Baz, in memoriam

I knew Baz (Barry Jones) for maybe four years. I was living in Redondo Beach (1.5 blocks from the beach, 8 miles from LA). I would walk almost every day, waiting for the low tide when the walking was best, up and down the coast, from my street (Avenue G) to RAT Beach (about 2 miles away straight up the coast) where there was a cliff, adequate distance from the throngs, and conceptual proximity to the thongs.

As with all more or less regular walks, I would encounter other more or less frequent walkers. As time went by, there would be nods of recognition. And as more time went by, waves, which were followed in due time by hellos, good-to-see-yous, followed shortly by actual conversations, eventually leading to genuine, fair-weather friendships (we'd only see each other when the weather and our health were long-walk-worthy).

One of these genuine friendships was with a one-eyed Englishman named Baz. A remarkably erudite character who seemed to take a perverse pleasure in forecasting dooms - like the death of American values, the swine flu, and related violent upheavals.

Eventually, I took him to my house, introduced him to my family, because, despite his apparent doomtropic behavior, he was wonderful to talk with, sensitive, caring, passionate, loving, and deeply appreciative of life on the beach. One time, as we were wandering around my near-beach estate, I took him into my office, which, at the time, was a room adjacent to the garage. He oohed and sighed, and mentioned, very quietly, how happily one could live there if one had such fortune.

A couple weeks later we found each other once again at RAT beach. And we were sitting, looking at the ocean, the skies, the birds, the seaweed, delighting, with a thong in our heart, in all that was so deeply beachy in our shared lives. And our conversation came around to that room again, and how little he was enjoying his current living situation, and, well, a couple weeks later, Baz moved in.

Rocky and I had about three years with him. He was a recluse of sorts, and we respected his need for privacy, but, as the months went by, we shared more and more. Sometimes, when he was in one of his doomish contemplations, he would scream and curse at the universe - but never at us. Other times, we would hug and laugh and talk about the BBC and Netflix treasures that I'd share with him.

About two years ago, however, it became clear to us that it was time for us to move. We missed our grandkids. We could barely afford to maintain the house. It was time. Which meant it was time for Baz to leave us, as well. It was a hard thing. For all of us. We had become friends. We had shared deeply. He was such an unusual man. So gifted. So giving.

Baz finally found a place to live in Joshua Tree. His main criterion was a place with high bandwidth. It turned out to be an ideal move for him - the solitude, the deep beauty of the desert, and, for the first time in many years, access to medical services. It had been very difficult for him to find adequate care in Redondo Beach. Relying on medicaid, he found very few doctors who would accept him, and they were all far away. For some reason, there were many more doctors who accepted medicaid patients in Joshua Tree.

Unfortunately, help came too late. He died of cancer sometime near the end of September. Because of all the changes in my life, I only learned of his passing a few days ago.

I wanted to tell you about him because I thought you should know about the fun we had together - me and this strange person I found on the beach. Because the fun we had, proved, ultimately, deep enough to create a trust, a love that transcended differences. Because we had so much fun that the loss of it will remain with me the rest of my life. Because fun does that.


from Bernie DeKoven, funsmith