Nice in life, Freddie deserved better end

ROBERT GARDNER

* EDITOR’S NOTE: The Daily Pilot has agreed to republish The Verdict,

the ever popular column written for many years by retired Corona Del

Mar jurist and historian Robert Gardner, in exchange for donations o

the Surfrider Foundation.

Freddie Eastmen was a nice guy. He didn’t deserve to die the way

he did.

Freddie was part of the 1930’s group of Balboa regulars -- about

20 to 30 young men, usually of college age, who lived on or near Main

Street during summer vacation. We were the summer help at the dance

hall, at the gambling joints, the restaurants, the bars, the bath

house, plus, of course, the lifeguards. We got together and rented

houses or lived in the so-called apartments, spell that rooms, on or

near Main Street.

Swing music, the Rendezvous and the musicians from the various

bands were an important part of our lives. During that period, the

Rendezvous had great bands -- Phil Harris, Everett Hoagland, Brick

English, Claude Thornhill, Gill Evans, Bob Crosby and Stan Kenton.

Many of their sidemen went on to play with the big-name bands of the

era -- Goodman, Miller and the Dorseys.

We regulars knew all the musicians. We went to their jam sessions,

listened to records with them and learned of the great music and the

great musicians of the era. We partied with them and drank with them.

They and their music were an important part of our lives.

Freddie Eastman showed up during that period. Freddie was very

quiet, very reserved, a thoroughly decent, nice guy. Everyone liked

Freddie, especially the musicians. Freddie was a true jazz

aficionado. He really knew and appreciated music. It seems to me that

I can remember Freddie at every party and every jam session, just

sitting there and listening.

Came World War II and the end of the Swing Era. Freddie seemed to

lose interest in music. Like some of the rest of us he couldn’t make

the transition to so-called modern or cool jazz. So, Freddie bought a

small boat and became a commercial fisherman.

Then one day, during the albacore season, they found Freddie’s

boat dead in the water, fuel exhausted, lines dangling. But no

Freddie.

A commercial albacore fisherman trolled with about eight hand

lines, four directly off the stern, two on each side, extended away

from the hull by outriggers. When a commercial fisherman hits a

school of albacore he becomes very busy tending those lines. He puts

his boat on a circular course and hauls in the fish as fast as he

can. The best guess is that Freddie fell overboard while tending his

lines -- and the boat sailed on without him.

To me, Freddie Eastman’s death was a particularly unpleasant one.

I must admit that I can’t think of a whole hell of a lot of ways to

die that are particularly fun-filled experiences, but Freddie’s death

has always bothered me.

The thought of anyone drowning in the open ocean has always

bothered me. I don’t particularly want to drown in the surf, but I’ll

take it any time over the open ocean. How long did it take for

Freddie to drown? How long did he tread water? How long did it take

for the cold and exhaustion to take over? Did he choke and gag while

trying to stay afloat at the end?

Drowning in the open sea with your boat sailing on without you

must be one of the most lonesome experiences known. Just treading

water and getting more and more tired and more and more cold.

As I said in the beginning, Freddie was a nice guy. We all have to

die sometime and somehow, but Freddie Eastman didn’t deserve to die

the way he did.

* ROBERT GARDNER, a Corona del Mar resident, is a retired judge

and a longtime observer of life in Newport Beach.