May Day

That’s me- 30 years ago today –May 1, 1977. I’m the one on the right with the Michelin hat, backpack and beard. Think the guy in the picture’s name was Maurice… like the old Steve Miller Band song, “Some people call me Maurice…” but I wouldn’t bet on it. We were saying goodbye after spending more than a month surfing the spring time waves off the Atlantic coast of France. The city is Biarritz. Doesn’t seem possible that it could have all happened so long ago.

My buddy Brad and I had spent time working in a steel mill in Wilmington, California, saving money for the trip of a life time. I’ve been fortunate to travel my entire life and I was eager to get out on the road. We were room mates and our life had a rhythm to it: out to surf by 5am, college classes’ mid-day, off to our union steel job by 4pm for the swing shift, home by 12:30am and do it all over again. Not exactly party animals- don’t know how either of us kept girlfriends.

We were 22 and that was our life.

Our rent was up on April 30th, so the morning of May 1, we headed east towards adventures in Italy, Yugoslavia, a month living in a cave in Greece and then we parted ways. Brad went on to work a farm on Crete. I headed home, God’s Hand heavy on my heart, for my sister’s wedding. Those months hold a lifetime of stories and I wouldn’t trade them for the world. That said, one day has always stood out prominently, May 1, 1977.

We’d knew little of things like “Workers of the World Unite,” May Day marches, etc… we were a couple of surfers, thankful to have a rail pass. We waited for the train and were warned that a National Strike had been declared for workers across the country. Our train, we were told, was the only train crossing France that day and would be very crowded… would we like to wait a day or two to travel? Young and stupid, eager to get going, we said “No.” and jumped on the already crowded train. We had yet to see a crowd.

The train headed northeast from Biarritz, towards Lyon, stopping at every little town, picking up people desperately needing to travel. We’d sold our surfboards, wetsuits and anything else that would put money in our pockets and now only had what fit in our packs, along with our sleeping bags and tent. Each pack weighed in at 50 pounds, easy. I weighed all of 160, soaking weight. In Lyon, near nightfall, a local military base boarded a bazillion soldiers. It had already been standing room only: we spent the rest of the night with room for only one foot on the floor at a time. I tell the story rarely because it’s so unbelievable- I almost don’t believe it. No room to remove or stow our packs. Everyone forced to carry their own luggage. Surrounded by soldiers who smelled like they had been doing field trials all day… not that I smelled any better… and standing on one foot… all night long.

Did I mention that EVERYONE else was smoking? It was like traveling in a one of those ash trays they always have in old movies: packed with butts, gray smoke filling the air around it. What fun.

Whenever people tell me how lucky I am that I’ve traveled, I’m quick to agree… but I can’t help but wonder if they knew what it was like to live with everything you own on your back, next to no money in your pocket, traveling in conditions that still conjure up sore calves and the occasional nightmare… May 1, 1977: if they’d still be interested in seeing the world.

My friend Brad lives with his wife and kids further north, on the coast. That’s him in the picture below, the day we parted ways, as I prepared to jump a boat towards Athens. No clue what’s become of Maurice. He was a surfer from New York city. Maybe he stayed in Biarritz, that photo’s the last time I ever saw or heard from him. Me, I’m living the dream, the greatest adventure of my life, here in Riverside with the people of Central Community. Today, May 1, 2007, 30 years since these photos were snapped: before digital cameras, VCR’s, DVD’s, scanners, personal computers, blogs, the internet… I’m reflecting not on an easier time. Working to save the money, leaving, the trip, the lessons learned, coming home… none of it was easy… but of a time that helped shape me for all the decades yet to come. One more step in the invitation to a life of great adventures.

I’ll always remember the night before we left, April 30th, 1977. We’d walked into town for a final visit with some friends, a snack and as we were walking home, the strike began. The entire town went dark as all the electricity cut out and everything was eerily silent. The city completely dead, a little old man, probably about my age, walking with a cane, looking so typically French, raised his arm in the air and cried: “Viva la revolution!” or something like that… it’s always inspired me. Not the words, but the thought. I was a kid and thought this guy an old geezer at the end of his adventures but he was still living the dream, ready for a revolution, living for adventure. Pretty cool. It’s how I want to be.

This May Day, 2007, the adventure of life still awaits us- it’s one of God’s greatest invitations –He created us to live- and to live to the full. I hope this day finds you ready to celebrate the best the month ahead has to offer. It’s May Day… take someone lilacs.