The Legend of the Morro Four by Ken Goldstein

"To absent friends!" was the toast. Never mind that we were all underage, and drinking in public, and - as we were soon to find out - trespassing. The bottles of Michelob clinked, and we all drank.

"To absent friends!" was repeated by all: Dave, John, Bill, and I. The Morro Four.

It was probably 1981, and I'd known Bill and Dave since I moved from Boston to Los Angeles at the start of eighth grade, in 1974, and John since 1975. After seven years that included high school, some college, and at least one in the Army, there were many absent friends who had passed through our little group. But that day we were most likely thinking of one in particular; Tom, who had recently earned himself an extended visit at a high security psychiatric facility.

From the time we met, John and Tom were the film makers, Bill was the artist, and Dave and I were the rock stars. Before long, I had also joined the student film maker crowd and, with Tom and John, made dozens of short super-8 movies.

There were others around, too. Jim (the photographer), Stuart (another guitarist), and of course Shelly, our leading lady (every film starred Shelly as "the Terrific Looking Girl"). In some other story they might be featured, but in the legend of the Morro Four, they're merely bit players.

Dave's family had moved to a town just outside of San Luis Obispo during high school. Bill went up to SLO two years later, to attend Cal Poly. John had hit the road as a travelling salesman, and returned to join the Army. Tom was locked up for the benefit of himself, and society. And I was still hanging out in LA, working in a record store, and spending every cent on music and movies.

Still, the miles, the years, and the changing circumstances of our lives, did not dim our friendship. These were the guys I considered to be my brothers, every bit as much as my blood brothers. As different as our lives became, we supported each other through whatever the other's were going through - even crazy Tom.

In fact, it was a pilgrimage to visit Tom in the hospital that brought the four of us together in Morro Bay that day in 1981.

Morro Bay is a rather small harbor in the center of the California coast, known mostly for Morro Rock. The Rock takes up a large portion of the Bay, being a small island just a few dozen feet off shore, and connected to the beach by a small strip of land. A path winds around most of the Rock. On the path is a sign that, to my memory, says something like, "No hiking beyond this path."

To us, the meaning of the sign was that we were not allowed to go beyond the end of the path, to the far side of the Rock, as it were, out of site of the beach. We were wrong.

We spotted a nice clearing to have a seat and rest about twelve feet above the path, facing the shore. "To absent friends!" we had toasted. We were sitting, talking, catching up, and enjoying the Rock, when the Rangers approached.

There were, at the time, only two Peregrine Falcons left in the region, and, apparently, they'd chosen the top of Morro Rock for their honeymoon. Our presence, beyond the path, was disturbing their mating rituals, and hence, endangering the species. We were to be cited. We explained the ambiguity of the sign, and our lack of intention to either trespass or endanger any species. Our IDs were demanded. I handed the Ranger my Greenpeace membership card along with my driver's license.

He actually let us off easy, only writing us up for the official charge of trespassing, with the note about endangering the future of the Peregrine Falcon. He chose not to cause us real trouble by writing us up for being barely 20 and drinking in public. We were free on our own recognizance, but we'd have to return for the trial of the Morro Four.

The trial was more like a cattle-call. The judges were dispensing justice like auctioneers on speed balls. Hundreds of us ne'er-do-wells milling around, while the courts ran through the cases like they were being paid on commission. We sat and waited and listened. Illegal weapons possession was a popular charge. Guys with arsenals bigger than the National Guard. The judge would fine them $25 and send them on their way.

We were quite heartened. Only $25 for starting a private army? We were sure to get off with a warning, once we explained about the sign, and how we took "beyond" literally, and that "above" would have made a more accurate sign.

Our time came, and the charges were read. Somehow, our twelve feet above the path had been turned into 350 feet. 350 feet up a Rock that's probably only 200 feet high. They didn't much care for long haired hippie kids in San Luis Obispo County at the beginning of the Reagan era. Good old boys with enough firepower to single-handedly bring down Brezhnev (remember him?) were still the vogue there. Our fines were $125 each.

The story became a part of the legend of our friendship. When we'd get together, whether for weddings, vacations, or business trips, we'd do our ritual toasts. "To absent friends," and "Death to the Peregrine Falcons!"

Having the same best friends for 25 years is unfortunately rare for folks in my generation. Most toss off their high school friends when they go to college, only to abandon that crowd when they enter the workforce, then trade in the singles scene for a new set of couples when they get married. There've been periods when one or another of us has dropped out of touch for a time - sometimes short, other times for years - but Dave, Bill, John, and I are still very much friends, and I still love them all as brothers.

Cutting Tom loose from the group was one of the hardest things I've ever done. Through his worst troubles we'd all stuck by him, hoping he'd be able to return to the fold. Once out, he started on a good footing, with a decent job, and marrying a nice girl. But more and more he'd return to the behavior that the rest of left behind at the gates to our high school. His pathological need to lie about anything and everything overwhelmed our ability to put up with it or to simply be with him.

The last time I heard from Tom was about five years ago. He was living in New Hampshire, and said he was running a successful local business. He told me how he had been written up in a regional business magazine. I played along, hoping it was true. "That's great," I told him, "I'd love to see the article, can you send me a copy?"

He took down my address and promised to send out the copy right away. Of course, it never came. He didn't realize that if he'd just told the truth about whatever he was doing, he might still be part of the gang. Meanwhile, the Peregrine Falcon made a stunning and complete comeback, and has been removed from the endangered species list.

The last time the Morro Four were all together was in Reno in 1992. We had a great three day weekend of gambling, drinking, horseback riding, and just talking. I'm currently in touch with each of them, and exchange at least an email, if not a phone call, on a regular basis. They will each receive this memoir with a challenge to write their own version of the Morro Four story.

These days, Bill's a working graphic artist, you've probably seen a CD cover, a movie poster, or a bag of peanuts he's designed. Dave, after a career as a TV news photographer, is an animation art dealer. John, following many years as a political activist and organizer, is devoting himself full-time to his writing. After working in TV and video production for a few years, I returned to school, changed direction, and have a career in non-profit management. I fill my creative needs on the web, writing a few stories for fun and not much profit.

Next year will be both the 20th anniversary of the arrest of the Morro Four and each of our 40th birthdays. Whether or not the Morro Four manage to get together, wherever I am, I will be raising a glass, "To absent friends!"

Spring of 2000