Thomas Piekarski
Distilled
The Ocean Angel, a WWII vintage
copiously welded steel ship
creaks, seesaws side to side,
hundreds of yards of black nylon
fishing net rolled up
on its scrubbed deck.
Built to hold mega tonnage
it vies daily with dozens of boats
over a limited catch,
for Monterey Bay is in the main
adamantly preserved but
overfished.
******
A coquettish New Zealand lass
sits down beside me on a bench
behind the whale watching
ticket booth near wharf’s end.
She has bright painted red lips
and dolefully crooked front teeth.
She pulls a brown journal
from her knapsack to make
periodic short entries.
When I ask what she’s writing
she confides she’s in the midst
of her first screenplay, and then
applies tanning lotion
to raw exposed Betty Grable
legs. And as if to conceal
squinty liquid eyes
she slips on a pair of intrepid
sunglasses.
******
The Japanese responsible
for launching what became
a robust abalone trade
from their village at Point Lobos.
This had the effect of propelling
a highly profitable, immense
fishing industry.
******
At first I thought it a monstrosity:
all those pipes popped up during
construction inside a fenced-off hole
dug smack in the middle of
Steinbeck Plaza,
a blight to spoil
panoramic ocean views
where the fast-paced spray paint artist
turns out mesmerizing cosmic scenes,
a place where rare stone necklaces,
sterling orca and shark pendants
are vended.
******
One sordid day in 1770
usurper Gaspar de Portola
seized Monterey,
a city that had withstood
many a siege, declaring it
by imperial provenance
Spain’s.
******
A green and white vessel that looks
a little like a tugboat has a huge
amber halogen beam bolted
above its mast as it put-puts
its way toward a placid harbor,
perhaps signaling an alert.
On the far side of the bay
on this brilliant, brisk summer day
a yacht zooms southward toward
Seaside. It hugs the shore —
lickity-split or bust for that
sleek entrepreneur.
******
Everything defines itself.
Robert Louis Stevenson drafts
Treasure Island in his mind
upon these selfsame
disproportionate steps.
******
Watch out for seagull guano
such as coats the aquarium roof
and several others along the Row.
A splat may at random
come splashing on your head or
shoulder.
******
A skinny lad inquires as to
the location of Crab Louie’s Bistro.
He seeks a fit place to feast, and wants
to know if the Bistro is up to snuff.
I’m a bit gruff. I haven’t eaten there,
I say, but would certainly shy away
from Abalonettis and their
blah calamari. I confide
that I much prefer Hula’s Island Grill
or the rustic Santa Lucia Cafe
over sky-high priced fish dishes
purveyed hereabouts.
******
The Japanese divers plunged
in stifling brass helmets,
weighted down, harnessed
with suits heavy as coats of mail
and armor combined.
They plucked abalone at the bottom
of relatively shallow waters
and plunked them into iron buckets
in the shadows of indigenous Indians
who had for centuries scooped them from
tidepools.
******
Ocean Angel creaks and squeals,
crackling, croaks, tugs tough ropes,
tied to the old wooden pier.
The ship’s a bully, rips as it rocks,
the ruptured ropes jerking pier posts,
exacting shakes and sharpest
jolts.
******
Methodists who settled Pacific Grove
lived as if in catacombs
of an utterly destitute and obsolete
faith. They tolerated the Japanese
but detested continual stench
that emanated from the Chinese camp.
When the massive ’06 quake struck
San Francisco Chinatown
was nearly demolished. The “chinks”
rushed to Monterey, flooding the camp.
“Enough!” the Methodists growled.
And then one stark dark night
they burned that camp to nothing but
stinky ash.
******
Sound warnings: “Observe sea lions
from a safe distance. Marine mammals
are wild animals and can be dangerous.”
And “ Unstable rocks—slipping, falling,
crushing hazards.”
******
Vacationers tote cameras, roll strollers, merge
en masse.
******
The purposely portly greeter in front
of Cafe Fina points upward and exclaims
“look what’s coming!” I do look up
and spot about 75 feet above
the bubbling wharf a radio controlled
plane shaped like a spider, whirring
toward us. It makes a mad rush
in the air straight down the middle
of the wharf, stoking gulls, crazy
as they crisscross, zigzag wildly,
their frantic squawks a sure sign that
they’re impaired.
******
When budding restaurateur Pop Ernest
developed a recipe that converted tough
bland abalone into a succulent delicacy
it became the rage of the coast
all the way from haute Sausalito to
Ventura.
******
Eventually they erected a monument around
those unsightly pipes at Steinbeck Plaza,
with fountains, a moat and stone bench
upon which visitors sit, munch and snap
photos. Atop the monument is perched
in bronze the scribe whose prose gave rise
to the phoenix that is
rowdy Cannery Row.
Below him on stone outcrops
a poised Ed Ricketts, Wide Ida
the cathouse queen, dignitaries
and one of those once loathed
but now widely heralded
little "Chinamen."
******
Early evening. It’s become quite windy
and stone cold, perhaps a point
at which to head back, down Pearl
then left at Calle Principal, to retrieve
the welcome warmth of my
parked Camry.
