This article appeared in The Sacramento Bee on Oct. 1, 1988, as well as in the Los Angeles Herald-Examiner on Nov. 13, 1988.

By J.D. Lasica

As dusk neared, the sun sent crazy orange streamers skipping across the surf. Two skateboarders snaked by on the pavement, a Frisbee toss away. A seagull hung in midair, caught in the sea breeze.

A perfect day for a funeral service.

On the Venice beach, 100 people — most in their 30s, some sporting sunglasses —had gathered, settling into the blankets and folding chairs that made a half-circle on the warm sand.

Charles Scott Linderman, 33, was dead, and his family and friends, including former Gov. Jerry Brown and Assemblyman Tom Hayden, were here trying to sort it out.

The autopsy was inconclusive. No one knew what killed Linderman, who was found dead in a hotel room, although foul play was ruled out. And so at the twilight service 10 nights ago, the talk was not of the meaning of his death but of the purpose of his life.

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