I was sixteen when the Greyhound bus crossed the New York State line. My sister, fourteen, sat next to me. Up to that point we had never traveled more than fifty miles from our home town. It was to be an epic journey. A trip had been planned along the California coast, from Los Angeles to San Francisco. We would meet our birth father, a man we didn’t know existed until a few months earlier when he showed up at our door. We would be traveling with our two younger half-brothers who lived in LA.

He picked us up at the bus station. Our first stop was a barbershop. My hair was shoulder length. He told me I would get a haircut or I would be back on the bus to New York. My father had apparently made a pact with my mother to turn me into a man. He didn’t raise no sissies. I seriously considered getting back on the bus. My sister pleaded with me. I’m not sure if she was worried she’d have to go back too, or she didn’t want to do this alone. I returned to the car leaving my beautiful hair in a pile on the barbershop floor.

We traveled in an old, and I do mean old, converted school bus. This was our ritual. We’d arrive at our destination about lunchtime. We’d have lunch, wash and dry the dishes, and then receive our free-time allotment to explore our surroundings and try to meet girls. My sister focused on meeting boys. We went in opposite directions. Then came dinner, washing and drying the dishes, a short free-time allotment to be spent close to the bus, and then early to bed.

At 6 am we were out of bed and on the beach with pitchforks in hand. Pitchforks? Yes, we had to dig for our lunch and dinner, clams. Digging for clams is not a pleasurable endeavor, especially in the northern Pacific Ocean where the water temperature never passes fifty degrees, not even in the middle of August. If we didn’t dig, we didn’t eat, except for my sister who’s only task was to enjoy herself while the boys did all the work.

Finding clams meant getting out as deep as possible during low tide and pushing the pitchfork repeatedly into the sand until you felt resistance. The only way to retrieve the clam was to submerge yourself completely and dig it out by hand. Did I mention how cold the water was? On top of that, Pacific Ocean waves are not gentle. This task would continue until our quota was met. After our clams were safely ashore, we returned to the bus for breakfast, oat meal. Lunch and dinner, as you’ve probably guessed, was fried clams. Ebenezer Scrooge would have liked my dad.

Meeting girls, my primary mission during my allotted free time, was not going well. California boys, my age, had long hair and nice tans. I had neither. My half-brothers were twelve and ten. The girls I met looked at me as if I were twelve. It was a most discouraging summer. There was one eventful morning. My twelve year old brother and I got up before 5 am and snuck out of the bus. We met two girls, also sixteen and twelve, and also looking for a bit of adventure.

We walked along the roadway until we came to the bathrooms. The older girl had a most unexpected proposition. She said we could watch them pee if they could watch us. Okay. That seemed fair. We all went into the men’s room. A long steel trough served as a urinal. They stood to the side of the trough, which provided them with an unobstructed view, while we performed our manly duty. They giggled and applauded.

Now it was their turn. They did what girls do. They trick naive, gullible boys into believing they will do as they promise. Outside the men’s room, the older girl proposed another act. In retrospect, I have no doubt these girls were experienced tricksters. The plan? Devious, an act of pure treachery. We exchanged the men’s and women’s bathroom signs, but only on one side. These bathrooms had two entrances, one of the east and other on the west. Anyone entering from the western entrance would find themselves in the wrong bathroom.

We weren’t able to witness the results of our handiwork. As soon as we completed the switch, our younger brother found us and escorted us back for clam digging duty. We dug with unbounded enthusiasm, attained our quota, ran to the bus, grabbed our towels, ignored our hunger pangs, and ran to the western entrance of the bathrooms where we would innocently venture into the girl’s shower room. Bummer! The signs had been corrected.

The trip ended and we were soon back on a Greyhound bus to New York. We arrived a few days before the start of school, which meant the outdoor public pool was still open. My sister went and was immediately kicked out. In order for my sister to fit in with the California girls, my father had purchased a California style bikini for her. She wore it to our small town pool. They made her leave because her belly button was not covered.

My next point may likely disgust some of you. You may find it unbelievable, but I assure you it is true. Bikinis, in my small town, would likely be considered grandma-style underwear these days. Back then, only the high school girls wore them. Grown up girls stuck with the traditional one-piece suit. Oh yes, the disgusting part, pubic hair was not trimmed. It could be clearly seen reaching outward from the edges of the ladies suits, young and old.

Yes, blond, brunette, an occasional redhead, but mostly dark. Teenage boys were intrigued, girls didn’t seem to care. Or perhaps they did and thought it to be another way to tease us, to taunt us, to give us hints of things never to be seen until a band of gold had been placed on the ring finger of her left hand.

Times change and morals adapt to the prevailing mood. One thing never changes, something will always be taboo, hidden away, locked out of the realm of decency. The definition will be altered, but the essence of our human nature will remain consistent. Good girls will be good, and bad girls will be trouble. Boys will be as soft clay awaiting the master’s touch. Men are as puppets attached to strings, pulled in all directions at once, not by a single puppeteer but rather by all who seek to hold sway over his moments and his destiny.