The Scribblers were uncomfortable this morning. We normally enjoy the “4th” in a vaguely Midwetern manner, and we had a good one. Flag banners were nailed up, a brand new 3 X 5 US Flag fluttered from the staff on the back deck of the Big House. The food was perfect, real country fixins’ from our garden and the Ukrainian’s more expansive plot next door. Grilling was outsourced to the capable hands of our neighbor, weather was perfect, conversation was light and topical and filled with bursts of laughter.

Later, Guests gone and some of the traditional mirth subdued, we got some of the other news. It was sufficient in prospective impact that it forced a call to our attorney Amanda to see what we would be permitted to talk about in The Daily and not waste our time or the remainder of the Belmont Farms fine product in the clear bottles. She had been partying with the Legal Section, which as you can imagine was pretty raucous given the other stuff going on. She was ready for us, and had an opinion drafted in short, concise language almost entirely in English. She was firm when she read it, standing tall. “You people are working on a new book. Try to harness events from thirty years ago that you have to do anyway, and find something that is mildly unusual, and help to remind folks that the news is just what fits whatever other narrative is popular at the moment. These are historic times, and some perspective on other historic times can be useful.”

She sat down on her usual rock, looking receptive for questions. Splash just handed her a short glass half-full. “I was looking at the manuscript and saw that part the Chairman wrote about that port visit in Spain. The Cold War had just ended a few weeks earlier, and we were doing something in Panama. It was just an account of a day in a Spanish port on a Med Cruise.”

Amanda gave him an inquisitorial look. “Which one? Valencia? So, are you suggesting approval to just go with that and not talk about the other stuff?”

“The other stuff is always going on, that is why it is useful to put in context. Listen to this stuff on a regular working day a while ago.” He began to read from his tablet in a light tone:

“Seasonal day in Spain. The main channel of the USS Forrestal’s internal communications system,
the “1MC,” crackled to life and I hear that the gangways (nautical term: ‘brows’)
have been secured. I assume this means something is going on down on the
pier and I race up to the flight deck to check it out. I look out
at the slate grey skies and I start to walk out but not so fast.

There has been an episode of rock throwing at the fantail and
MAA’s are getting everyone off the weather decks and out of
sight. I’d hate to miss a good demonstration, so I take a chance
and head up to the Flag Bridge. There is no one around except for
a Master Chief and he doesn’t throw me out so I have a grand view
of about 160 people shouting and waving fists and supporting five
or six large banners. Six or seven Spanish National Police
confront them from behind the thin rope barrier. The crowd seems
much bigger than it is because there are literally a couple
thousand people down on the pier out for their Sunday stroll.

Things get interesting after about ten minutes when a knot of
the protestors breaks down the rope and begin to march behind one
of the banners toward the after brow. The cops rush to stop them
and then more people surge across the line and then fists fly and
truncheons begin to flail and there is a pretty good brawl going
on. First chairs and then stanchions and stones are hurled and
the innocent people are fleeing and banners are being ripped
down.

After a few protestors are clubbed down they run away but reform
and the stuff is really flying and they are advancing and the
cops are going at the ringleaders and I have a ringside seat for
it. Maybe the high point came when a red-headed girl who had led
the initial advance tried to punch out one of the cops and was
clubbed down as were the two men who came to her assistance. The
girl was dragged by her red hair to a police car. Very colorful.

Someone set fire to a bundle of cardboard hat boxes (the ship
must have sold about a zillion First In Defense (FID) ballcaps to the crowd) and I
watched the media types hunker down behind the little bonfire to
try to shoot images of the Carrier silhouetted by the small shroud of flames.

A kid picked up one of the banners- I think it was one that
mentioned Panama (the Spanish had such a wonderful track record
in Latin America)- and threw it on the little fire. With the
exception of a couple more rocks and cops chasing isolated
rascals that was it. First riot I had seen since about 1970.
Interesting. Then the Sunday promenade resumed and the kids in strollers
pushed by Moms were back as though nothing had happened.

Once the cops have arrived in force there doesn’t appear to be
much chance of further action, so it’s back to work for a few
hours. ”

Splash put his tablet down on the rock next to him. Amanda was done with what had been in the short glass, and appeared ready to get back to Legal Party, which was still producing noise from their gathering place down by the bridge. “It makes as much sense as anything. And that was thirty years ago.” Amanda nodded, and then rose to walk back to where the noise came from.

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