by da hulk
Yesterday...
The Hawk waded out of the ocean after a particularly satisfying summer morning surf session at a stretch of beach simply called "the trestle". Was it possible that he had been surfing at this beach for over thirty-five years? Memories of past days flashed into his mind in a collage of experience. They came in no particular order, they all happened yesterday...or was it before his first son was born...or one of the September days he and the crew had cut High School, or that first day he had dragged the Greg Noll down the cliff. Shaking his head, he tenderly set his longboard, deck down, at the high tide mark, being careful not to get too much sand on the wax. He peeled off his wetsuit, spread it out on the board to dry, slipped on his trunks, and eased into his salt-stained aluminum beach chair. The hot dry sand felt good under his feet and the sun had already begun to penetrate the first layer of his skin, producing a glowing warmth that signaled a hot day ahead. Checking the horizon, there was no fog , and no wind line outside...it should stay glassy for quite a while today. Hawk slid on his shades and glanced nervously down the beach at the teeming mass of tourists crowding the beach in front of the state park parking lot, as if he thought they would suddenly rise in unison and overrun the little stretch of sand he had claimed as his sanctuary.
As he gazed toward the parking lot, he could see the Wolf, board tucked under his arm, talking to Teddy. The weekend had been blessed with sun and waves, and the word was out that the Santa Cruz's "sons of beaches" were convening at "the trestle". This group was comprised of members, relatives, and associates of several groups of surfers who had claimed a stretch of sand in the Monterey Bay during the 60's and 70's. They weren't as extreme as some surf crews, but after more than thirty years they were still friends, and most of them were still surfing on a regular basis.
The Mole and Bart were still out in the water catching a few waves as they wrapped into the channel. The sand bars on either side of the channel were still in pretty good shape for this time of year, and when the tide was just right you could take off outside and the waves would peel until you hit the inside shorebreak. The waves were fun. Nothing special, just a series of sections, an occasional bowl, and a fast finish on the inside. They were an empty page with room for turns, cutbacks, stalls, strolls up and down the board, and some fun experimentation. We cut our teeth on waves like these. There was no point or reef to calibrate takeoffs on, or mechanically wire the bowls and sections into your reflexes. There was no carefully choreographed series of moves crafted for a specific spot. We were the jazz artists of the area, responding to each channel, rip, current, wind, and wave as they came. The patterns were never exactly the same, and learning to surf here took time and determination.
The Hawk had seen the Tarantula and two of the Jones brothers earlier, and he spotted a couple of familiar new arrivals toting boards down the beach. He hadn't seen Tarantula for several years. It is great to see old friends, but seeing the Tarantula had reminded him of Larry. Larry would have loved a day like today...
Hawk's reverie was suddenly interrupted by his oldest son, Ian, who had been bodyboarding a peppy little left in the shorebreak. Ian had moved to Southern California a couple of years ago, but occasionally escaped the heat and the smog by dropping in on Mom and Dad. "Dad, you sleeping?" Ian asked as he turned around and waited for Hawk to unzip his wetsuit. This was a familiar ritual. "Nope", Hawk mumbled, "I was thinking about an old friend of mine who isn't here today." Gingerly lifting himself out of the low-slung chair, Hawk dutifully unzipped Ian's suit and eased back into his chair.
"Who dad? Do I know him?"
"No son. He's gone now. He was the first of us to go."
Ian pulled his wetsuit off and began to dry himself thoughtfully. He hoped the Hawk wasn't going into one of his silent reveries. Suddenly he brightened up and asked, "Could you tell me a story about him?"
Ian and his dad had always been very close while Ian was growing up. They had often surfed together, and the time traveling to and from the surf was usually filled with surf stories. He always enjoyed his dad's stories about the "old days", and judging by the distracted look on Hawk's face, he was in a particularly anecdotal mood.
"OK Ian, while you warm up in the sand, I'll tell you a story."
As Ian settled into a warm dry patch of sand next to the chair, Hawk organized his thoughts a little and began...
"Larry was a good friend to me when I needed one. I always admired his sense of style and his fun-loving attitude. He helped me get into surfing when I was just a kook. For that alone, I am eternally grateful. He shared his college apartment with the Mole and I when we got kicked out of ours. I watched him fade away after Vietnam, a bad marriage, a business failure, and several bouts with alcohol. I didn't know how to help Larry back then, but I wish I had tried harder. I hope that wherever he is, he's getting the breaks that he never seemed to get in life."
Surfari Bound
In some strange way all Surfers are dreamers. Just as we savor the adrenaline rush of riding an extraordinary wave, and the transcendent dreamstate when we share a perfect day with a few close friends; we also share an unwavering faith in the perfect possibilities of the next ride, the surf conditions tomorrow, and the surf spot just around the next point. The dream is part of our addiction, and a surfari is a communal act of our faith in the dream. Once a surfer has abandoned all else except the single-minded pursuit of unexplored surf and adventure with a few companions, it stays with them like an ember hidden in their gut, never forgotten, always waiting for another chance to burst into unbridled flame again.
Santa Cruz's sons of beaches were getting restless. It was Easter 1967, and we had been freezing our asses off all winter. We were nearing the end of the longboard era, but none of us knew it yet. Reports of McTavish and Young were just aberrations in an otherwise perfectly ordered universe. High performance-noserider-signature model surfboards, and knobby surf knots were still the world-wide standard. Even though the winter sandbars from '66 had returned full-on, we were all jonesing for warmer climes, and some high spirited adventure.
Members of two neighboring Santa Cruz beachbreak crews had suspended their rivalry in order to expedite a trip. Hell, we grew up together, we went to school together, some of us were even related, but our allegiance was sharply divided by our local beach affiliation. The older club, had grown up in La Selva and laid claim to Manresa Beach. Guys like Larry, Nelson, the Jones brothers, Tinker, the Tarantula, Kimo, the Carters, and Walsh formed a close well-organized group that was a little older. More importantly, they were more experienced travelers, and had cars. The younger group, hung obstinately at the end of Beach Drive, in Rio Del Mar. The Rio crew was a little more radical, both in and out of the water. Because we knew each other so well, the rivalry between the two groups had always remained symbolic, consisting of occasional good-natured "raids" on each other. Perhaps more importantly they considered themselves allies in their dealings with other Santa Cruz local crews, and the non-surfing community. The oldest members from Rio, Mole, Roger, and I knew most of the La Selva crew, and after a brief council, decided to join the surfari. Roger had his own VW van, so we figured we could travel together anyway.
We met to finalize our plans for the trip at Nelson's parent's house the evening that college let out. The air was charged with excitement in anticipation of the first surfari of the year. Nelson had turned the house speakers toward the yard where everyone was congregated and the Beach Boys were harmonizing "Good Vibrations". The bass was turned up all the way and the chorus poured over us.
"I'm picking up Good Vibrations...She's giving me excitations... I'm picking up Good Vibrations...She's giving me excitations... Good...Good...Good...Good Vibrations..."God, we wanted to get some warm water, sunshine, and good surf so bad it physically hurt. By the time the assembly was complete, we were amazed to find that the caravan would consist of four VW vans with 3-4 surfers in each, plus a VW bug that carried two more. Never had any of us seen such a large contingent assembled for a surfari. Almost everyone was already packed, and those that weren't packed decided to get their stuff and all stay at the Nelson's so we could leave early the next morning. We each had our surfboard, wetsuit, trunks, sleeping bag, gas money, and some food scrounged from our parent's pantries. What else could we possibly need? Although it didn't seem to matter much where we were going as long it was south along the coast, we agreed that our official destination was to be Ensenada. While waiting for the stragglers to arrive with their gear, we took turns jumping a dirt mound and popping wheelies on Larry's motorcycle, hooting, and talking trash, trips, and adventure. By the time everyone was back, we were all so amped we couldn't sleep. Rather than wait until morning, we climbed into our cars and pulled onto the freeway, caravan style. I suspect Nelson's folks, along with most of La Selva Beach, were relieved to be rid of us.
On the Road!
The Mole had "appropriated" a couple of bags of fresh bakery goods his folks just purchased from Maddock's Bakery. We all promised we would ration the goodies until we got into Mexico and could stock up at a Panaderia. The Mole and I finished everything before we hit King City. When Roger found out, he was pissed. He was driving and didn't get any.
On any trip I've ever taken south on the 101, it seems as if the air warms up and feels like we have entered southern California just before we drop down into San Luis Obispo. You could tell when you took a deep breath, the air didn't sting. It was a tangible confirmation that our surfari was under way, that we were committed...the sweet promise of collective pipe dreams burned in our veins. We checked the surf at the Pismo Beach pier by moonlight. It was kind of a ritual to check the surf at Pismo Beach any time we were traveling up or down the coast. We hardly ever surfed there, but it was always refreshing to see the beach. Even at night it seemed almost blasphemous not to check the surf, after having driven for hours past farms and ranchland. The surf looked decent, a good omen, but we were headed for Baja now. Maybe on the way back up the coast...
Glad for the brief glimpse of the ocean at Pismo, we again turned inland. VW Vans, God bless them, were so stylin', but not very comfortable, or fast, or quiet. You couldn't hear the radio, and the growl of the engine wore you out, like coming down off too much caffeine. Roger's van didn't have any windows in the back and he had removed the back seat to make room for our boards, gear, etc. The Mole and I wedged ourselves among the boards, wetsuits, food and other gear, and shouted story back and forth till we were both hoarse.
In 1967, freeways in Santa Cruz were two lanes in either direction. It seemed at the time that two lanes was far more road than was needed for everyday traffic. By the time the caravan had pulled off to check the surf at "C" Street, wound it's way into L.A., and rolled south toward San Diego, it was almost morning and there was little traffic. As we roared into Orange County the freeway suddenly exploded to four lanes in either direction...eight lanes total! Since we were the only cars on the road, it looked like we were in a giant empty parking lot. To me it was inconceivable that there could ever be enough cars to fill this expanse of blacktop. As we marveled at this "mother of all freeways", the eastern sky began to brighten.
Wolfman Jack was howling on the VW radio, "HelloooooBabeeeeee... ha...haa..haaaa... This is the Wolfman comin at yah from XERBeeeeee... Bringing you the Queen of Soul, Aretha's latest, 'R-E-S-P-E-C-T' !"
"What you want, baby, I got. What you need, you know I got it. All I askin' is for a little respect when you come home, baby... R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me..."Scripps Pier
By the time we pulled off the freeway in San Diego the morning sun was rising, turning the desert hills pink, and revealing crystal clear water with 2-4 foot waves at the Scripps Pier in La Jolla. Lyrics from a new Cream song rose above the engine noise,
"You thought the leaden winter would bring you down forever... But you rode upon a steamer to the violence of the sun..."I'm not sure why we stopped at the Scripps Pier...PJ or Nelson was leading the caravan at the time. We were just glad to be near a beach again. Without a word being said, everyone pulled their boards out and sprinted across the sand toward the surf. As all sixteen of us approached the water it suddenly occurred to me that we had brought our own crowd. It really didn't matter, it was a beachbreak, and we automatically spread out at all the peaks scattered up and down the beach. The locals didn't seem real excited to see our caravan pull up in the parking lot, and scowled as we raced down the beach.
Clapton's voice and the WahWah from his guitar blasted from a radio in the sand,
"And the colors of the sea blind your eyes with trembling mermaids, And you touch the distant beaches with tales of brave Ulysses. How his naked ears were tortured by the sirens sweetly singing, For the sparkling waves are calling you to kiss their white lace lips."Ahhh...Warm water! We were trunkin' it at sunrise and no goosebumps! Compared to what we had surfed in the evening before, the ocean felt as warm as bath water.
Once we entered the water the old rivalries resurfaced. Wherever the Rio crew went we always tried to establish ourselves as a presence. It was a matter of pride. This beach was no exception, and more importantly, we wanted to impress the rest of the crew in the caravan. The Mole, Roger and I paddled out at the peak just south of the pier. PJ, Larry, Walsh and Nelson set up on the next peak south, everyone else was spread out wherever they could. It turned out that a couple of the guys who came along had never surfed before. Tagalongs, not rivals, just have fun and stay off our waves. I was surfing a blue 9'10" Eliminator by the Greek then. It was such a progressive design for the times, I still dream of the fun I had on that board. The Mole was riding a Johnny Rice. At the time Johnny was shaping boards for a lot of the Rio crew in a shed near Cabrillo College. I think Roger was still riding his Haut Noserider "magic" board. There were no leashes then, we really didn't need them, we were in great shape, and we'd paid our dues in Northern California waters. At that time the art of finishing a ride with style had been perfected. The finish was just as important as the takeoff, and a stylish exit often separated the better surfers from the rest of the crowd. We didn't lose our boards much anymore.
I knee paddled for a four footer, caught it early, faded behind the peak, snapped the nose around and walked to the tip. I could hear the hiss of the board cutting across the wave. The water was so clear I could see the grains of sand stir below me as I entered the bowl. I stuck my head into the glassy curtain as it came over, powered onto the shoulder, walked back, and glided over the back of the wave. Clean, simple, stylin', fully in control, stoked. Life is good! As I paddled out I watched Roger catch a set wave, hang five and arch for twenty yards. He wiggled his toes in salute as he raced past me, backpedaled, and finished with a flyer that shot his board five feet into the air. Yeah! The Mole caught a smaller wave, hung a quick five, walked back, threw a smooth drop-knee cutback, then repeated the program. He finished with a standing island pullout on the inside. No flinch...all right! "RIO is in control!"
A few more rides and we surfed back to the beach. Mexico was calling us. The dream had seduced us completely by then and we couldn't deny her any longer. Roger, the Mole and I walked back up the beach, past a circle of local surfers. They stared back at us. We wondered if anyone had broken into our van. There wasn't much to take. We'd learned that lesson on earlier trips, and stashed our valuables where nobody was likely to find them. As we turned around for one last gaze at the crystal clear surf, Larry took off on a good sized right. Still wearing his faded red baseball cap, he stood, trimmed his board, deliberately pulled his faded red trunks down to his knees, and hung a full-moon BA across the beach...until he got his patented kamikaze pounding in the shorebreak. We all cracked up and wished we'd thought of that. Larry didn't even lose his hat.
Mexico
We passed through the Tijuana border crossing into Mexico without incident and arrived at K-55 a little after noon. Nobody else was there. We decided to camp on the bluff above the beach on the south side of the large bay. The Mexicans who guarded the entrance to the little housing compound just south of us stopped by for a beer. For a couple of bucks, and free beers, our site was safe for the duration. We circled the vehicles wagon-train style creating a central common area that was protected from the wind. Most of us opted to sleep outside on the ground since the vans were being used to keep our gear secure, and beans seemed to be a common staple at every meal. I can just hear my dad chuckling to himself as he told mom, "Go ahead dear, give them all the beans in the pantry, they are very nutritious and we can always get more."
K-55 was a great place to camp in those days. It had lots of flat space, and a picturesque hill that rose up quickly behind us decorated in classic desert style with big boulders, cactus, yucca, and dirt. The gullies that partitioned the bluff were not yet being used as dumps, so it was still a relatively pristine area. The bay that we camped above had a small beach then, and the rock reefs at the south end of the bay held more of the sand, producing a left that was outrageous when it was on. When we arrived the onshore wind had already blown the surf out, but there were still some fun-looking 2-3 foot waves coming in.
Once our campsite was set up, some of us caught a few waves and checked out the bottom hazards. Nelson even paddled out to the rock infested point at the north end of the bay to check for big wave potential. The water was a lot colder than it was in San Diego, and we were glad we brought our wetsuits. It almost felt like we were back in Santa Cruz. At that time, in Santa Cruz, a wetsuit meant an O'Neill Farmer John shortie suit. No sleeves, no legs below the knee, no hoods, and no booties.
Ensenada
After we dried off, our attention shifted to afternoon and evening plans. Everyone was psyched to go into Ensenada. In those days Ensenada had not yet cleaned up its image, and catered to some of the baser appetites of the tourists and US military who "vacationed" there. There was an area of town with striptease bars and whorehouses that resembled something out of a kinky spaghetti western. Being young "men", on surfari, with our own crowd for protection, the mood was pretty raunchy. As the Beatles sang "Strawberry Fields Forever" we all piled into two vans, and took the free road into Ensenada. Forming small units of four or five persons each, we split up and swaggered up and down the streets, exploring the sights and sounds of Ensenada. The Mole, Roger and I eased into action by sampling a couple of beers, and doing some shopping. Mostly we bought fireworks, clothing, more beer, and talked trash. Clint Eastwood and "A Fistful of Dollars" were the rage and everyone wanted to buy ponchos. We had great fun with the merchants, bartering over anything and everything, while our partners skulked around in the shadows. It distracting the owners to no end.
By the time the striptease bars opened for business everyone was already pretty uppity. The beer was watered down, and the girls were bored and skanky, but in the worst tradition of ugly Americanism we shouted, grabbed for any part of the female anatomy that came close (making sure not to actually catch any), waved money, pushed, shoved, and goaded each other on, and generally did our best to gross out everyone. Even the gringo sailors in town found us distasteful, until they passed out. The bartenders wouldn't kick us out because we practically filled the house wherever we went. By midnight there were only a few of us sober enough to remember what town we were in, where the cars were, or how to get back to our campsite. Agreeing that we had definitely worn out our welcome, we began dragging members of the crew out of the assorted bars in town. Finally, we had to knock on whorehouse doors until we found the last two still missing in action. With people stacked like firewood in the vans in various stages of inebriation ranging from happy drunks, to passed out, to just plain sick, we drove back to camp. Jimi Hendrix was moaning the lyrics to "Purple Haze" as we aimed the vans through the mountain passes.
"...Purple Haze all in my eyes...Don't know if its day or night... You got me blowin', blowin' my mind...Is it tomorrow, or just the end of time?"The happy drunks were the worst, they kept bugging the sick ones while we tried to keep the peace.
In those days it was a common ritual among surfers who journeyed into Mexico to indulge in such foolish debauchery. We were lucky. Except for one case of the "crabs", there were no accidents, no muggings, no fights... no arrests.
The Morning After
There was a light rain later that night. Those of us who were sober enough crawled under the vans in our sleeping bags to keep dry. The rest were still too drunk to notice the rain. It was a pretty tight squeeze under the van, and I kept hitting my head on the frame whenever I moved.
As the sun came up, the clouds evaporated. It was quiet except for the muffled beat of the surf breaking at the foot of the cliffs, and an occasional car going by on the highway. Nobody moved. Flies buzzed in short bursts of activity in the distance. An occasional snore broke the stillness of mid-morning. "Did we leave anyone in town last night?" "My head hurts. Oooh..."
Ssssss... Boom! Bang! Sparks flew under the van causing me to hit my head again. Ouch! Dammit!
More explosions. "Incoming.........!" Blam! Chaos ensued as drunks lurched from their sleeping bags in their underwear (if they were lucky) cursing, shouting, staggering in confused circles, crashing into each other, bouncing off of the vans, tripping over bushes, clotheslines, and surfboards. Chaos in microcosm.
It was clear we were under fire, but by whom, with what, and most importantly, where were they?...Hisssss.....Rockets!....Pow...."Ok, we were in Mexico!"....Boom...."Big Rockets"... Bang... Someone shouted and pointed toward the hill above the camp. All eyes turned toward the hill, straining against the bright sun to see our assailant. On a big rock halfway up the hill stood a bowlegged silhouette, dressed only in shorts, shoes, and a baseball cap. He was shouting defiantly, laughing, holding a lighter in one hand and an armful of rockets in the other, which he proceeded to light and aim for the vans.
"What the...Larry?" There was a stunned silence. We stood there dumbfounded in our underwear, mouths open, in shock...until the next rocket hit.
Ssss...Blam!
Then a kind of insanity possessed us all. Everyone dived for their own stash of rockets and pointed them up the hill. "Who has some matches!" Ssss...Pop...Ping! Equipment was flying out of all the vans at once as we searched for something to light our rockets with. For the next thirty minutes K-55 became a battle zone. Giant rockets, bottle rockets, colored rockets, smoke bombs, M-80's, cherry bombs, anything with a fuse was aimed toward the hillside. As our assault began to reach Larry he would dive behind a rock. Whenever his head popped up, he had a grin that we could all clearly see at the bottom of the hill. The next instant Larry would jump up laughing, shouting more insults at us, leaping from rock to rock like some possessed leprechaun. Larry held the higher ground as he returned our fire, rocket for rocket. He seemed to have an endless supply of them stashed behind every rock and bush on the hill. At one point someone's rocket exploded only a couple of feet from Larry. He again boldly leapt onto a rock, faded red cap cocked at an impudent angle, hurled a few new insults down at us...and lit yet another rocket. A rocket landed inside one of the vans igniting someone's firecrackers, bam...bam...bam... PJ threw a smoldering sleeping bag onto the ground in the center of camp, along with almost everything else we owned.
At long last...silence... As the smoke drifted seaward someone started laughing. Soon our hoots and drunken giggles echoed off the hill and out to sea as well. They still echo in my mind. Some of us collapsed on the ground in spasms of hilarity, others alternated between laughter and groans as they clutched their stomachs, or heads. Larry descended from the hill waving a truce flag consisting of a stick with somebody's underwear attached. As he approached the encampment a feeling of warmth, camaraderie, and total freedom came over us. Yeah...that was so...bitchin.
As we began cleaning up, Clapton's poetry again echoed through the campsite.
"And you see a girl's brown body dancing through the turquoise, And her footprints make you follow where the sky loves the sea. And when your fingers find her, she drowns you in her body, Carving deep blue ripples in the tissues of your mind."The swell had picked up and there were overhead freight train lefts racing down the reef, breaking top to bottom, gaining speed as they hit the sandbar and ending in a brutal pounding shorebreak. The sun was hot, and it stayed glassy all day. We didn't realize until we started paddling out how much power those waves had. Pushing through one wave, the Eliminator acquired several stress fractures under the step, and my wetsuit was literally torn off my shoulders. We took off deep at an angle, trimmed, screamed across the face of the wave until we were swallowed up, grabbed a rail and kept going until we got bounced off the sand bottom.
The Mole flinched.
Larry never lost his hat.
...Today
Hawk looked directly into Ian's face, as the young man scooped a fresh armful of warm sand under his chest.
"Larry, was so alive then. So innocent. So...invulnerable. Others knew him better than I did, but that's how I remember him best. I miss him."
It was hot, almost oppressive, a bead of sweat slid down Hawk's nose. He slowly rose, picked up his board and started toward the surf. As he moved away Ian shouted after him, "Dad, aren't you going to finish the story? What about the rest of the surfari?"
Hawk looked back at this man-who-used-to-be-his-child, hesitated for a few seconds as if he might return, then glanced at the waves just as the Mole smoothly finished a ride and began knee-paddling back out. Finally he answered, "There is no finish Ian, the surfari isn't over yet." Hawk chuckled to himself as he entered the water and launched his board past the shorebreak into the channel.
Ian watched as his dad paddled out into the lineup and take a position next to the Mole...scanning the horizon for the next set of waves.
Somewhere nearby an oldies station was broadcasting an old Cream classic, and the lyrics drifted across the beach,
"Her name is Aphrodite and she rides a crimson shell, And you know you cannot leave her for you touched the distant sands, With tales of brave Ulysses; how his naked ears were tortured By the sirens sweetly singing. Tiny purple fishes run laughing through your fingers, And you want to take her with you to the hard land of the winter."Copyright©1996, 1997, 1998, 1999, 2000, 2001 by Stephen Hull. All Rights Reserved
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