An aging hippy couple living in their RV and a small town cop with a secret verses the vastness of Homeland Security. There are no winners or losers, just people struggling to find better understanding.
I'll post a page or two each day of this yet to be published 200 page adventure.
What do you say about a guy like Frank Dilouchi. Was he a profit or a crackpot? Did he have a vision and was he destine to carry it out or was he simply spending his later years like many of us Americans; driving around in our motorhomes trying to stay one step ahead of winter by going south or the heat of summer by going north. We were the new gypsy bands finding washes or hilltops to spend a night or another motorhome park to camp for a week.
One thing for sure, Frank Dilouchi had the money to do whatever he wanted. Why he decided to cheap out and not stay in the official RV camps that were so prevalent during the first years of the second millennium was beyond me. Why he always looked for renegade back ally, side gully, railroad siding camps when he could easily afford to buy an entire floor at the Hilton, was beyond me or my wife, Myrtle.
Did Frank have a few loose screws? Maybe, but he helped shift the thinking for an entire nations. Now, twenty years later, I see that maybe, just maybe he did have the vision of a saint. At the time we all thought he was a couple of cans short of a six-pack. One thing for sure, he was interesting.
We’re camped in the biggest renegade RV town I know of. Hell, we even have our own mayor. Like many of us in early January when the snows settle in along the northern border states, our little town along the shores of the Salton Sea bulged with RV’s of all sizes and shapes. Myrtle and I always arrive early to get the best position and we settle in for a pleasant winter watching the wintering birds, the flying kind and the ever so numerous Snowbirds, of which we, having lived in Boseman, Montana in the summers, are two.
In the late December sun of the Southwest, long before the main bulk of RV’s arrive, we find a spot on the edge of the lake and park lengthwise so our galley looks at the sunrise over the lake. The ever-receding water of the huge saline lake is ten feet from our doorstep.
Myrtle quickly claims the few extra yards of beach front property by putting up lawn chairs and a clothes line. We have thirty-six feet of prime real estate and we aren’t planning on moving an inch until May, almost six months from today, at least that’s what we think.
I disconnect our little beat-up Toyota truck and park it along one side, claiming a parking section off of the nose of our Southwind with its two pop-outs and a satellite dish.
We’ve been here two days. A nice couple, Amiee and Clint Potter move in next to us on the south side, but though it’s prime property, no one claims north of us. The neighborhood fills, leaving sixty feet of beachfront unclaimed for almost a week.
There are a few interlopers, of course, who park in the spot for fifteen minutes or a half hour trying to decided if they want to say or not, but each time they drive off to find another spot.
The entire beach front properties is taken and the second row of camper trailers and fifth-wheels is quickly filling.
I sit under our full-length awning watching the little shore birds attempting to find a late lunch in the sand along the salt laden shore. I have my first beer in hand. Myrtle sits next to me. We’ve been silent for quite a while watching the sun glisten off of the glass calm water. A green canoe with a young couple crosses in front of us. We hear snatches of their conversation as they pass, paddling out of our range of sight. Then, in the silence of the early afternoon siesta time, both Myrtle and I turn to the sound of a huge diesel pusher. (More Tomorrow)
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Copyright June 2011 Nik C. Colyer All rights reserved