We drove into the car park next to Santa Monica pier and found a vacant spot to park. The air was warm, the sea was bright, and we were full of expectation. This was the start of our mini holiday; three days in southern California. Actually, we planned to spend those days in Disneyland and our coastal visit was just the preamble. We had never been as a family to Disneyland, so as our teenage boys neared graduation my wife and I feared if the opportunity wasn’t seized now it would be lost for ever. So, we decided to kill two birds with one stone so to speak and escape the February cold in the company of Micky Mouse.
The trip down from our home in Central Oregon had been fairly uneventful. An early morning flight to Seattle where we changed planes to fly down to LAX. As we sat on the plane in SeaTac waiting for the last of the luggage to be loaded, I watched the ground crew outside working feverishly to excavate the hold of the neighbouring plane. A belt loader had been pushed up to the open hatch and was conveying bags down to the baggage handler below who on reception placed them on a trailer without much consideration of their contents. Along with the bags there were a number of boxes, and I could just make out the words “live cargo” stamped on a lid. What on earth could be inside? The retrieval operation was temporarily halted as another crew member beckoned for help at the front end of the plane. The belt stood motionless with a few bags left stranded in mid-air. At the bottom, two of the “live cargo” boxes were are also left, one of which was precariously perched on the edge of the belt, teetering like the bus at the end of the “Italian Job.” The box began to tilt more until it reached the point of no return and fell off the belt onto the ground where upon impact the lid was dislodged, the contents spilling out onto the tarmac. I could see now what was live; crabs! For a moment they stayed motionless, no doubt stunned by the fall. Perhaps the crab leader on recognising the opportunity of the see sawing box had told the others, “Hang on a minute lads, I’ve got a great idea” and had them all shift their weight to the airborne side and now here they were unexpectedly free. The ground crew were still focused on other matters, oblivious to the open box. Some of the crabs began to stir; claws opened, and legs stretched. Then they began to move. Slowly at first, testing this new surface, and finding it firm and smooth they took off in all directions without any authorisation from the control tower. Some made for shady spots; behind wheels and blocks, while others made off in the direction of the terminal. Others however didn’t seem to know what to do with their newfound freedom and hung around the box too timid to venture away. I watched on with amusement. How far could the crabs make it? When would their escape be detected?
Unloading conveyer
After a couple more minutes the task at the front of the plane was completed and the ground crew returned to resume the job of off-loading the last cargo. A young woman in a high vis jacket gave a shriek as she saw the broken box and its contents scuttling off in every which way. Two men came over to see what all the fuss was about and when they surveyed the scene broad grins broke over their faces. It was a funny sight. But then it dawned on them that they were the ones who would have to round up the escapees and return them to captivity, which would mean having to put their hands near the waving claws. But then another crew member who apparently had some experience with crabs demonstrated to them to how to pick one up and avoid the claws. And so they set about tracking down and capturing the fugitives and returning them to the confines of the box. This took quite a while as some of the crabs had travelled a fair distance, wedging themselves in corners, pincers at the ready to dissuade potential pursuers. Their holdout was of Alamo proportions, but finally the last crab was captured, the box was sealed up, and normal service could be resumed. There was jolt and our plane was pushed back.
After a morning of travelling we were all keen to get out, grabbing what we needed, I locked the car and we headed for the sea. We reached the beach, discarding our socks and shoes. The sand was cool and smooth. A number of people had accepted the sea’s sparkling invitation and were paddling knee deep, a few had gone further still, but when I allowed a wave to lap over my foot, I realised the temperature wasn’t nearly so appealing.
My mind flicked back to the crabs. If only they could have made it to our plane and stowed away. I pictured them now, edging sideways down the beach, their joy as they felt the first wave envelope them, they would have welcomed the touch of cold water, and as the wave receded, they would have gratefully gone with it back to their home. If only they could have made more of their opportunity to escape. If only they had someone to help them.
Santa Monica beach and pier
We walked on the beach for half an hour or so, and then ascended the pier which hosts a Ferris wheel a small roller coaster, and several stalls selling souvenirs and carnival food. At the end of the pier a group of hopeful anglers had their lines cast out deep into the water. We decided to eat lunch at a chain restaurant also located on the pier. We ate seafood, although not crab, however the food was indifferent and the bill exorbitant. I felt done, they had fully seized their opportunity, but I suppose such is the nature of holidays. On reaching the car I unlocked it with the fob and our eldest went to retrieve an item from his backpack. “I can’t find it, where did you put it?” I also went to get something from my work case, and it was not where I left it. Clearly bags were missing, not all of them but some and they hadn’t escaped by themselves! But how? The car was locked, wasn’t it?
A group was returning to the van parked next to us full of excited chatter and laughter oblivious to our situation, when upon opening its doors the tone changed to consternation as they discovered some of their bags had “escaped” too. As we shared our miss fortune, we learned they were also going to Disneyland, but their tickets were in one of the missing bags. But where had they gone, who had unloaded them?
About ten minutes later we hailed a passing police officer and relayed our fate to him, but he wasn’t very interested. “Happens all the time, you forgot to lock your car and the thieves seized their opportunity.” He advised us to file a police report at the station but admitted it wouldn’t do any good and drove away. After commiserating with one another we returned to our respective vehicles. One question which weighed on our minds was how did the thieves get in? We were all sure the cars were locked and there was no sign of physical damage. However they did it they made the most of their opportunity.
Tradition has it Santa Monica was named in the 1760’s by a Spanish expedition who on seeing the Kuruvungna Springs associated the flowing water with the tears of Saint Monica, the mother of Saint Augustine. Monica was a devout follower of Jesus, but her son wasn’t; Augustine had escaped into a life of laddishness and philosophies and by his own admission treated his mother badly. He locked her and God out of his life. But Monic continued to pray and plead for his conversion; she never gave up on the idea God could find her son and bring him back. At one-point Monica tried to enlist the help of a bishop to talk to Augustine and make him see sense. The bishop refused, telling her Augustine was nowhere near ready for that chat, but she should take heart because earlier in the bishop’s life he had been on the run from God but it had not stopped God from finding him and getting in. Augustine records the end of the conversation in his book “Confessions;”
When he said this and she refused to be satisfied, but began to beg him all the more, and with copious tears, that he would see me and have a discussion with me, he then became vexed and said impatiently: ‘Leave me now; as I hope for your salvation, it is impossible for the son of these tears to perish.’
And she often recalled in her conversations with me that she took this as a message from heaven.[i]
Augustine also records a time when he and his mates one evening on their way back from larking about on the streets saw a pear tree loaded with fruit.
There was a pear tree near our vineyard which was laden with fruit that was attractive neither in appearance nor in taste. In the dead of night—for we had prolonged our playing in the vacant lots, according to our usual unhealthy custom, until then—we crept up to it, a gang of youthful good-for-nothings, to shake it down and despoil it. We carried away huge loads, not as a treat for ourselves, but just to throw to the pigs. Of course, we did eat a few, but we did so only to be doing something which would be pleasant because forbidden.[ii]
Later on, Augustine considered his motivation;
For, what thief will suffer theft from another thief without protest? Not even he who has plenty when the other has stolen under the impulse of want. But I, I wanted to steal, and I did it compelled by no want, unless it be by my lack of justice and disgust thereat and my plenitude of iniquity. For, I stole what I already possessed in abundance and of much better quality. Nor did I desire to enjoy the thing itself which was the object of my inclination to steal, but the very act of stealing, the sin itself.29[iii]
I don’t know what motivated the thieves who stole our belongings and those of our neighbours. Was it out of necessity or was it out of greed? Was it just for the sheer excitement? I also don’t know what they got out of it. Some clothing and couple of back packs? Didn’t they have that already? Yes, they also took a few credit cards, but they were all quickly shut down.
Robert Waldmire tribute
Santa Monica is the end of the road; route 66. Attached to a building on the pier is a tribute to Robert Waldmire, an artist who spent twenty years drawing and illustrating the sights which caught his attention on the 2,448 mile route from Chicago to Los Angeles. The route is also known as the “mother road,” a term introduced by John Steinbeck in his novel “Grapes of Wrath” narrating the story of the Joads, a poverty stricken family escaping from the dust bowl of Oklahoma along with thousands of other migrants along the route hoping to find a new life in California picking fruit. Instead they were met with hostility and even worse conditions than they left behind.
The end of the road came for Augustine in 386 AD in a garden in Milan. He was not there stealing pears but was wrestling internally with his will and God’s will, and his desires, especially his sexual desires. God was breaking in despite his best efforts. As he wrestled he heard the voice of a child, “take it, read it! Take it, read it!” chanting over and over again. Augustine took a Bible and opened it;
13 Let us walk properly as in the daytime, not in orgies and drunkenness, not in sexual immorality and sensuality, not in quarrelling and jealousy. 14 But put on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make no provision for the flesh, to gratify its desires. Romans 13:13–14 (ESV)
For Augustine life changed at that moment, his attempted escape from God was over, his mother’s pleadings and tears were heard by God and acted upon in God’s way and timing. Now Monica wept tears of joy.
God is more than able to bring back the worst escapees, even though we might be scared to touch them, even though we might not even want God to bring them back because they have done us harm, God is more than capable of reaching them and us. We can lock all the doors we want; we can run away to far off fantasy worlds, but it won’t keep God out. However, God does not capture us to return us to imprisonment, no, he sets the captive free, He gives us freedom. He wants to return us to the environment for which we were created; to live in deep relationship with Him for eternity.
The window seat of a plane is not the only place we can look out onto life, in fact everywhere we go provides a view, if we choose to do look. What do we see? People living in captivity. Some are desperately trying to escape through the means of materialism, achievements, and pleasures, but will those things return us to where we belong? Others seem resigned to live within the constraints of the box they find them placed in. Maybe they tried to escape and failed, or perhaps they are just too overwhelmed. They have reached the end of the road. Who sheds a tear for them? Who notices them? Are my cheeks stained with tears as I plead their case to the one who can break through any barrier and make it impossible for these “daughters” and “sons” to reach the end of the road?
End Notes
[i] Augustine of Hippo, Confessions, ed. Roy Joseph Deferrari, trans. Vernon J. Bourke, vol. 21, The Fathers of the Church (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 1953), 71.
[ii] Augustine of Hippo, Confessions, ed. Roy Joseph Deferrari, trans. Vernon J. Bourke, vol. 21, The Fathers of the Church (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 1953), 40.
[iii] 29 Augustine is particularly struck with the fact that there is never a good, or adequate, reason for a morally evil act. The theft of the pears, which appears trivial to many readers, is simply a good example of this fact: the so-called motives for sin are always trivial; there can be no important reason for turning away from God and spurning Him for the sake of lesser goods. Cf. R. Jolivet, Le Prob lème du mal chez s. Augustin(Archives de Philosophie, Paris, 1930 7.2); for Augustine’s general theory of morality the best study is J. Mausbach, Die Ethik des hl. Augustinus (Freiburg i. B. 1929) 2 Bd Augustine of Hippo, Confessions, ed. Roy Joseph Deferrari, trans. Vernon J. Bourke, vol. 21, The Fathers of the Church (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 1953), 40.
