Farewell, Moondoggie

Kathleen Clary Miller

When I read that Larry Capune had died, I was grateful for all the

newspaper tributes to the epic paddleboarder, but more must be said.

There was a great deal mentioned about Larry’s achievements and

activities both paddling and at Dover Shores, but little mention of

his days on Balboa Island. Oh, those days on Balboa Island.

We were one of those families who, from birth until our middle

20s, escaped the sweltering heat and smog of Pasadena and rented a

house on the South Bay Front for the month of August -- every year,

like clockwork. We looked forward to it more than we did Christmas,

and part of that anticipation during our teenage years -- from the

mid-’60s through the early ‘70s -- was due to the island’s very own

cast of characters. We finally were to see them again, after all

those colorless city months.

There was Chris Weir, “Bird Furfel” riding high atop his left

T-shirted shoulder; Joseph Cleary on his bicycle (who, when we asked

if we could take his picture, answered, “ego and a half, I’d love

to!”); Larry Broering, talking deep philosophy all day on the beach;

his sister “Ouigy,” the only human out earlier than I was to reserve

a spot on the sand; Bill Otsen, the good looking hunk who worked at

The Gazebo ice cream parlor; Marty Capune, our very own Hollywood

rock-and-roller, who recounted endless tales of his days with ELO.;

and finally, his twin brother, the icon of the Island -- Larry.

Bronzed, so tan his teeth were whiter than bleached, nose in a

perpetual state of peeling, wearing the same red swimming trunks

until they faded to almost no color. He had the boyish surfer look of

a Brain Wilson or a young Robert Redford. His hair yellow-white from

the summer sun, he strode like an Olympian athlete, barefoot day or

night, down the bayfront sidewalk. Every young girl on the island was

in love.

Laguna Beach may have had its very own “greeter” in the form of

Eiler Larson, but Balboa Island had Larry Capune. There was never a

day when you didn’t see Larry. As I rode my bike around the island at

six in the morning, there he would be, either paddling just off the

South Bay Front, grabbing a cup of coffee and doughnut at Dad’s

Bakery, or eating pancakes at the Jolly Roger, shooting the breeze

with whomever would linger. The summer I was 16, we took bike rides

together, topped off by a glazed cinnamon roll. I really thought this

was his form of courtship and that surely he would fall in love with

me. Instead, he had an eye for my sister, teased her about how she

was the girl of his dreams, the one he would marry. But Marty had

called me his “golden girl” because of my blond hair and sun-drenched

skin color, so there was some small consolation in that.

Everyone named their own sacred place in the sun during those

years -- we saved the same spot every morning with towels, beach

chairs and umbrellas, the idea being to get as close to the sea wall

as possible, so that as we wasted away the day staring out at the

bay, radios blasting KRLA, KHJ or KFWB, we could simultaneously watch

the parade coming down the sidewalk toward Marine. Our very own movie

stars.

All of us Gidgets had an incurable crush on Larry Capune. If we

walked up to the ferry, we automatically passed him lifeguarding at

Beek’s Pier; he was a fixture in our minds during the entire

suffering school year back in Pasadena. In between math assignments,

we would look at the picture I still have of him as he sits on the

top of the back of a park bench at the end of Amethyst Avenue, his

bare feet on the seat, wearing his body cast from the dive he took

from Beek’s pier in too-shallow water. He had broken his collar bone

and shattered his ribs; I had the unparalleled honor of painting his

cast for him. There he perches as he often did, with my cousins, my

sister and me on the bench beside him, looking out at the bay, our

bleached hair blowing in the evening breeze. “LTD” in bright red

paint, large letters across the back of the cast, indicated that, for

the first and only time in his life, his physical capabilities were

limited.

There he would be on that dock, day after day throughout each

summer, holding court with his female entourage, his smile larger

than life, laughing eyes reflecting the bay. Larry admired all his

decade-younger girls, yes, but he was never “creepy.” Just the

classic lifeguard, he was a friend there to protect and save, happy

to have the attention from the admiring young crowd that would flock

to his beach, but aware of his influence and always proper.

Certainly, he was famous among the locals for his paddleboarding

feats, but he was also every Balboa Island girl’s real live

Moondoggie.

There were often as many as 15 of us family -- cousins, aunts,

uncles -- who station-wagoned south to Balboa for the month, and

occasionally we would invite Larry to dinner. The proverbial

“starving lifeguard” -- left to his own devices he often subsisted on

canned corn -- was thrilled to eat my grandmother’s home cooking

(even on the night I mistakenly substituted hot fudge sauce for brown

gravy, both simmering on the stove). We often joked about how Larry

must have made his way to just about everyone’s house at one time or

another so he wouldn’t have to spend money for food, but ultimately

we wouldn’t have wanted a week to go by without him dropping over. He

was an island celebrity -- and at our house for dinner!

After we ate there in the evening, let’s not forget the “sandlot”

theater and the credit for where it all began -- on the South Bay

Front of Balboa Island during those heydays of the ‘60s. Bring your

own beach chair, and don’t wear shoes (we never did anyway, so that

was no problem) were the only regulations, and once or twice a month,

Larry and Marty would hook up the speakers and run the projector in a

vacant lot that no longer exists, right on the water with a view of

the Balboa Pavilion. Together we would all sit, late into the night,

watching old movies, eating popcorn. I never went to the larger

screenings on Dover Shores, but it couldn’t possibly have been the

same. Our intimate island gathering was one of those things I can

still hear, see, and smell as soon as I close my eyes.

As we matured into our college years, and later, when my sister

and I lived year- round on the island, my first real job being the

only female checker at what was then known as Hershey’s Market, Larry

slipped off his matinee idol pedestal and became our friend. It was

only then we learned about the tragic death of their mother when they

were 10, his desire to inspire young people, his struggle to be

rewarded for his physical prowess, athleticism and drive. Such

obstacles did he overcome, together with Marty, his loyal companion,

to be continually cheerful, forever young.

About three years ago, my sister and I were walking around the

island with my two teenage daughters, when approaching us on the

South Bay Front sidewalk was none other than the famous Larry Capune.

Having heard all our stories, my girls were, of course, anxious that

we say hello. It had been 10 or 15 years, probably, since our last

conversation, as we had all been busy other places, doing other

things -- grown-up things. So my sister and I decided to make him

guess who we were, wondering if we looked the same in his eyes,

curious as to whether or not he would even remember us. “Think about

who we are, and we’ll be back around in awhile,” we challenged him.

And we walked off as he muttered about us, looking so familiar, but

wanting a hint. “No way!” we told him. “You have to try to figure it

out yourself. Don’t worry, we’ll be back.”

When we had made a full circle around the island, we arrived back

to his spot on the sea wall, and he was frantic, desperate for a

clue. “Sorry,” we told him, “you’ll just have to wonder.” And as we

turned to head toward our parked car on Amethyst, he lifted his arm

high into the air, silhouetted against the lazy autumn sun across the

bay, and called out at the top of his lungs, “The Clary girls!” We

turned, laughing, and walked away, in a hurry to get to wherever we

thought we had to be that day. I wish now we had stepped back over to

the sidewalk and talked with him until dark. I didn’t know there

would ever be a Balboa Island without Larry.

I was especially saddened by the description of the illness that

brought about his passing. I guessed even before arriving at the

explanation that he must have contracted melanoma. There had never

been skin as tan as belonged to the Capune brothers; it became the

standard we set for bronzing every summer. Who of us had even heard

of sunscreen then? If we had, who would have used it? Oblivious to

the danger, we mercilessly slathered on either baby oil or cocoa

butter, day after glorious day, until our peeling even peeled, and

the inside of our eyelids felt like they contained sandpaper from so

much solar exposure. We never even wore sunglasses.

From now on, when I visit the dermatologist twice a year to have

surface cancers removed, I will think of Larry, and wish they could

have found the diseased cells sooner. He would want young people to

know that they should be careful, would probably even include that in

his lectures at local schools.

Those carefree days have vanished, and when I walk on Balboa

Island now with my sister, we first coat our faces with SPF 45, wear

hats and tennis shoes; our feet are no longer calloused to the

searing sidewalk. I suppose we have to admit we’re not young anymore.

But wait just a minute. Larry wouldn’t have. He wouldn’t want us

to do that. And since it is impossible for me to imagine him having

brain seizures, his body shrunken and riddled with cancer, I will

choose to hold up the photograph my aunt took of us all on the bench

by the sea wall at sunset. There’s Moondoggie, so alive it’s almost

hyper-life, and we are all barefoot, tan and laughing.

* EDITOR’S NOTE: Kathleen Miller lives in San Juan Capistrano and

recently completed her first novel, “The Man in My Mailbox.”