(This is the first of a series of four articles.)

"4:42 p.m. Arrive in Monterey." He made that note. Maybe that was a place to start. But then where? For Esalen Institute, Big Sur, California, is more than 3000 miles from Cambridge, more than 10,000 miles, further away than a trip to the moon in a rubber balloon. It stands a world apart. And as the boy looked back on the five days he had spent there, he only knew that they were the most unreal, or the most real, experience of his life.

"FOR the next five days I want you to feel with your hands, with your hearts, with your stomachs, with your things, with your genitals--and not with your heads." John said that. John was the boy's group leader. He went on: "There is a tremendous amount of humanity in this room. Look around. On Friday morning, look around again. You won't believe it."

The boy looked around. It was Monday morning, January 27, 1969. Two days before, he had been taking an English exam; now he sat cross-legged on a soft brown rug in a small cabin called Firo, looking out over the Pacific Ocean. Two days before, 11 people had been killed by a mud-slide in Southern California, a result of the worst flooding in the state in 31 years; now it was bright and sunny, and far below the surf was pounding in against the shore.

A lot had already happened since the boy's arrival at Esalen; but as he looked around the room, John began to speak again. "The first thing I want you to do is to go into yourselves and think of three secrets that you have never told anyone in your life. Take a few minutes to think and be honest with yourselves." John paused and looked around. "For example, I could tell you that I would like to fuck Seymour Carter." Then there was silence.

The boy did not know who Seymour Carter was, so for a minute he just looked at John, who sat with his eyes closed. He had a way of speaking that the boy liked -- very slow, very deliberate, and rather quiet, a strong voice that never faltered and never wasted a breath. John was tall, with rugged features and a beautiful body.

"There is a tremendous amount of humanity in this room." The boy thought of that as he looked around at the rest of the people. There were, in fact, 13 of them, 13 units of humanity. He had one friend in the group, a tall black man named Paul, with whom he had come to Esalen. He didn't know the others, who seemed to be evenly divided between middle-aged and old. There were no other kids, no young, blond-haired girls. With a touch of sadness, the boy shut his eyes to think of secrets. What would he tell these people?

For the next few minutes, the boy went into himself. He knew a little about Esalen before coming, and he knew that one of the things people at Esalen did a lot was to go into themselves, so he felt good to be in the swing of things. But the secrets worried him.

"Now open your eyes and return to the group," John said. "Remember your three secrets and move around the room on your hands and knees until you find a partner. Tell your partner your first secret. Then find a second partner, and tell him your second secret; tell your third secret to a third partner."

Slowly the units of humanity began to crawl around the room, and one by one secrets of a lifetime poured out. Stories of lesbianism, impotence, divorces, affairs--there was no shortage of them. The boy's third partner was a big man, about 35 years old, who must have weighed 220 pounds. "I slapped my wife once," he said to the boy.

"Oh?" The boy was sure his partner could do better than that.

"I had to break down the bedroom door to tell her I was sorry."

"Was it the first time you ever slapped her?"

"Yes. We're getting a divorce."

The boy was silent. "What in the name of God am I doing here?" He thought to himself. "What am I doing here in this group of withered, sterile. Christ - forsaken, half - dead Americans? Is this it? We will tell our secrets and love--love in an encounter group nutshell." He felt cynical and cool as the circle reformed, and he went back to his place by the window.