping us all high. I had tons of older friends, in Reading, that I scored from regularly.
My nickname was Acapulco:)
Snatch alley. The Odd Couple. Mcloud. I remember it all.
Bohemian Rhapsody. Tripping on Commercial street in Provincetown. Melting Volkswagens and melting memories.
Hot dogs, marshmallows, 70-degree temperatures, love galore, tents, teepees, summer nights, always in trouble, never on time.
To Chapin, to us, to our time in the sun, to life is a beach.
Love you guys…so much.
Enjoy these snaps, from tonight.
Click
Jack
