Island in the Gulf

Island in the Gulf was the brain child of Jack Benjamin who worked in Aramco's Public Relations Department. His son Mike and his close friends: Jeff Jones, Jim Mandis and myself were fanatic skin divers, so Jack figured that it would be a great idea for Aramco to produce a movie about some teenage boys who travel to Juraid Island in the company of two scientists to explore the island's flora and fauna. The late Charlie Armstrong, an avid amateur naturalist, and Stephen Bates joined us as the American youths while Jim Mandaville and Dr. Alio were drafted for their scientific credentials. The Academy Award winning director Richard Lyford and the accomplished Palestinian cinematographer Jack Madvo did most of the filming with the assistance of the film editor Ibrahim Yousef. 
      We camped on Juraid for three nights, spearfished all day, chased birds and had the exquisite experience of seeing giant sea turtles laying their eggs at night to mention just a few of the highlights. It was one of the best times of our lives. Unfortunately the film was re-edited with the inclusion of some clumsy voice overs that detract a bit from the show but don't diminish the splendor of visiting a pristine island in the gulf.
      This trip resulted in my first published article, "Of Turtles and Terns", which was printed in the May/June 1968 edition of Aramco World. I was delighted to be published but didn't know that they paid too. I was a sophomore in college when I received a check for $300 and nearly fell over. I used some of the money to buy a portable typewriter as there seemed to be a future in this writing business. 

Scott Miller's Invention

Ten year-olds in the mid-1950s,  we roamed Dhahran like feral animals on bicycles in search of even the slightest diversion, and so one day we landed at Scott Miller's house on Christmas Tree Circle to behold his new invention. A long piece of rope tied to the handle atop the metal lid of one of those Aramco issue garbage cans. The other end knotted firmly to the stem of his bicycle seat. As if he had discovered fire, he glowed like Prometheus with the satisfaction of his ingenuity as he demonstrated its brilliance.

Riding around the circle, he dragged the screeching lid and by maneuver was able to make it perform like a water skier who first swings widely to the right and then quickly to the opposite side of the arc. We jumped with delight as it first crashed into the tire of a parked car and then bounced back outwards from the rubber bumper. And again it came screaming back into the tire of the next car and rebounded wildly back. He did the whole circle, maybe half a dozen cars, and we howled in approval.
       Feeding on our joy, he redoubled his speed and circled again. Working one car after another, he sailed the galvanized disk to and fro. Each ricochet fueling the speed of the next to come. Wild-eyed with manic glee, he grinned at us over his shoulder. The thin, flying puck came skittering back towards the next target ... and wedged itself firmly behind the tire. The rope tightened and his bike came to an instant halt. He didn't. With the most wonderful expression of surprise and self-realized irony Scott Miller sailed over the handlebars and into mythology, as he hit the street face-first and bounced along the hot asphalt. Convulsed with laughter, we all died a thousand deaths, mirthful witnesses to a sublime miracle of humor, a gift from the goddess of Fun to her devoted followers.

Hidden Places

As kids growing up in Dhahran in the 50s we were naturally attracted to alleys and ratholes and hidden places totally devoid of adult supervision. One neat but prosaic place was inside the tepee-like hedge that anchored Christmas Tree circle. You could go through a small door at the bottom and hang around within, maybe smoking a stolen cigarette or just laughing at some inanity or another. However it was very popular and far from secret.

The first recreational place Aramco built was the tennis courts, probably in the late 30s. They put a fence around it to keep out the wind and it made a good place to show the outdoor movies. They planted a hedge around the fence and added water. The fence grew taller as did the hedge. By the mid-50s the fence and the hedge were maybe twenty five or thirty feet high. Prowling around one day looking for something to do, one of us noticed that there was a narrow space between the fence and the hedge. So with some difficulty we wiggled between and started climbing up. It wasn't exactly simple because in many places the hedge and the fence were completely entangled together. Also the hedge was filthy with years of accumulated dirt and malathion and we eventually were dusted from hedge to toe with the stuff. But it was all worth it when we got to the top.

We crawled through the hedge to the outer side and thirty feet off the ground we perched in the tangle of branches like some kind of strange birds nesting. We could see everything from the school, later the pool hall, to the swimming pool, the patio, the bowling alley, over to the theater. Way up in the air we watched people come and go, the gardeners working over by the pool, the bachelors and bachelorettes flirting with each other en route to the Fiesta Room, mothers hurrying their children to the pool. Cars driving down King's Road.

We could see them but because they had not the slightest inclination to look up, they couldn't see us. Like mocking birds, we mocked and laughed high above the world as we knew it.

Rite of Passage

     In the Dhahran of the 50s there were many rites of passage. The involuntary type like when you are perfectly content riding your bicycle down the street and a fly shoots into your open mouth and down your throat. You crash your bike to the asphalt, coughing and choking, certain that you are about to die. There are the voluntary kind such as the first time you jump off the end of the salt water injection pier at Abqaiq beach or when you slip out of camp at night, head for the jebal and climb to the top of the radio tower. Spread out below you is all of Dhahran, bathed in the flickering glow of the flares at the Stabilizer, the night sky littered with stars like so many rhinestones strewn on black velvet. What a view.
     Billy James lived across the street from me. He was four years older and a ninth grader but sometimes he'd let me hang around. One day he told me there was a labyrinth of tunnels that stretched endlessly beneath the movie theater. They were dark and pitiless, teeming with fanged albino rats, venomous snakes and tarantulas as big as your fist. You had to be careful as one wrong turn and you'd be lost, doomed to die of hunger beneath the movies. How could I resist.

Playing Cards

In fifth grade there was a kid I'll call Cecil. He was big as an eighth grader, but not the shiniest spoon on the table - a clumsy, good natured guy with a great goofy smile. One night while his parents were at a party he decided to poke around in his dad's top drawer. After a bit of browsing around Bingo! He found a deck of nudie playing cards. After going through them carefully he figured that he could pocket a few and his dad would never notice. Not sharp thinking because when his dad found the queen of hearts, the black deuce and the jack of diamonds gone Cecil's days would be numbered. But that was for another time.

The next morning Cecil showed up at school and he was the most popular guy around.  (Teachers are always talking about boosting the self esteem of their students but I presume this is not an approved method.) Mind you this was the 50s so there were no sultry, come hither super models, just semi-unclad middle-aged women with uni-brows in open kimonos or artfully draped bathrobes. They all looked like they had peptic ulcers or at least extreme indigestion. Didn't matter to us, we all thought this was just terrific.