Teens vacationing at Crescent Bay share a brief time line of romance and bravery. Paul is a graffiti artist with a juvenile police record for defacing public property. Connie is a serious artist. Sharing a common interest-art-the teens hang out together. Trouble begins when Arnold, Connie's brother, finds out Paul is a tagger, a bad influence for his sister. Fate is a fickle force. Lifelines are strengthened by friends. Decisions alter destiny. Identity is shaped. Heart lines entwine. The joy of new discovery. Teen years!

CRESCENT BAY

By R.G. Chur

Trafford Publishing

Copyright © 2012 R.G. Chur
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4669-2982-1

Contents

Chapter One Sunset.............................1Chapter Two Granddad...........................9Chapter Three Jet Ski..........................17Chapter Four Frank's Diner.....................24Chapter Five Peeping Tom.......................31Chapter Six Hot Springs........................40Chapter Seven The Jetty........................54Chapter Eight Drowning.........................61Chapter Nine Rescue............................69Chapter Ten Beach Party........................73

Chapter One

Sunset

The paintbrush moved with effortless control. Smoky blue sky ... yellow spring blossoms ... leaves glossy mint green ... sunshine gold rays. Sea colors, whitecaps, warm emerald currents ... Strawberry ... Silly horn! Connie's brush stalled on a pink cloud line. Her thoughts of colors and the complexity of sun and shade stopped. She looked away from her canvas toward the highway and the Volkswagen bug. Beep! Beep! Beep!

"Yahoo! I'm in love." The driver hollered and waved frantically. Beep! Beep! Beep! A second face popped through the open sunroof. "Hel-lo, beautiful."

The radio blared an oldies tune. "Young Love, First Love, True Devotion." Connie blushed at the catcalls. "Sexists bugs," she yelled. Castaway, an orange ball of fur in her paint basket, hissed. Connie smiled. She was fourteen and realized her petite body in a Catalina swimsuit was a boy-magnet.

The Volkswagen bug was passed by two girls riding ten speed bicycles. More hollering and honking. Connie waved at the girls, campers from the state park. Crescent Bay was a small community. She knew everyone, visitor and permanent resident.

The bicycles accelerated, racing along the edge of El Camino Real. The purple bug leaped forward, the engine popped, the tailpipe sputtered smoke, the speed decreased.

Connie splashed blood red blotches on her canvas. For a moment she wondered why the boy in the back seat didn't howl like a cat in heat. She added a touch of violet to the red, carefully blending the colors together. The sunset on her canvas matched the sun bleeding colors on the horizon.

A tree rose at the edge of her canvas; a limb stretched toward the setting sun. The island cut the horizon, sea and sky a complement of colors. The tree tottered at the edge of the cliff. Ragged roots clung to the cliff face, thick fibers like fingers.

Her brush tentatively flicked forward. "Pop! Pop! Pop!" The bug exploded like gunfire. Connie jerked and smeared red paint on a white cloud.

"Nooo ..." Taking a deep breath, she sighed and carefully dabbed at the mistake with a cloth. "Same story every year, the city crowd invade the beach town. Boys acting like clowns." Connie smiled at the kitten. "Someday you'll understand, Castaway, when the tomcats start chasing after you."

Castaway stretched and purred agreement.

"And, I'll teach you to love art, like me. Do you like my vortex of colors? Intrusion of purple and orange space, harmonizing blue shadows. Geometric and random shape creating depth and motion. In a simple word. Sunset!"

The kitten mewed, pleased by the attention.

She studied the details of the painting. This was her most ambitious project, Crescent Bay pier. The pier jutted straight out to sea like a ruler measuring the tide. Waves swept the ragged rocks clustered on the south point of the bay creating a natural protective barrier for the boats at anchor. Sailboats, cabin cruisers and fishing boats swayed and bobbed on the rolling tide.

A rock platform at the end of the jetty with a warning light marked the north entrance to Crescent Bay. The tide was in, only the top of the jetty was above water. Waves splashed over the rocky path to the stone platform ascending from the ocean like a pyramid with a flattop.

Connie remembered being trapped on the point one afternoon. High tide caused by a full moon flooded the jetty's path with waist deep water. Fortunately, she was with friends. They held hands and managed to wade ashore, pausing when the waves swept the rocks. It was rare for the tide to be high enough to cover the rocks. The tide was never high enough to reach the light platform.

The kitten leaped from the basket and pranced on the black and white striped beach towel.

"Too hot, little friend?" Connie's brow crinkled and she wiped the sweat away. The temperature was nearly ninety; a slight sea breeze cooled her face. Sunset will drop the heat ten degrees. And sunset was happening minute by minute.

A pair of pelicans circled the bay looking for dinner. The leader suddenly dove, plunging headlong into the sea. The head popped up; the beak clutched a fish. The bird tilted the beak up and swallowed. Connie added two birds to her canvas with swift brushstrokes. Flipping the brush around, she used the round point of the handle to engrave detail: eyes, a beak and wing tips.

"Tomorrow I will paint you into the canvas." She waved the brush at Castaway. The kitten flicked a paw at the silvery threads.

Connie compared her painting to the event, the sun half submerged in a velvet sea. The breeze kicked sand around her toes. From her vantage point atop the cliff the bay before her was shaped like a taunt bow with the pier as the arrow bisecting the center of the bow. Not the longbow of Robin Hood legend, but rather the deep bow Cupid used to insure love between unsuspecting couples.

When the wind comes late in the day the people leave the beach. The girls fold aluminum chairs and bookmark romance novels. The boys jog home, darting glances at girls in bikinis. Children with buckets and balls follow moms to the parking lot. Sand castles surrender to the tide. Ambitious to catch all the detail on her small canvas, Connie labored to succeed, dabbing a flash of orange as the sun sinks below the sea. Twilight ended her work.

She folded her portable easel, the canvas still attached, shielded by plastic. The pier she was painting needed more rust color. The old pier, a sentinel guarding Crescent Bay, still standing despite the caustic elements of nature attempting to tear the pier from the shoreline and the efforts by some residents in the resort to replace the relic.

The wind and rain and rushing tide had left scars, but the pilings were reinforced a few years ago. Otherwise, the pier surely would have toppled in last winter's El Nino storms. The pier stands against time, stands against the harsh treatment of storm and tide, defiant. The pilings are home to clusters of seashell, mussel, and starfish. Connie wondered, perhaps some supernatural power was watching over the old structure.

Certain tenants, including her father, considered the pier to be an eyesore marring the crisp features of the new deluxe resort. Connie frowned. She loved to draw and paint the old pier. She felt bad that her dad was part of the vanguard to replace the old pier in the name of progress.

Connie knew the history of Crescent Bay. She had lived at the resort for the past two summer breaks from school, and had camped in the state beach park almost every summer since she was five. The Indians lead the first Spanish Missionary to Crescent Bay. It was a secluded bay, a night camp on the old Spanish trail that meandered over steep hills and through narrow arroyos to the Santa Barbara Mission.

In 1808 the shallow bay was pinpointed on nautical maps of the Southern California coastline. The name Crescent Bay was chosen because of the shape of the bay, like a lazy quarter moon carved between towering cliffs. A large seal population lived on the rocks offshore. Fishing was the early inhabitants main occupation. Gradually, retired people found the bay and the tourist followed.

The locals lived a relaxed lifestyle. Cottages ran along the cliff edge and dotted the hills behind the bay. A collection of business establishments and beach apartments stretched along half the bayshore. The new resort covert half the north side of the bay. Every summer the tourists doubled the population of Crescent Bay.

Connie tucked her paints and brushes into her belt pack, gripped the handle of the collapsible easel and headed down the path. Castaway mewed and stuck her head out of the basket to check direction. Someday she would walk the path alone, prowl at night. The kitten bounced along, big eyes staring ahead, recording every landmark.

Connie continued to mentally compare her painting to the scenery surrounding her. Colors changed tones and shapes changed proportions as she moved down the path. The cluster of fishing boats moored haphazardly along the stretch of shallow bay grew larger and seemed more in line, pictured from this angle of view. She studied the handful of sailboats and pleasure craft, the colors subdued by absence of sunshine. Three jet skis whipped around the boats and raced at top speed out of the bay. The five mile per hour buoy rocked violently.

"That would be my brother, the reckless fool. Don't you ever listen to him, Castaway. Whenever he's around, you run away and hide." Connie felt the kitten brush against her wrist. She watched the jet skis circle around the rocks. They were heading for the state campground, a narrow stretch of beach south of the bay.

Connie quickened her pace. In the hills above the campgrounds a dozen hot mineral pools attracted health enthusiasts. Connie knew of another mineral pool north of the bay with Indian hieroglyphics etched on the rocky outcroppings around the pool. The rolling hills stretched inland. The snowy peaks of the Sierra Mountains loomed above the hills. Scattered across the landscape were small towns, man-made lakes, vineyards, cotton fields and tree farms.

North of the bay was a collection of homes on a high mound. The structures looked like an abstract collection of blocks colored not to match. The last splash of sunlight flamed on the windowpanes. Stretching toward the faded blue sky, antennas and telephone poles received the latest world crisis and sitcom silliness.

A string of lights blinked alive on the pier and glowed brightly. A cluster of teens stood around the rickety shack at the base of the pier. Seven pilings kept the squat little building from toppling into the sea. The owner, an older man in a wheelchair named Eddy, rented surfboards and sold hotdogs, chips, and sodas.

The purple Volkswagen rumbled down the road and parked on the blacktop parking. Two guys leaped from the front seat and ran toward the food shack tossing a football on the way. Connie watched from her vantage point at the corner of the parking lot. She frowned. "Our friendly hooter, sexist jocks. And, the third too shy to appear. Meet the sunshine tourist, Castaway. Promise not to scratch and bite."

The kitten hissed disapproval.

Connie crossed the parking lot and ignored the two jocks. Connie was equally ignored because their complete attention was on the two girls beside their bikes near the snack shack. The boys raced in that direction.

She studied the boy slouched in the back seat of the bug. Dark eyes stared in her direction. Big sad puppy eyes, she thought and wondered what his problem was.

She took a long look at the artwork painted on the VW door. Sharp perspective lines created a narrow cubical design. Under the gold football trophy were neat geometric letters, KNIGHTS.

"Knights of the square table from the realm of squares." Connie patted the kitten. "What do you think, Castaway?"

Kitten eyes looked up at her expressing total agreement.

Across the parking lot was a gated road to the resort condominiums. A golf course was being built behind the resort, a rolling hills course with cliff edge bunkers and a small salt-water lagoon. Another project of her father and his cohorts for change. She hated to see the landscape blemished with sand traps and cultivated greens. She loved to paint the natural wild beauty of the land.

The football jocks were near the pier. The girls straddled bikes and pushed off. The girls kicked hard and directed the bikes to a path that lead to the state beach camp. The boys gave chase for fifty yards but gave up hope and stopped following.

Connie pressed security buttons, giving the code to open the gate. After sundown the sea and sky turn black, stars flicker. The jetty, a dark strip of rocks falling off the edge of night. Connie hurried up the walkway to her front door. The basket rocked, a sleepy kitten purred.

Chapter Two

Granddad

A six-foot length of metal corrugated fence, one end nailed to a corner post, flapped in the wind. A duplicate strip half buried in the sand, stretched like a gangplank to the edge of the cliff. Six more posts surrounded the brick porch; white gull droppings crowned the tops. Ice plants ran wild around the bungalow and over the cliff. Five hundred feet below white surf rippled over golden shore.

The bungalow was a square squat building coated with peeling blue paint. A big window and a door with a porch faced the sea. A pair of rusty motorbikes leaned against the south wall. On the north side was a stone chimney. The path leading to the front door facing the street was brick, stained green from moss.

"Need to stock some firewood, beach driftwood works well. Of course, it being summer you hardly need the heat. Might be best to leave the fireplace without a fire." The older man's monologue continued. At the diner he had greeted his grandsons and their friend, Carlos. He hugged each in a bear grip, showed them the diner and explained their job. He asked about their mother and father, reminisced on family history before and after the recession. He continued to talk and talk and talk. And he changed the subject every five minutes.

"I expected you boys before now." He scratched his white beard, a frequent habit.

"We stopped for hotdogs on the way. Tossed the football around. I'm on the varsity squad." Mark, the oldest grandson explained, forgetting to mention the girls they jogged after. "My friend, Carlos, is a star receiver."

"That's right, you boys play football, college."

"High school," Mark's best friend corrected.

The older man's eyes brightened. "I remember my school days, ran the mile in track, no football. But, I know the game. I've been showing Lloyd, my night cook, a few tips on the game. He plays football at the local college. All American game." Without a pause in words, he unlocked and opened the door to the bungalow. The hinges protested, screeching horribly.

"Once I rented this bungalow and two more like it. I was building a fourth when fire burned down every bungalow except this one. Welding torch accident. That was back when they built the resort; I wanted to keep competitive in the tourist business. But I couldn't afford to rebuild. This last bungalow became storage for the diner." He took a long breath and waved his hand at the collection of kitchenware. Boxes were stacked over halfway to the ceiling along one wall.

"Pick out what you need: glasses, dishes, pots, utensils, whatever. This is all odd stock from the diner. You boys can move the boxes into the railroad car behind the diner. Last year I bought the railroad storage container, better lock-up. Never got around to moving the diner supplies." He twisted the end of his mustache.

"Now, this rental is just a dusty relic. Use to rent to truckers for a night sleep, before the freeway was built east of here. That new freeway diverted traffic off the coast road. Hurt business, but the diner survives and still pays the bills."

Our new home for the summer, Mark thought. A place to train, to practice football everyday, vigorously, to prepare for the season. Ultimate goal, to win the senior year championship. He was lucky his grandpa owned a truck stop diner. Mark and his friend hired on to wash dishes and bus tables for the use of the bungalow by the sea. No free ride from grandpa. The beach just below was the training field. Every free minute they would practice. Paul, his brother, was along for a different reason.

"Door needs oil on the hinges, dusting inside, maybe a little paint. The roof don't leak and you have sleeping bags. Remember, no girls or booze in the shack."

The rising moon was lighting the starry sky. A cool sea breeze whipped his windbreak. Paul wrapped his arms across his chest and shivered. He didn't want to be here, trapped in a sleepy anchovy town. Wiping stinking dishes. And, this dump?

The blurred front light flickered and glowed revealing spider webs crisscrossing the doorway. The only thing he'd seen so far of interest was the girl painting, her jet black hair streaming in the breeze. He thought she was too young for the two stupid football clowns.

He followed his brother into the building. No! He didn't want to be with his brother. He didn't want to be in this dank moldy smelly old room. He wanted to be home with his friends. But, he committed one unpardonable sin, one mistake—tagging. He was caught and he was exiled. Worst than exile, forced servitude, dish-master at his grandfather's diner.

"Let me get this here light, figure the bulb is loose." The switch clicked and clicked and the light flashed twice and lit.

A seashell wind-chime hanging in a broken windowpane, clicked and clacked. "The perfect weather gauge." The old timer chuckled. A fly buzzed through the opening and was trapped in a spider web. I rented to an artist before the recession. She painted the letters on the wall." LOVE in bold letters and bright wild colors covered one wall. "She painted seascapes mostly." He turned and pointed.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from CRESCENT BAYby R.G. Chur Copyright © 2012 by R.G. Chur. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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