Scotland to Sunvale
Jack and Bowie ordered burgers and spent time getting to know each other. As Jack had guessed, Bowie was from Scotland, a small town called Dunnach on the eastern seaboard. He was just a few months older than Jack.
Bowie was the only child of Fraser and Alana Blackwood. Fraser was a world-class boxer at one time. He was a mountain of a man, loyal to family and friends, boisterous and arrogant but always coming to the defense of the underdog. From an early age, his size and athletic ability segued his entry into Highlands games competitions. He also never lost a schoolyard fight, which led to detention on more than one occasion. As chance would have it, his secondary-school principal had boxed while serving in the Royal Air Force and recognized pugilistic talent when he saw it. He introduced Fraser to a family friend who was a boxing coach and trainer.
In the boxing ring, Fraser was a brute. His devastating right hook earned him the moniker “Fraser the Fist.” In the heavyweight division, he quickly rose up through the ranks winning all fifteen of his professional fights via knockout and becoming a surefire contender for the title belt. Some of Bowie’s earliest memories were of his father teaching him to box. By the age of four, Bowie had a devastating right hook of his own!
In contrast, Alana was petite in stature and soft-spoken, but had a huge heart and unlimited capacity for kindness and compassion. She was also a gifted musician and singer. Music was a big part of Bowie’s upbringing and his mother taught him to play the guitar.
The Blackwood family life was seemingly perfect—but all that changed one night. Fraser was out with friends and had one too many McEwan’s ales. He and his posse stumbled out of the pub and decided to go for a swim in the frigid waters of the North Sea. Water temperatures were cold enough to kill a man through hypothermia but Fraser never made it to open water. He tripped down an embankment and fractured his leg. The injury summarily ended his boxing career.
At first, Fraser took it in stride and accepted his own stupidity. When his leg healed well enough for him to walk again, he looked for regular work, but none was available to him. Because of boxing, he had dropped out of school and didn’t have an education or trade to fall back on. He was strong as an ox but his leg never healed entirely and he walked with a pronounced limp so manual labor was out of the question. When he couldn’t find work, he turned to the bottle for relief.
It quickly got to the point where he drank all day and any little thing would set off his temper. He readily broke into violent outbursts, yelling, throwing dishes and punching holes in the walls. Alana was able to comfort him initially, but over time he became more bitter and despondent. This went on for years.
Bowie came home from school one afternoon and as soon he walked through the front door, he sensed something was wrong. His father stood at the top of the staircase holding a three-quarters empty bottle of scotch in one hand while gripping the banister knob with the other to steady himself.
“Hey, Da,” said Bowie.
“Son,” responded his dad.
“Where’s mum?” he asked.
Bowie paused the story. His eyes welled up.
“You don’t have to tell me any more if you don’t want to,” said Jack.
Bowie regained his composure. “Long story short, I crammed a bunch of stuff into a backpack along with my life savings of forty-three euros and left. I walked to the terminal and took the ferry to Gourock. From there, I hitchhiked to Port Glasgow.”
It was early evening and quite chilly when Bowie arrived at the port city. He wandered around for a while thinking about his next move. Along the boardwalk, a cartography shop caught his attention and he decided to go inside to warm up.
The shopkeeper sitting behind the counter greeted him cordially. He was an elderly gentleman and wore standard-issue Scotsman attire—forest-green wool walking sweater with suede patches on the shoulders and elbows, and tweed trousers.
Bowie strolled over to a section of the shop displaying U.S. maps and picked up the one for California. He had always wanted to go there to check out the music scene, girls in bikinis—basically all the stuff teenage-boy dreams are made of. On the wall above the display were framed black-and-white photographs taken locally—cargo ships, a couple on a sail boat, sailors on shore leave and other visitors to the port.
“Can I help you find something?” The shopkeeper materialized right next to Bowie which startled him. Despite the man’s age, he was quite spry.
“Bowie showed him the map of California. “I was thinking about—I mean my family and I were thinking about going there.” Bowie felt awkward lying to this man.
“Never been there myself but always wanted to go.” The shopkeeper took the map from Bowie, opened it up and pursued it. “Ah!”
“What is it?” asked Bowie.
The shopkeeper pointed to a city in Northern California. “Right here, Sunvale, just populated enough to appear on the map. I know someone who lives there. Don’t know if it’s much of a vacation spot, but seems like a nice place to visit nonetheless.” He handed the map back to Bowie and pointed to a docked cruise ship through the window. “That vessel there is headed back to New York tonight. It’s scheduled to leave port at 8pm.”
Bowie thought the non sequitur curious. “How much for the map?” he asked.
“It’s yours,” said the shopkeeper.
“I can’t accept a gift—”
The shopkeeper cut him off. “I insist.”
Bowie thanked the man and tucked the map away in his backpack. He left the shop and started plotting ways to get on board the cruise ship to New York. He wanted to get out of Scotland as soon as possible and Sunvale was his ultimate destination. It was as good a place as any at that point. He didn’t know what he’d do once he got there but having a specific place to go gave him a goal and purpose for the time being.
There were two gangways leading up to the ship but well-guarded by security personnel checking IDs. Even if he could sneak on board somehow, where would he sleep? He didn’t think he could avoid detection the entire trip. While sitting on a bench mulling over different scenarios, a cab pulled up and four young men in their mid-twenties got out. Bowie determined from eavesdropping they were musicians and by the look of them, probably a rock band. Two of the members were in a heated argument with each other.
“I’m telling you for the last time, we’re playing cover songs for the entire cruise!” said the band’s leader. “That’s what they’re paying us for! You want to play your own stuff, find a coffee shop and have at it!”
“I’m bloody sick of this, mate. In fact, I’m bloody sick of the lot of you! I quit!” said the other band member. When he turned to storm off, he bumped into Bowie. “Watch where you’re going, ya twit!”
“That’s just great. What are we going to do without a lead guitarist?” asked the band’s drummer.
“It’s your lucky day,” said Bowie. “I play guitar and I’m between gigs right now.”
“Shouldn’t you be in school? How old are you?” asked the band’s leader.
“Old enough to play with you lot,” answered Bowie.
“We play mostly 70s and 80s rock—AC/DC, Arrow Smith, Zeppelin. We call ourselves Pitchfork, you know, like a devil’s pitchfork. We thought the demonic undertone sounded more rock n’ roll,” said the bass player.
“Truth is we’re all Presbyterians,” confessed the drummer.
“Not a problem,” said Bowie. “I can play the old stuff.”
“What is a problem is getting you onboard,” said the band’s leader. “You’ll need a ticket and we can’t afford to spring for one. We don’t get paid until we hit the States and our pre-paid tickets are in our individual names.”
Bowie revealed the wallet he lifted off the lead guitarist. He opened it up and pulled out the ID. “Will this work?” Pickpocketing was a skill he learned from his dad’s brother, Uncle Fergus, a seven to ten-year guest of Her Majesty’s Soughton Prison.
The band leader’s snigger turned into a guffaw. He pulled out a pair of sunglasses and gave them to Bowie. “Here, put these on—they’ll make you look older. Welcome to Pitchfork, mate!”