Kidnapped. Beaten…and beyond. © 2010 Dakini Verona Beaches and Bikers.

Kidnapped. Beaten…and beyond. © 2010 Dakini Verona

Beaches and Bikers.

The fateful beach party or the first time I was beaten and brutalized.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to see those words on this blank screen? My heart aches. My pulse quickens. My eyes tear uncontrollably. Not a memory I want to keep. Oh, no. not a memory I want to necessarily relive either. But there again is the paradox. I must purge them all. Those demons inside. Once they are out, once they are released I can put it all into perspective. I will be able to stand back and see how the years have un-warped the skewed sense of time. During trauma our minds have a funny way of distorting time. If you have ever been in an accident, you may know what I am referring to. Yes, your life does flash before your eyes in a mere few seconds. Just imagine that you are in that accident, but instead of it lasting 30 seconds, it lasts 30 minutes. Now, imagine it lasting 3 hours. As a victim of violence those 3 hours seem like more than 3 lifetimes.

Our minds have some safety mechanisms. It shuts off when the pain is too great to bear. Just like you hear those stories when people have lost a limb. The sensors turn off and all you feel is numb. Well, it is similar to that when you are brutalized. Your sensors turn off and your body becomes numb. Sometimes your consciousness even leaves your body. Sometimes you just pass out. This was one of those times, thankfully.

I was 14 years old and still living at home with my mom and dad. We were at our winter home, in Nokomis, Florida. I was still naïve, but had lost my innocence first at 7 and again at 13. Sad that this is the story that so many survivors can tell. One incidence leads to another and another and another, ad nauseam. If only I was able to see where that path was leading… if only I could have known that self destruction rarely works in the long run. But I had to numb my pain. Had to find a way to connect to someone. And was hoping that there would be no more pain. Little did I know how this would end.

Being a cute and bright teenager, I had a lot of invitations to parties. I didn’t get along with many of the other girls in town, but the boys were always friendly. I now understand how it must have been purely hormones that influenced the boys and it was instinctual territorial behavior that kept those girls from becoming friends with me. So when I was invited to a beach party by a few of the local cuties (boys) I jumped at the chance to hang out, get a lot of attention and most likely drink myself to oblivion.

I can’t remember what I told my parents, but I am sure it was a well fabricated lie. They probably did not want to deal with me, so they just convinced themselves to buy into my story. I was not easy to deal with, I am sure. I got a ride out to the open beach area south of the public beaches. It was deserted, the perfect beach for a wild party.

We pulled up and I saw the bonfire going strong. It was a December night and the night air had a bit of a chill, which was rather unusual for this part of Florida. Maybe it was my senses giving me a warning to turn back. Regardless, I did not heed the sign. There were lots of really cute looking boys and I wanted the attention from someone special. He had long blond hair which hung down to almost to his waist. His skin was bronze and fit well over his defined swimmer’s body. He must have been about 21 years old. I didn’t care, I wanted to have him pay attention to me. I was surprisingly shy, until I had indulged in some liquid courage. Thunderbird, I think it was, or maybe Boone’s Farm. Whichever it was, it was one of those disgustingly sweet, cheap drinks that bums and teens drink. The kind that tasted really rancid coming back up.

I managed to avoid any problems at the party, in spite of the fact that a bike gang rode up and joined us as the fire was dying down. They were rough and wild and a bit too “touchy”, but they were reasonably harmless compared to what happened next.

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I remembered how little the police had done the  first time I had reported this type of crime. They told me to shut up, live my life and never talk about it again. But this time, I knew that creep would pay. I did shut up, lived my life and never talked about it again.

Auburn Trail Part I © 2010

Auburn Trail Part I © 2010

Somewhere in my travels, I came across a tale of the hiking trails which were reported run along the rim of the mountain range from Mexico all the way north, to Canada and beyond. I don’t quite remember the official name of the trail, nor even if there was one, but I will call it The Auburn Trail, because I was able to access the trail from Auburn. Auburn was a sleepy town nestled in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range outside of Sacramento, California. Being the thrill seeker that I was, naturally, I was drawn to this new potential new adventure.

I had mentioned to my parents during my trip home for their anniversary that I was thinking of buying a horse and riding across the entire country. As you can imagine, their response was less than favorable or supportive. I am sure they thought it was just one more pipe dream. I even broached them with the concept of loaning me $100 to do so. Now, granted, I had no idea where I would buy a horse for $100 or how I would manage to feed the horse or even take care of myself on this trip. But you see, such is the beauty of naivety. You have all these great ideas, but no worries about the consequences of acting on them. Well, back to my story about The Auburn Trail.

As I try to remember the series of events leading up to this monumental adventure I find myself struggling to fit all the pieces together. The details are really vague… as I sit here, almost 40 years later. However, I will try to recall what I can. To be honest, I am not sure I could have recanted the story in its full details even as they unfolded. Such is the curse of living a life where you spend most of your time dazed and confused, if you get what I mean.

Anyway, I decided to hitchhike to get as close as I could to the trail and determined that Sacramento was my destination. According to the maps, it was the gateway to Auburn. My experiences on the road had taught me that it was always best to start with the larger city to seek information. Small towns just were not that friendly. After all, I wasn’t in Woodstock anymore.

The journey was not uneventful, as you may have already guessed, or it would not be noteworthy. It started with my on the sidewalk in Berkeley with my pack and bedroll at my feet and my thumb raised high to oncoming traffic. I was always lucky to have a great sense of direction, so I knew which way led out of town. I never had to wait long when hitch hiking, I guess it was because I was, as my dad used to say “easy on the eyes”.

A rather non-descript sedan that looked like it belonged in the suburbs, pulled over to the curb. It was not the typical ride I had grown accustomed to, not a hippie-mobile.  It was getting late and in spite of my apprehension, I left my post on the familiar sidewalk of Telegraph Avenue to approach the driver. The middle aged businessman looked like all the others that were driving home after a boring day in the office. My instincts warned me to wait for a ride that had a better vibe, but he assured me he was safe. Famous last words.

I got in the car, and kept my knap-sack and bedroll close at my feet, should the need of a quick escape be necessary. I sure am glad my instincts also told me to reach down and feel the comfort of the hilt of my hunting knife which was wedged between the top of my right knee high leather riding boot and jean leg.

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