Gillian's Story

Well this is embarrassing. Several years ago I wrote a memorial for a girl named Gillian.

Her death was senseless and incomprehensible. I am perhaps still dealing with it. 

This is a photo of some poor soul crossing the Little Pico bridge.  Or is it?   

Maybe I captured some mad force that ranges up and down our northern coast, unanswerable, inexplicable, and unopposable.

And it's coming for us all eventually.

But it came too early for Gillian. And her memory haunts me, wont leave me alone.

What do you want girl?

 God rest your soul.

              

Gillian Goldman (1/4/2000--1/10/2008)

A Story Not Published, a Life Not Lived

Winter sunlight glows inside a red Mitsubishi Montero parked north of San Simeon’s Pico Bridge. Windows are up, doors locked, the air still.  Listen and you will hear a whispering… hushed tones like a young girl confiding secrets.

But there’s nobody inside the car.  Heat stirs a mylar balloon, rubbing it against the roof.  The image on the balloon is from a recent movie, Disney’s High School

Musical 2.  The cast smiles, holding hands as they plunge into a background of pool water.  Other than the rustle of the balloon, the car is silent.

Outside the car, chaos--an incomprehensible tragedy, nothing happy like the pool pranks of the Disney movie.

Marcia Harrigan, 43, and her 8-year-old daughter Gillian Goldman were dead, their bodies found awash in pounding surf. 

Five men in wetsuits and yellow crash helmets struggle with wire gurneys as they converge on a rocky alcove 40 feet below the red SUV.  “The conditions were extremely hazardous,” according to Captain Steve Brito of the Cambria Fire and Rescue Unit, “It was pummeling the rescuers into the rocky beach.”

Merle Bassett, photographer on assignment for The Cambrian, captured that terrible moment: one man motions upwards for someone to deploy a rope, another kneels before the basket, its diminutive contents precariously covered by a windblown yellow tarp, Gillian.

Other rescuers are pushing through the surf carrying a heavier basket, Marcia Harrigan—her mother.

I was new to this area and followed the story as it unfolded in The Cambrian and Los Angeles Times, bewildered that such a tragedy could occur on a familiar beach less than a mile from my home. Their deaths were initially determined to be “suspicious in nature” though other scenarios, rogue wave, fall due to high winds, or failed rescue attempt were considered as well.

January 9 2008--Los Angeles Family Court, 4 p.m.  Marcia Harrigan and her daughter, Gillian failed to appear in response to a court order remanding custody to Gillian’s father Glen F. Goldman. Both parents had filed restraining orders, Glen fearing violence, Marcia claiming that her daughter had been sexually abused by her father Glen. After extensive interviews and examinations, shared custody was reinstated.

Marcia picked up Gillian at her Hermosa Valley School earlier that day and was not answering calls from the court.

At 5:15 p.m. Marcia entered a local church, while Gillian waited in the car, requesting that the priest baptize her daughter. He told her it wasn’t possible that night and assumed her many disconnected  references to “the ocean” indicated a desire to perform the baptism herself.

At 7:45 p.m. Marcia met with Craig Donato, the father of her two older daughters, Doniele and Ariana.  She explained she would be too busy “running all around” trying to prevent Glen from taking Gillian and asked Craig to sign a letter giving him complete custody of the younger of his two daughters, Ariana.  Craig asked her what she was planning to do and Marcia replied, “It’s best you don’t know.”

Despite the advice of lawyer Jeff Doeringer and her family, Marcia and Gillian left Hermosa Beach at 8:45 p.m.

Around 11:30 p.m. Marcia purchased alcohol, a balloon and other items at Von’s in Goleta, 150 miles north.

Soon after midnight on January 10, Marcia called Gillian’s half-sister Doniele, a student at San Diego State, stating that she was “too tired to go any further.”  Then she put Gillian on the phone. Gillian said she was watching TV and eating a banana. They talked several minutes and Gillian said goodbye. Marcia came back on afterward, crying, and said, “I can’t let her go with him again. What happens if he kills her? I don’t know what to do.”  Doniele attempted to calm her down and said she would call in the morning.

A call back to her mother at 7:06 a.m. resulted in no answer.

A state park ranger, responded to a 911 call at 10:10 a.m. from a vista point north of San Simeon, mile post 56.  He met a German couple with binoculars who had observed two females beyond the breakers in distress, “not putting hands in air… not a bathing moment.”  He called dispatch requesting an ambulance and a SAR unit, specialists in rappelling and belaying, for a vertical rescue.

After a team of deputies, rangers and rescue specialists performed every intervention possible at the scene, paramedic Takaoka pronounced Marcia Harrigan and Gillian Goldman’s time of death, 10:31 a.m. 

  

Their bodies were sent by ambulance to Los Osos Valley Mortuary at 12:30 p.m. after a preliminary examination and collection of evidence.

The following day at 8 a.m. counselors waited in the library of Hermosa Valley School while principal Sylvia Gluck entered a third grade classroom to tell students their classmate and mother had passed away.  Some children spoke with the counselors or went outdoors with their parents (who had been advised by phone the night before).  Others decided to draw pictures for the family. “She had friends all over the school,” said School Superintendent Sharon McClain, “Everybody here is a little broken up.”

On January 26, 2008 autopsy results for Marcia Harrigan, an adult Caucasian female, approximately 5 feet 8 inches with blond hair revealed a blood alcohol content of .03, less than half of the legal limit. No evidence of drugs found.

Gillian’s body showed no obvious signs of drugs or sexual abuse. Physical injuries were consistent with striking blunt force objects common to the rocky area where her body was found.

A blond hair was found entangled in her left hand.

The pattern of injuries, consistent with Marcia’s fingernails, indicated her mother’s hand had been held over her mouth. Other injury patterns on the arms indicated that she had been held under water.

Cause of death was determined to be salt-water drowning--manner of death, homicide.

Also included in the autopsy I requested, was a list of property recovered at the scene. At the base of the cliff were child-sized Ugg boots and car keys buried in the sand. Inside the car a brown sweater covered a purse.  Also found was a pink book bag with homework, school supplies, and the balloon from High School Musical 2.

As I considered the list and other evidence, Gillian’s interest in this movie seemed quite understandable. Doniele her older sister, with whom she seems to have been especially close, was active in musicals throughout high school and college. She is a professional singer in a southern California band. 

Not so understandable is the way Marcia arranged several items at the scene, how she secured her purse and keys as if she fully intended to return.

Equally difficult to understand is my own involvement in a case that occurred years ago, and how I was connected to an eight-year-old victim I had never met or even seen in a photograph.

And I may never understand why I later felt compelled to spend the night on the beach below that vista point. Perhaps I was hoping that by sleeping at the crime scene I would gain some insight as to how a mother could love a child yet take away that life with her own hands. I left the beach around 2 a.m. after several inexplicable events.  I’m  not ready to discuss these events any more than the countless sensitive details I encountered during the course of my research--perhaps in a book if I ever decide to write one.

I did recently decide to watch the movie High School Musical 2, every minute of it.  It starred Arroyo Grande actor Zac Efron. Though typical of preteen entertainment, overly choreographed and under plotted, it did have some meaningful music.

Gillian would have been 16-years-old this month, old enough to star in her own high school’s musical.

Should you be driving north across the Pico Bridge passing a vista point on the way to the pier, Hearst’s Castle, or an afternoon of music at Ragged Point, you might want to think of Gillian and these lyrics from her favorite movie:

Let’s take it to the beach

Take it there together
Let's celebrate today
'Cause there'll never be another
 

    

Extreme Manliness

Back to Visalia where a fabulous surprise was lurking around in the mailbox.

But first, gentlemen (sorry, ladies, this is a guys only blog entry), we've all seen all those TV commercials telling you to testosterone supplements, and Nirvana is right around the corner?

Well, I've never taken that stuff. The "Johnster" never lies to you.

And even if that were so in this case, I NEVER inhaled, rubbed it in, whatever it is people actually do with that stuff.

Why not?  Quite frankly, because I no longer need it:
I'm now on the Harbor Freight exclusive mailing list!  And I'm not talking about that one sheeter you find on the back of some sissy Parade magazine.

Yeah, the free flashlight is cool and you can never have enough of those screwdrivers that bend the first time you use them, but that's not what's hot and definitely not what's sitting on my kitchen counter right now.

What I'm talking about here is a full-blown 25 page NEWSPAPER of possibilities.  With color photographs for the more visually oriented gender!  Admittedly, the colors are mostly orange and black with a some off-white thrown in for contrast but the first two, orange and black are the only significant wavelengths in the masculine color wheel. Efficient marketing, too--no need to go overboard communicating to the same sex that is genetically 975% more likely to be color blind.

Speaking of accurate statistics, we all know that men are 250% more likely to be happy if they possess multiple devices designed to fit the larger male hand. Duh. 

This fact is clearly proven because these same objects are equipped with a protruding "on" buttons that, when activated, produce loud and obnoxious sounds not unlike amplified farts.  Is that kewl or what?

All well known facts, especially to readers who've never been hampered by the redundancy of another "X" chromosome.

Time to address specifics, men.
I'm currently turning through those 25 pages and what I have left are experiencing a resurgence.  I lunge for the pen located in a pink cup and take notes on a flower bordered paper towel.  My hands are shaking a little but that's okay.  After all, I'm not going to be do any knitting tonight, right guys?

First on my list is an item both practical and thoughtful--a rolling cart so my wife won't have carry my coffee cup to me in the morning, risking the possibility of a spill.  At first  I considered the $229 "1000 pound capacity hydraulic table cart" but you know women sometimes get a little pissy about simple requests.  So, I'll go instead with the "two shelf polypropylene service wagon", cheaper at $89 and less lethal if brought down on my head during one of hose unpredictable female fits.

For $29.99 I can actually purchase a reciprocal saw.  I already have one, but I just like the word "reciprocal".  It sounds friendly, conveys fairness, and is probably related the word "reciprocates." Now "reciprocates" is a very concept in the realm of guydom.  Anybody can borrow my reciprocating saw IF (permit me to throw in another "IF" for good measure) and again if in the future I can borrow and play around on his towable $2700 dollar "ride-on trencher" (page 19).  Sounds very reciprocal to me, especially since guys seldom return borrowed tools.

Let's move on to the more exotic items, the ones where you might have to do cash back several times around town to make sure that wifey can't track this purchase down on the old credit card. 

You know what I'm talking about here, guys.  THE LURE OF STUFF WHERE YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT IT DOES BUT YOU JUST LIKE THE SOUND OF IT--AND YOU HAVE TO HAVE ONE!

The item dujour (or is it "dunight"? It's well after 10 pm as I write this and I've never understood that prissy French stuff)--anyway, the item is:

   A 6.5 Horsepower (always loved that word), and have now fallen in love with the next ne: POUNDER.     

Whoah!  Indulge if I have to write this on more time: 
A 6.5 Horsepower Pounder!

Okay,  I'm over that moment of enthusiasm but I want you to know that the item in question is an orange and black and roughly the size of a  lawn mover.  I'll be visiting a lot of markets tomorrow, my cash back psychic powers tell me, and before sunset I WILL BE POUNDING. I mean if you're truly a guy and still reading this, your mind is whirling.  There's so many that we, the fraternity of guys, need to pound!  Again, if your a guy you need no more explanations and have already decided several specific items (people?) where a pounding would benefit the entire human race.

IAnd  just can't wait until some beflumoxed neighbor rings the doorbell with that guilty I-got-caught-with-my-tools-down-look.
     "Say John, I don't suppose you'd happen to have a   
      pounder?"
      After a pause signifying both shock and pity, I say:
     "Does The Pope wear dresses?  Hell yes, I have a    
      pounder!!!  Several in fact... an orange one and a black    
      one--which one do you need?

Actually this tool goes by a slightly different name but if you'll allow me some poetic lie-sense here, I will further cop to having few clues as to what this device actually does.  Zero clues, to be exact.

But sure as Shitola is our nation's capital, the thing is orange and black, so when I wheel out of my shed, he will never know I have only one of them.  Mrs. Richardson never any stupid sons.
 
"Either color would be fine, John," my neighbor says sheepishly.  I open my shed and afford him a brief glimpse of walls gloriously festooned with tools, all of them mysterious and of an even more exotic.

For instance, getting back to my 25 pages of male smut, consider this.  What is a "dual head pivotal work light"? Not sure myself, even after looking at the picture, but it sure sounds sexy.  And how can I live without this wide broomlike apparatus known as a "magnetic sweeper"? 

I've never used or needed a splitter but what a screw up if you suddenly have to split logs? Then there's s the 500 watt hot blower (I have one of those and  actually use it dry rocks quickly--so shut-up your dirty mind!).  But what if it went out?  I really should have another.  It just wouldn't do to have those rocks getting all cold and jittery.

I confess that I still don't have a "stud finder".  It's an old joke, I know, but they've gotten more high tech lately, lasers and such.  Never thought I'd need one, though.  Seriously, wouldn't a mirror get the job done? 

And don't even get me started on oversized impact drills.

So it's time to put down this not so glossy but oh so masculine Harbor Freight advertisement. Definitely not good for my blood pressure.

Hope my wife gets home soon.
  
Tools... Oh yeah.

Maybe we could make a baby.

Who Are We?

A month or so ago I was alone in my Visalia home,
My wife away, assisting her father after a medical problem.

And at some point in time I found myself speeding north.
I missed my wife, just wanted to see her I guess.

When I arrived she hugged me and said,
"You didn't have to come."
My response was spontaneous
and surprised us both:

      We are Harfst's; we are Richardson's
      Neither saints nor sinners
      But we take care of our own.

English teachers (and former ones like myself) would call this "Found" poetry.  An accidental grouping of words, profound though unintentional.

But in the last few months, as I've witnessed my father-in-law's setbacks and determined come backs, I want to add a fourth, intentional line:

     We are Harfst's; We are Richardson's
     Neither saints nor sinners
     But we take care of our own
     We'll endure. 

Who Are We?

A month or so ago I was alone in my Visalia home,
My wife away, assisting her father after a medical problem.

And at some point in time I found myself speeding north.
I missed my wife, just wanted to see her I guess.

When I arrived she hugged me and said,
"You didn't have to come."
My response was spontaneous
and surprised us both:

      We are Harfst's; we are Richardson's
      Neither saints nor sinners
      But we take care of our own.

English teachers (and former ones like myself) would call this "Found" poetry.  An accidental grouping of words, profound though unintentional.

But in the last few months, as I've witnessed my father-in-law's setbacks and determined come backs, I want to add a fourth, intentional line:

     We are Harfst's; We are Richardson's
     Neither saints nor sinners
     But we take care of our own
     We'll endure. 

Touching

Gentle mercies,
Small touches.

What else have we
To stave the void?

Territoriiality, Part Three

I didn't get my head (or my pack) together until noon the next day.

I felt lazy and bought a sandwich from the corner store on my way out.
It was predictably over priced and under filled, but I was already nibbling on it as I rolled north across the Little Pico bridge.

I worried vaguely about the geezer I had potentially stranded yesterday.  What if he and his shiny red pickup were still there?

No way, I told myself.  Anybody able to withstand afternoon gales while extolling the virtues of elephant seals could certainly find his way out of a  shallow slot canyon. Right? 

Worst case (and boy am I good at that kind of thinking!) what might have happened to him in the interim?

Well, first of all he would be extremely hungry. I wrapped up my sandwich and put it down on the passenger seat.

He would also be extremely pissed off, maybe a little imbalanced.  Near death experiences sometimes does that to people.

I considered my dilemma during the next five miles.  What to do?

Then it came to me. Stand on the cliff and get geezer's attention.

"Hey you dumb-assed docent!"

Next, throw down my sandwich.
When he went for it, I would toss out my rope.  Then run like hell back to my car, deliberately unlocked and keys in the ignition.

The plan had its disadvantages, of course. He would no doubt keep my rope out of spite.
But a small price to pay, I thought, when you consider a life might be at stake.

I tried not to think about such unlikely events, while I focused on the jade--to-royal blue ocean passing on the left. Random groups of Mr. Hearst's painted ponies loitered on my right.  Everything was good until my car rounded a bend and I saw red.

A red pickup to be exact.  I went by it slowly enough to a see the Toyota logo and a license starting with "7".  My heart thudded with a "this is bad, real bad" feeling.   I could barely drive. A few seconds later realized the truck was on the wrong side of the road and a half mile south of yesterday's drop point.

Crisis non-existent, I concluded, and pursued my original plan to drop down a steeper and much longer ravine.

Before long I was down, resting on the sand and comfortable.  My Jack Reacher novel was in hand during a perfect surf, a warm afternoon, and pages that turned quickly.

Paulie, an enormous steroid freak, was beating the bejesus out of Jack. Things looked real bad for the retired Major Reacher.

Then a disturbing thought.  What if the blue blazered docent guy drove by and recognized my car? He could follow my trail, shimmy down my rope, and convey his unhappiness about my pulling up the rope yesterday.
Now that would be annoying...

Worse (but equally unlikely) one or both of us might get so mad that a verbal altercation became physical.

Funny thought. For a while I couldn't remember the last time I was in a fist fight.
Oh yeah, high school, junior year during spring training.  We had our helmets off at the end of practice and were lining up for windsprints.  Mark Parker, a senior and my main competitor for the position of right guard, pushed me out of line not once, but twice.
Enough of this, I thought, and hit him blindside with one of the defensive moves we'd been learning.
I knocked him on his ass!
The last thing I remember as I stood in that line, was Mark out of corner of my eye. He sprung off the ground with  a combination of momentum and cocked fist and splattered my nose.

And though I lived through the 60's, that was easily the most psychedelic moment of my life.  My best friend told me later I hit him back but that's the kind of thing best friends, no memory of it.

I do remember coach Stoney standing between us and saying something like, "You two stop this shit!" 

Then he started to walk away, but stopped. H looked back at me with a grin. 
"So, Richardson, guess you want to be on this team after all."
My competition with Mark continued during future practices in a less pugilistic fashion.
He got the first string position, no surprise there, being a senior with more experience and better skills.
We avoided each other in locker rooms and hallways.  Our spat obviously wasn't his first dance, and now both of us knew that fists, in the absence of helmet and gear, hurt like hell.

Then I remembered Mr. Docent landing on the beach.  About my age and no less out of shape.  It would take only a couple of connected blows until both of us would lose interest.

I went back to my book, read another twenty minutes or so.  Now Jack was in a worse jam.
Another thug named Harley, had gotten the drop on him and pushing a P14 (pistol, Canadian made) against the very teeth loosened during his fight with Paulie.

But what if that chilly night on beach left Mr. Docent so deranged that he down a weapon?

That would be a problem.  I tossed a few recently collected agates toward some mark on the cliff. Reasonably grouped though nowhere near the accuracy that inspired fear in lump headed neighborhood boys.

But not so fast as a speeding bullet...

I put my mind back into the book.  Reacher took care of Harley with something unexpected--he always does.  The book was good and getting better. I read for another twenty minutes.

Then a real flash of adrenaline, and not just some random idea to decorate a blog entry.  I put the book down quickly and jogged up the beach with all the casual grace of a 62 year old.

Would the rope still be there?  Nice.  What if I arrived at the drop off point just in time to see my rope drawn up from above and heard high pitched laughter keening down from overhead cliffs?


Now wouldn't that be the pits?  No, not the "pit" as in the pendulum. But the "cask" as in another Poe story, "The Cask of Amontillado"!  I still remember a few lines:       

      I would be avenged...

        [and?] forced the last stone into its position;
        I plastered it up.

Better than rapier or bullet Montresor, the narrator, devised a revenge through masonry: withdraw fellowship and food, the two essentials of Fortunato's existence.  
Like withdrawing my rope! 

I arrived at the drop point out of breath and enormously pleased that the rope still was still there.
Well there you go, I told myself, and this is exactly what happens when you violate the morning one cup of coffee rule.

I returned to my pack, laughing at my own crazy thoughts.  But, before long I was shouldering my backpack. The afternoon was a little too hot and the kelp flies intolerable.

I was half way up the rope.  A rock gave way under my left foot. My right couldn't find purchase on a slick vertical slope.  For a moment I dangled like snot in the wind. 

Headline: GEEZER FALLS FROM CLIFF DOING SOMETHING STUPID AND AGE INAPPROPRIATE!


Worse was the vision that came to me next, arriving like a flaming sun emerging from its eclipse--the PERFECT PAYBACK. Pull out the anchor-spike, but only partially.  Half way up the sheerest and straightest drop, with the stress of your full weight, it gives.

And afterwards, a blue blazered docent would brush the dirt from his hands and walk across a field to a red pickup. No fingerprints, no footprints. Taking his time while driving south until a pocket of cell phone coverage, he would eventually punch in 911. 

"Yes, at the bottom of a high cliff.  Looked unconscious, or worse...no idea who he is, never met him.  Poor guy, hope he's okay.
What?  Oh, sorry, my phone's breaking up, no coverage here--"
Click. 
Well, good thing I called. Just looking out for the other guy...


And while I hung there like snot in the wind, I decided way I'm going out like that. There's always something you can do...


Third period PE, La Colina Junior High, and I was the rope climb king.  A thick rope, knotted by intervals, extending to the high vault of the gym ceiling. Using legs or feet strictly forbidden.  I was the spider closing on its prey.  And for one whole week, with most of the student body recovering from a flu epidemic, I was unbeatable.

So forget about your feet!
Use what's left of your upper body strength.  Pull yourself to a foothold--go all the way to the top.

And a few sweaty moments later, I was standing on the cliff.  No malevolent docent hovered nearby. 
Good thing for him, too. I might've punched him in the nose.

Well, there you go.
Karma bites you in the ass every time,
Either with its teeth--or your imagination.

Territoriality, Part Two

Skies suddenly cleared and in twenty-five minutes, sand was underneath my feet.
I planned to finish my Jack Reacher novel.  But the sun was warm, my mind distracted.

A blog entry entitled "Stains" was  rough and unpublished.  I didn't like the ending, dark and depressing, a mood apart from my usual self. 

Lying there, I came up with an alternate ending, lighter because of its references to popular culture. 

Well, I thought in my head (which houses my most defective organ), why not provide both endings, let the reader make a choice? Brilliant! 

And all was good. I returned the unopened novel to my pack and headed out.

Twenty yards before I get to my rope, an unpleasant surprise.  Some geezer landed awkwardly on the beach, huffing and puffing. 

I noticed his vest, blue, short and bedazzled.  He's about my age, poor guy, and judging from his bad fashion choices, is an elephant seal docent looking for something else to rant about.

Not that I've got a particular grudge against volunteers.  God knows, I've spent hundreds of unpaid hours in that thankless activity, though mostly in a national park setting.  But to stand like this guy must in cold and constant wind--without even a port-potty to piss in--all because you're A Friend of the Elephant Seals?  Well, I just don't get it.

I mean, how can you wax enthusiastically about a behemoth male creature that does little else but lounge and hump?  And how about the females?  They give birth, immediately hump some more, then abandon their offspring.  Sorreeee!  Watching elephant seal behavior is too much like interspecies voyeurism.  I bet internet porn portrays better values.

Nonetheless, facing this stranger upon my beach, I brought my happy muscles to play and attempted a smile.

"Hi" we said in disturbing unison.
"How you doing?"
"How's it going?"
Damn! Was there an echo in this canyon--maybe one I hadn't noticed because talking to other human beings down here has never been my primary reason for coming?

He seemed nice enough, though.
But I could sense those recent blog ideas, momentous as they were, slipping right out of my brain, and irretrievably absorbed by sand and surf.

"Well, I'm on my way out," I said.  "Hope you don't need my rope 'cause I'm out of here."

I waited a two seconds for his response.
See?  I can be quite charming when I want to be.  At about four seconds, he answered. 

"Hey, well, no. Not a problem, man."
"Good.  It's a little slippery, I know, but it can be done.  Well, take care!"
 
My rope and I departed like smoke in the wind.

Crossing a field to my car, I saw a late model, red Toyota pickup.  License plate "7X..." something or other.

Damn!
Now I had to drive back in the morning just to make sure his truck wasn't still there.

But again, that's just me--always looking out for the other guy.