I WILL ALWAYS BELIEVE that James Arness seemed a little upset that I didn’t recognize him at the very moment that, looking way up, thinking about what deep wrinkles this man had, I did recognize him as Marshall Dillon, Mr. Gunsmoke.
Maybe it was because my expression changed from one of appreciation to one he recognized, one he came to San Onofre to get away from; the vapid fan-stare of image-induced bedazzlement.
“You can have the fire, kid,” he said, ducking to step into his 1967 model of a recreational vehicle; “hopefully your friends will be back soon.”
That’s the short version.
Yes, it’s another San Onofre story. But, first, I’d like to reiterate that I don’t believe my stories are better than yours. In fact, I think anyone who started surfing in his or her teens, begging someone for a ride to the beach; moving up to going with friends rather than parents, finding friends scatter after high school, finding new friends, surfing among strangers, all the while trying to figure out how to move from flailing to succeeding against and with waves, how to be a grownup. Sure, we all have stories.
These are just mine. You can’t help but compare them with yours.
On this occasion I was riding with Mark Metzger and Billy McLean, younger brother to Don McLean, who is our age but didn’t stick with surfing for very long. And Mark was trying to give me a new nickname. With a name like Erwin Dence, Jr., commonly called “Junior” at my house, it doesn’t take much. Erwinkle, Erweenie, Dense.
Oddly, none of my friends really had nicknames, not in the Windansea-gotta-have-one-to-be-cool sense. We did call Ray Hicks ‘H-I-X’ for a while (another Mark Metzger idea), mostly because it bothered him, and Phillip Harper ‘Felipe,’ after noted big wave surfer Felipe Pomar, but, again, not for very long. Last names, as we were referred to by various high school coaches, that was about it.
There was older surfer Bucky Davis; I can’t be sure I ever heard his actual given name.
Still, Mark was determined that, since I seemed to stay in the water longer than anyone else, I should be renamed “Fish.” “No; don’t really like it.” “Fish doesn’t like his nickname, Billy. Too bad. Fish.”
I’m not sure I was actually asked if I wanted to get out of the water before my driver and shotgun rider took off onto Camp Pendleton proper, “The Base” in local offbase jargon. Billy and Don’s father was a civilian firefighter, a necessary workforce as brush fires have always been a sort of yearly event in the fall/Santana wind season.
Somewhere Fish got cold, hypothermic-short-john-wetsuit-in-winter-cold, and got out of the water. No friends, no car, no towel, no clothes.
I headed toward a small fire near the RV parked on the hard-packed dirt road.
Sharing of the beach fire was common. My sister Suellen was the firestarter/tender often in our Tamarack days, cold kids gathering there, talking surf and swearing occasionally, just learning to string several phrases together. Somewhat embarrassing to me, it was something Suellen seemed deaf to. Kids.
This fire seemed to be tended by a really big, really tall man. Not a talker, really; but I rattled off my situation. “Uh huh,” he said, moving things into his RV. And then he was gone, and I crouched down, shifting my focus between the fire, the waves, and the road.
Of course I acted as if I’d never been cold when Mark and Billy returned.
“Marshall f___ing Dillon of f____ing ‘Gunsmoke?’ Really, Fish?”
About this time, my companions would have lit up, offered me a smoke. This was a common practice among any grouping of my surf friends; an offer I always declined until… okay, different story, though somewhat San Onofre-related; my first cigarette was, um, experienced in the backseat of a car headed up old 101 from an overnight stay on someone’s uncle’s boat in Oceanside Harbor (I think it was Dana Adler’s). Since I already had a splitting headache from the fumes (I had actually thought I would die in my sleep), a said, “Hell, yes.” “Really?”
Still, I couldn’t help but think my being offered a cigarette was yet another example of how sinners want to share in the sin. Thanks, buddies.
But, back at the beach on this trip, Mark couldn’t help but tell me how “You missed a great breakfast. Fish.” “And you missed Marshall f___ing Dillon, Metzger. Got a f____ing smoke?”
Oh, yeah; wild and sinful. “And don’t call me Fish; f___er.”
By this time I was warm enough to consider going back out.
I love this stuff, too bad I barely remember any of it.
Was this Mark Metzger from Fallbrook who became a firefighter at Camp Pendleton?
It has to be the Mark Metzger from Fallbrook who became a firefighter. Mark and some of the other guys I knew from Boy Scouts and school (and this may have been part of the Explorer program) hung out at the firehall in Fallbrook. I went there once, thought I’d rather surf, or skateboard, or something. In retrospect, a job as a firefighter would have been perfect for a surfer, days-off wise. And, maybe with some irony, I did become a volunteer firefighter and EMT in Washington State; loved putting out fires; not so much hanging around the hall.
Our mutual friend Ray Hicks, who lost contact with the somewhat mercurial Mark, is of the opinion Mark would rather not have too many folks know what a wild dude he was in his mid-teens. I have more Mark stories I hope to eventually tell.