BYRON DE ARAKAL -- Between the Lines

A week ago Tuesday -- some hours after I had tacked the last words to

a column lamenting the blurring of two sentries of tradition in our twin

cities -- the thinning ranks of the Costa Mesa-Newport Harbor Lions Club

gathered at the bedside of the critically ill 58th annual Fish Fry.

As the event clung to life -- ravaged by indifference and weakened by

the cancer of a particularly asinine quirk of bureaucracy -- some in the

room argued for extraordinary means to pull the event from death’s door.

Others believed it too late. Then the decision came: Pull the plug.

Moments later, the Fish Fry died. And with it an irreplaceable slice of

Costa Mesa’s soul.

Now, I’m a realist to the extent I have to be to rationalize the

absurdities of this crazy planet. And so it is noted that not all

traditions survive. Some aren’t worth saving. But this one was.

The Costa Mesa Fish Fry had been bringing the denizens of our twin

cities together for 57 years. Indeed, the Fish Fry had already completed

10 circuits around the sun before Costa Mesa was officially incorporated

in 1953. It served to remind us -- more so in recent years -- of our

working-class roots and our common affinity for home and simplicity,

neighbors and friends. The Fish Fry was our one chance -- even without

the parade -- to escape the hot but mundane pace of the rat wheel. To

reconnect with family and old friends. To wrap ourselves in the

small-town intimacy that lured the founding generations to this coastal

mesa. In this age of apathy, indifference and the fleeting, we could use

some more of that.

But it seems we’ll have to find it somewhere else now. It is starkly

ironic I think -- and not surprising, sadly -- that some of the very

things the Fish Fry gave us sanctuary from contributed to its demise. I’m

talking here about rigid, tangled bureaucracies with no sense of

community, for one. Take Orange Coast College’s role in all of this.

OCC -- an otherwise fine institution of education -- put the screws to

the Costa Mesa-Newport Harbor Lions Club for a civil claim filed by

Irvine resident Arlene Wolff. The 53-year-old Wolff allegedly stumbled

over a curb at the college in June after visiting the Fish Fry and broke

her ankle. It’s an incident for which she’s seeking $80,000. Now the

college is requesting that the Lions Club give Wolff her money. The Lions

Club’s insurance provider -- Lions Club International -- is refusing,

claiming the policy it writes for the Fish Fry does not indemnify OCC

against liability for injuries allegedly caused by college property. The

college thinks it should and won’t allow the Fish Fry this year unless it

does. Tortured? You bet.

Nonetheless, while these two faceless monoliths square off over

$80,000 and some tortured liability concept that only a propeller head

can grasp, a truly meaningful tradition in our city’s heritage has passed

away.

But more than the ire and frustration of losing the Fish Fry beneath

an avalanche of legal manure is the utter sense of indifference that

seemed to prevail in some quarters of our city as the event lay drawing

its last breath.

I thought of the immense amount of energy and headlines consumed by

some in Costa Mesa to save the Huscroft House -- a structure whose

indigenous ties to Costa Mesa are in doubt, and which is more or less at

this point a termite-riddled collection of firewood. Yet many of these

very folks -- the ones urging that we pour perhaps half a million dollars

into the Huscroft House for the sake of preserving Costa Mesa’s history

-- barely uttered a plea or lifted a telephone when it came to saving the

Fish Fry. And in my book, the Fish Fry carries greater historical weight

than the Huscroft House.

This is not to say some people didn’t give it the old college try.

Lions Club President-elect Mike Scheafer -- “heartbroken,” he told me,

over the Fish Fry’s passing -- feverishly administered CPR to this year’s

event, seeking alternative sites. He was greatly aided by Costa Mesa

Councilman Gary Monahan, Costa Mesa City Manager Allan Roeder and the

Daily Pilot’s Jim de Boom. Still, too little too late.

As resurrections go, Scheafer promises a vigorous attempt to breathe

the Fish Fry back to life next year. But I can’t help thinking that death

is nearly always permanent.

Unless, of course, we call it the Catfish Fry. I mean cats do have

nine lives, right?

* BYRON DE ARAKAL is a writer and communications consultant. He lives

in Costa Mesa. His column runs Wednesdays. Readers can reach him with

news tips and comments by e-mail at [email protected].