In 1969, La Jolla was still a sleepy beach town and pretty much unknown to the country, let alone the world. There was a 5 & 10 store, Safeway market (that everyone worked at), small hardware store, a few shoe stores, and Walker Scotts was the upper end of clothing.
The average home sold for $39,000. There were no MacMansions, but small, almost cottage like homes. Downtown La Jolla did not look like Rodeo Drive, and living on top of the hill was considered country living. La Jolla had its own movie theater with Saturday matinees that cost $1.50.
Everyone knew each other and La Jolla High had about 600 students.
But that all changed on June 3, 1969 when this horrible tragedy put La Jolla on the map. The media jumped on this and just about every paper carried this story for weeks.
The culture change of the hippies, protesters, drugs, Make Love, Not War, shocked La Jolla ‘once was’ quite and secluded town. La Jolla got its fame, but not like they wanted!
The article says it all. One got a bottle of laughing gas and got three more students who also wanted to get a quick high. And at the bottom of Bird Rock Avenue, locked the doors of a sports car, rolled up the windows, and opened the valve.
Instantly two died. Two managed to escape.
The teenagers where found by police who were called when residents heard a loud almost hysterical voices coming from the car. Police when arriving found the body of Clare Herick, 18, and Peter Strata, 17 in the back seat. Both were pronounce dead at the scene.
Nora Ruffcorn, 16 was found in the front seat and taken to the hospital in serious condition. Brad Hunter, 17, was outside the car and leaning against it. He was taken into custody after being treated and released at the local hospital.
Editors Note: Nora is married, has kids and lives up north and doing well. Brad Hunter’s whereabouts is unknown at this writing.
Article from Google Archives.
Clare and I were classmates, ultimately at La Jolla High. She was beyond striking, a young Sophia Loren – and way above my league. I didn’t see myself in the in-crowd, just an average La Jolla kid who lived on Gravilla Street up from the Pumphouse, called Windansea home, surfed, and rode my little 125cc motorcycle at Rose Canyon. Clare and I knew each other as kids who are in the same class for years tend to. We were not especially close. But every so often Clare would come up and ask me about something. Usually, some concern she had or something philosophical. No clue why she thought I was a good source of information. I don’t even remember the questions. But I tried to give her my best reply and knew she was bright, thoughtful, unassuming, and kind. A total sweetheart.
In the summer of ’67 my family moved to landlocked El Paso Texas, and I traded my surfboard for catching scorpions in glass jars. But I kept in touch with my La Jolla friends and eventually learned that and how Clare had passed away. I was surprised, sad, and more than a bit angry. It made no sense. How did sweet, level-headed Clare end up in that brainfart of a laughing gas experiment? Do the gods of fun really require human sacrifices? And if so, can’t we just tell them to, as the British say, piss off? Truth be told, I can’t throw stones. Many of us did dumb risky stuff around that time. I’m not exempt. Too many 60s La Jolla kids ended up in bad places. Maybe getting exiled to El Paso saved me. (Well, I did spend most of the 70s playing in rock bands throughout the Midwest and Southwest. But that’s a different story).
Bottom line: Some cultures believe that people aren’t really dead until no one remembers them. Clare, I remember you. Always will. Don’t think I’m alone in that.