Sea provided, and it took away

Fishing is a perilous occupation. Not that long ago, we lost one of

our dory men, and I’ve known a couple of people who made their living

at sea and perished there.

Boyd Reeber was one of the local kids who hung out at Little

Corona in the late 1950s and early ‘60s. On the label of Gerber’s

baby food is the picture of a child, round-faced and cherubic. That

child was Boyd Reeber. Obviously, he was a cute kid.

Of course, by the time I knew him, he was heading into his teens

and not quite the angel of the label, but he was a nice kid and he

still had a head of blond curls.

Reeber grew up and bought a boat and began fishing for a living.

He’d done it for quite a few years; and then, one night when he was

due in, he didn’t appear. His wife notified the Coast Guard, and they

headed out to San Clemente Island, where he had been headed. The only

thing they found were some pieces of the boat. From what they could

deduce, there had been an explosion. I hoped Boyd had been killed

instantly, because I can’t think of a worse fate than being miles out

at sea and just waiting to die, like someone else I knew.

Freddie Eastman was a nice guy. Freddie was part of the 1930s

group of Balboa regulars, 20 to 30 young men, most of college age,

who were the summer help at the dance hall, the gambling joints,

restaurants and bars and the bath house -- a few of us even

lifeguards. We got together and rented houses or lived in the

so-called apartments -- read: rooms -- on or near Main Street.

Swing music, the Rendezvous and the musicians from the various

bands were an important part of our lives. We knew all the musicians,

went to their jam sessions, partied and drank with them.

Freddie Eastman showed up during that period. Freddie was very

quiet, very reserved, a thoroughly decent, nice guy. Everyone liked

Freddie, especially the musicians. Freddie was a true jazz

aficionado. It seems to me that I can remember Freddie at every party

and every jam session, just sitting there and listening.

Come World War II and the end of the Swing Era, Freddie seemed to

lose interest in music. Like some of us, he couldn’t make the

transition to modern jazz, so he bought a small boat and became a

commercial fisherman.

One day during the albacore season, they found Freddie’s boat dead

in the water, fuel exhausted and lines dangling, but no Freddie.

A commercial albacore fisherman trolled with about eight hand

lines, four directly off the stern, two on each side extended away

from the hull by outriggers. When a commercial fisherman hit a school

of albacore, he became very busy tending those lines. He put his boat

on a circular course and hauled in the fish as fast as he could. The

best guess is that Freddie fell overboard while tending his lines,

and the boat sailed on without him.

There’s a chilling passage in “Moby Dick” in which a cabin boy or

someone falls overboard. When his absence is finally noted, they turn

the boat around to search for him, and when they find him, he has

gone mad, overwhelmed by the immensity of the sea.

The thought of anyone drowning in the open ocean has always

bothered me. Drowning in the open sea with your boat sailing on

without you must be one of the most lonesome experiences known ...

just treading water and getting more and more tired and more and more

cold.

It was only when Freddie was gone that we found out the Eastman in

his name was the Eastman in Eastman Kodak. Freddie came from a

wealthy background, but none of us had suspected it, he was such an

unassuming guy.

We all have to die some time and some way, but Freddie Eastman

didn’t deserve to die the way he did.

* ROBERT GARDNER is a Corona del Mar resident and a former judge.

His column runs Tuesdays.