March 29, 1973 Thursday

I spent the afternoon after class registering my Volvo, for the base and then for the state. Tonight I have the apartment to myself. Everybody else has drawn a late night watch. I found a lady barber on base. She has a civilian shop on the base. She is a professional stylist. She is part of the navy’s program to become more in touch with the civilian population. Some small businesses are allowed to set up shop on the base; a bank, a dry cleaner, drug store and a few others. It’s hard enough to get a good stylist at home I never thought I would find one on a military base. That’s Progressive California for ya. It’s nice to get a haircut that’s not on this side of butchered. She cuts to the strictest navy guide lines. The difference between her cut and the butchers is; she layers the hair to fit the contours of my head. If I asked a base barber to do that I would get off the chair looking like Moe of the Three Stooges.

Why is this so important? Let me tell you why, Mr. Journal. My Italian hair has five cowlicks. Cut it short or long it doesn’t matter. The cut needs to follow the direction of the lick. If not I look like I just got out of bed. It stays that way all day. The other reason is I feel that they can’t take away my identity and make us all look alike. In some way this is my way of distinguishing myself from the crowd. It’s very much worth the seven bucks plus tip. Later.

It’s night time, and for the first time in a long time I am alone, in a home. Night watches don’t count. I got to know some of the neighbors better. My first introduction to some of them was reveling.

Down to ground level and to the other side of the complex lives a second class petty officer, Brian and his roommate a third class petty officer, they are submariners. They go out for six months, they stay in for six months. When they go out they go down under the water for most of those six months. The sub has a bowling alley and a theater. It takes a special breed of men to be incased in a vessel deep in the oceans depth. It’s a big trust in engineering.

Brian was an ex biker before they drafted him. He is about my size, both of his arms are covered in tattoos, he has reddish brown wiry hair. He is building a hog in his living room. He is building it from the ground up. I partied with him last night. Another navy man that can drink the beers.

Troy the resident surfer boy was with us. He had some killer weed. They gave me the low down on the apartment complex. The owners are old hippies, before there were hippies. These apartments rent from week to week. In the off season they can rent for month to month. Out of the eleven apartments available three are rented monthly. Those are the people here on this floor. Three other apartments are rented weekly. They are the tourist they come they go. Behind us on the other side of the alley are the lower rate rentals. Groups of young hippie’s live back there, from month to month.

Troy is the hot suffer guy. Tall tanned, long blonde hair, great build always shirtless, always barefooted. He’s a great guy very down to earth. Women fall over him like dogs in heat. Funny thing he really doesn’t care. He likes the attention and all that comes with it. What he really likes is surfing. It’s in his family, it’s in his blood. His father was a champion surfer, as was his brother. He’s could care less about competition. He says he’s in it for the fun. “Competition is a downer, man.” His words.

His brother has a custom surf board shop in Costa Rica. He hollows out the middle of the boards and packs them with cocaine. He sends the boards to Troy. Troy said he is expecting a shipment any time now. I am invited to party with him and some of his friends when it happens.

Tonight I am sleeping on the couch in my living room. The sounds of the surf is intense with the windows open. Later.