On the Bench

I had a gig in Carmel the other night. It’s roughly two hours south. I took Highway 1 down the coast. It’s twenty minutes longer but I felt like seeing the Pacific Ocean. This last year I’ve been prodding myself to appreciate the beauty of the San Francisco Bay Area. People come from all over the world to see the Golden Gate Bridge, the Wine Country, the Redwoods. As I get older, I am harnessing my dwindling opportunities.

I stopped at Greyhound Rock, about twenty miles north of Santa Cruz. It’s a public beach with cliffs that overlook the water. There are three benches from which you can take in the vastness of nature, the beauty of a sunset. One of those benches has an indented a plaque which reads “In loving memory of Joseph Scopazzi. Soccer. Fishing. Family.” That’s my father.  Julie, my middle sister, suggested we get this memorial built overlooking the beach from where my dad would dive for abalone when we were kids.

As I approached the cliff, I noticed a man sitting there. He looked to be middle-aged, squat, bald, with a long beard, wearing cut-offs. I looked at the plaque just to his right and explained it’s origin. He was touched to discover our gesture and wanted to know more about him. I recounted a diving adventure some fifty-five years ago:

Back in the 60’s, state law limited skin divers to pry a limit of five abalone off the rocks. Usually, my dad had a buddy or two. But there were times no one was available, so you-know-who had to take the 70-minute drive to a cold beach at six o’clock on a Sunday morning. Each of us got into our wetsuits and hung on to fluorescent orange, canvas covered inner tubes as we paddled out from the beach with large fins, mask and snorkel. We did not stop until we got at least 70-100 feet from shore.

My father had an iron stomach. He could withstand any amount of turbulence at sea. I, unfortunately, did not inherit that coveted trait. We had to kick out over high waves before we arrived at a reasonably calm spot. At that point, I had already heaved at least three or four times. He would try to assure me, “It’s all in your head.” I’d point to last night’s dinner floating on the surface and angrily counter, “That’s not my brains!” 

He then disappeared for at least sixty seconds, searching 25+ feet down for abalone. No tanks. He just stuck his tongue in the snorkel mouthpiece and free dove down till he reached the ocean floor. The man had lungs. I was not allowed below the surface. He was there to work hard and fast and bring home the bacon, er…mollusks. I was there only so he could grab ten instead of five.

We often made a similar early morning pilgrimage to San Francisco Bay on his 17-foot outboard motorboat to go trolling for striped bass. Me being onboard, with my fishing license, meant three more fish. Once we got to where he figured the fish were gathered, he switched off the motor. I was then instructed to point the boat toward Coit Tower. He’d bring in impressive stripers, often over 20 lbs, while I, trying not to puke, fantasized about still sleeping in my warm bed. I felt my legal name should have been “Extra Limit”. It seemed to be my raison d’etre. I wanted a sign that read “WILL VOMIT FOR FOOD”. Such is the lot of an immigrant’s son.

My father grew up in a small fishing village in northeastern Italy. A region that is now part of Croatia. They lived off what they caught and what they grew. When my parents bought their first house in the foggy south of San Francisco, he immediately went to work preparing the backyard. Before long there were stalks of green beans, bouquets of radicchio, and rows of gleaming red, delicious tomatoes.

He did all this while working ten hour shifts, five days a week as a waiter. I never resented him for not taking me to a baseball game. I knew he was tired. Plus, being a rabid soccer fan, he thought 9 guys standing around for 9 innings was dull and pointless.  

Growing up in America, I sought to understand my immigrant dad. But I was still too young to appreciate his personal story. Plus, I was caught up in the counterculture of the San Francisco music scene. I couldn’t be gardening and fishing. I had to learn about civil rights and get in line for Hendrix tickets.

The visitor got up from the bench to get a better look at the plaque. He complimented my dad, “It sounds like he was a really cool dude, man”.

My dad was 71 when he passed. Now, as I approach 70, I believe I have finally gained enough perspective to look upon his his life objectively. I know he had his demons. Many of us do. He drank too much and never watched what he ate. It shortened his life. But that does not disqualify him. He was a great man who loved his family. He provided for us fiercely, even on his days off.

So yeah, man. You’re right. He was cool.