THE NOBLE DREAM OF DEDI GUN



He dreams. He walks the battered concrete promenade that lines the shoreline of his village and he dreams of what Lakey Peak could be. There is so much evidence around him of what could be done and so much evidence of what little has been done. Even in the steady wake of the surf tourist money that has been left on these shores for over 50 years. Still, he walks and he dreams, his feet hushed in the sand that dusts the walkway. There are some mosaic’s embedded in the cement about every 25 meters, they were quite pretty when new, but now lie etched and dirty, one smeared with a big wad of dried bubble gum, another scrawled with lewd graffiti. The sidewalk art, the promenade itself, another unfinished, uncommitted bone thrown by scarcely interested community interests. A weak, if uneccessary shot at beautifying his village for the surf tourists. Just like the big, cement public toilet block that was plopped down right on the edge of the beach, blocking the view of the surf no less.

No one ever trusted it and it only took days for the high tides to undermine it. Now the massive structure leans crazily toward the sea, a hazard that the kids dare each other to play on in hopes it might fall. Dedi tries not to look at it. He has reached the south end of the promenade at Fatmah’s Cafe. He about turns and walks back the other way, his hands clasped behind his back. The promenade will peter out into some bushes a few hundred meters ahead. It doesn’t seem to go anywhere. But everything here should. What with the most perfect wave in the world right out in front of it all. Dedi walks, brow knit and he dreams of making Lakey Peak village better, much better for everyone. He dreams of helping the little kids, giving them a leg up in the modern world. A better chance at things. The skaters and the little stoked surfers, building them a clubhouse that would serve as a type of daycare, a boot-camp of good intentions. Schooling, fitness, diet, lots of responsibilities, a garden that the kids could tend and where they could learn about nature, about life, about what’s important and how it happens.



Then to proudly sell the the fruit and vegetables it would bear, the money going to their future. No more begging off the tourists. Life lessons would abound. All coming together for one goal. Dedi dreams of scholarships and grants and of a big non-profit here in his village. He dreams of invigorating the Lakey Peak Boardriders as a local enviro-political force for good. He dreams of bringing the mixed community together, locals and visitors alike, for weekly barbecue’s of locally grown and caught nutritious food, with everyone contributing. Show the young people that a village is one big family, should be a family, could be a family! Instead of what the village is now. Seemingly unconcerned with such matters. Dedi walks and thinks about one kid he knows that dreams of being a pilot, another that wants to be a doctor. How are they gonna get there! There has got to be a way! He stops in his tracks, unclenches his teeth, shakes out his fists. He looks out at the surf. Another perfect set of waves are rolling through.

There she still is, the wave. Right out beyond the crumbling scaffoldings. Lakey Peak, the sure thing. The waves that brought him here as a child. He sits down and watches a set roll all the way through, watches as the kids surf their birthright. He grabs a small stick and jabs at the dirt, drawing circles, squares, diamonds, thinking. What a perfect place this could be. Am I the only one that sees it? He throws the stick and stands and turns away from the surf and keeps walking. He knows the kind of machine it would take to change the culture of his village. He sees it. The office, the paid staff, the computer guy, the social media lady, the fundraiser guy, the government rep, the teachers, the parents association, the boardriders club, the university people, the military school people and all the damned money in the kingdom going to the right place. To the future of Lakey Peak and its young. Dedi sees what it would take. What it would really take. And it weighs so much. But still he dreams and he plans. How to get there? He knows he cannot do it alone.

He’s no fundraiser. He’s no webmaster. He’s no salesman. He’s a Captain. A mentor. A frontman. He knows the army of help and the world of concern it would take. And that starting small would fail. A small opening effort would just fade into nothing like the walkway beneath his feet. What it would take would be a shock and awe program to breathe life into the lungs of his hopes. And that kid deserves to be a pilot! This stops Dedi. He has reached the end of the promenade. He has dreamed these dreams planned his plans forever. He looks back at the line-up. A lull. A group of little black haired dots afloat on a perfect sea of perfect waves. A little group of what could be perfect futures. Should be perfect futures! But how to get there? Dedi looks to the sky and just knows he will find a way. That he must find a way. It is his mission, his vision quest. His very purpose here. This home! My home! Their home! Our home! Dedi turns and begins walking in back toward Fatmah’s. And he dreams and he plans, knowing that this time, this time, he will find a way.

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