Category Archives: Uncategorized

Real (and annoying OLD GUY) Surfers

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I don’t know how the top line got all crooked. I thought I measured it. Well, old guys, don’t even know how to do computer illustrations. Incidentally, I want to make the statement, “I’m here to surf!” I probably can’t copyright it, or trademark it, but it does define my mindset when I hit the water. Always has. Not apologizing.

Still, I never use the ‘old guy’ card to excuse any perceived over-zealousness; just as I never used my youth to excuse my wave-hogging to the limits of my ability and the constraints of ocean and crowd.

And I do have sessions and particular waves that I’ll never forget. Until I’ve forgotten just about everything else. Oh, and there’s no semi-self portrait here. I never surfed Rincon, epic or otherwise; but I did, once, surf small-but-decent Upper Trestles alone. Once. I will have to work on something to do with how surfers tend to think the waves can’t be any good because no one’s out. Or maybe just one guy. I’ll never forget… hey, get your own memories.

My Custom-Tailored 1965 Shortjohn Wetsuit

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My First Wetsuit- 1965
Because it’s December, because I’m thinking about what wetsuit items I need for the colder WINTER season, it seemed like a great time to relive a few things about my first wetsuit, the classic CALIFORNIA SURFER’S SHORT JOHN, custom fit in 1965, and purchased for the sum on $15.00, plus tax. Not to give too much away too soon. So:
BOOTIES- Very fine. My daughter, Dru, bought them for my birthday. Because I have a bone spur/bursitis on my heel of my left foot, I’ve been sticking with the zip up pair I bought from a dive shop in Bremerton, though I’ve ripped through the material in a few places. So, no new booties; I can take the tightness if I don’t have to hike too far.
VEST/HOOD- In pretty good shape. Fine. This piece adds an added mil of rubber for my core. It’s a bit tighter than I might like, but, well, maybe that’s something I can work on. No, not cutting it and adding more material.
RASH GUARD- It’s fine, does its job; could use a higher neck area, and it never seems to dry out. Yes, I could bring it in the house. Okay, no new rash guard.
3/2 MIL (or is it 4/3?) BODY GLOVE LONGJOHN WETSUIT, with back zipper- Broken string replaced with longer, sturdier shoe laces, this piece was purchased in a Seattle surf shop (I was doing a job in Queen Anne, it’s the shop by the Aurora Avenue Bridge) for about one hundred dollars (plus tax), and had been (lightly) used in the shop’s rental/surf school operation down at Short Sands in Oregon; so, though I’m sure it did contain some residue of someone else’s urine, it was probably a specialty tea drinker from some Portland office complex, trying to seem more interesting (“You do know I surf, right?”), and maybe (because it is big enough to fit me, maybe the renter wanted to lose a few pounds. Yeah, the suit is getting a bit thin in the places I grip to get it into position, yes, I have patched a few spots with material cut from my previous wetsuit… So, probably not getting a new wetsuit this year. And, incidentally, I did offer the folks at my local(ish) surf shop, NXNW SURF, in Port Angeles, an opportunity to sell me a rental wetsuit; the kid working probably didn’t pass the word on to Frank Crippen. Oh, and, as I did when I got this suit, I want my next one to be a size smaller. Working on it.
GLOVES- I have several pairs of worn out gloves. I definitely need new gloves. Santa?

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PHILLIP C. HARPER , my first surfing buddy, now Dr. Phillip C. Harper (I added this for when he googles himself), as with all things surfing, found out for both of us how to get proper gear for our first winter season as surfers. He may have already gone for his fitting, but was kind enough to go, after school, with my Mom and me to the shop over by Oceanside Harbor. It was somewhere around December tenth.
The date meant the wetsuit would be my main Christmas present. It also related to the unofficial (but very important) rule that REAL SURFERS don’t don wetsuits until the water temperature drops to 58, and cease wearing them when the temperature comes back up to the magical 58 degree mark, usually some time around Easter Vacation.
MEASURING- This is always embarrassing for a chunky kid. It was somewhat lessened by the fact that Phillip and I had both gone out for wrestling as freshmen at Fallbrook High, and we both knew he weighed somewhere around a hundred pounds, and I had started out the season at 130, but somehow, with strict dieting and exercise (and as much surfing as possible) had ended up the season at 136. Vertical growth, maybe. I got through the measuring, and we got to do some surfing before going back home. Phillip was the guy in a wetsuit. Fine; he needed it more.
STYLE- The wetsuit had no zipper, but did have a, new that year, stainless steel closing mechanism on one shoulder. Stylish and out of the way.
PERSONAL STYLE- Maybe it was more modesty than fashion that made me want to wear trunks over my wetsuit. I’m going to say it was, perhaps, consideration for other surfers who were more, um, err, modestly-endowed, because… anyway; I did soon discover that my Hawaiian Jams, all the rage (according to Phillip) would rip out even faster when worn over the suit. They just didn’t ‘ride up’ properly. But, this didn’t stop me from wearing a t shirt under the suit; sort of an early rash guard effect, though the extra layer did nothing to promote warmth.
NOWADAYS (and for a long time now) surfers wear wetsuits in the summer, even longjohn wetsuits in the summer. Hey, I’m not judging; it’s no longer cool to be cold; and, it must be said, wetsuits are better than ever. I rarely get as cold in water that drops to as low as 43 degrees, possibly lower near the rivers coming off the nearby Olympic Mountains, as I did in the depths of winter in 1966, clad in my Beach Boys (style) striped shirt, my custom short john with the stainless steel closure, and my first pair of Hang Ten trunks. Phillip, no doubt, pointed out the unofficial (but strictly enforced by peer pressure) requirement for real surfers to wear surfing trunks, along with my surf wardrobe of Levis (not Sears or Pennys) jeans, Pennys t shirts, and a properly-showy windbreaker.
Actually, I purchased a pair of Jantzen trunks before the Hang Tens, at the Men’s Shop in downtown Fallbrook, along with gym trunks and an (and I was so embarrassed to ask for this that I wandered around the shop for a long time) athletic supporter. Not wanting to be measured, the trunks (and I think they just ‘ran’ small) were too tight to wear even under a wetsuit; but the other items, with the ‘boys large’ stickers, fit fine.
Not bragging.
No, I don’t wear trunks over my wetsuit. I did mention how cold the water is, right? Colder for some than others.
Again, not bragging.

Another Un-named Surfer at Another Secret Straits Spot

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20141123_123549 This photo was taken by Adam “Wipeout” James on the Sunday after I surfed with this guy on a late Saturday afternoon. Maybe it was the next Sunday; I lose track. Even if it wasn’t, the surfer (we’ll call him Clint) seems to be trolling the Straits of Juan de Fuca looking for surf.  And, sometimes, finding it.

I was a little surprised when he told me, on whatever Saturday evening it was, that he was camping out, hoping for more waves the next morning. “It’s a long night,” I told him. I’d rather drive back home and return in the morning. Not that I did. the short wave window had, in my estimation, already passed. Now, maybe Monday; Monday had been the day I’d been looking at for a while. Better tides, maybe better swell angle; but I had already committed to working “across the water,” as we say, in Seattle. No, I wasn’t staying overnight there either. I can sleep on a ferry, just not so well in a lot close to a road, where other surf surfarians pull in and, I’ve heard, sometimes party down.

THE STORY ON CLINT, who had already surfed some “a little windy, but not crowded” waves at another spot on the Saturday when I ran into him, is he did some surfing on Sunday, with Adam also involved in the action, then checked out this secret spot closer to his home. Meanwhile, Adam surfed another, even more secret spot with Keith. Now, Adam’s excuse/explanation for not surfing up to his full potential and ability at that super secret spot, is that he went to a restaurant in between, you know, like social surfers do, and ate more teriyaki than he should have.  But, he told me (this would be on Monday) that he’d surfed well on Sunday in the first, pre-teriyaki/hangin’-with-the-bros session, which also included Nate, who built and sold Adam at least one Bob Simmons-style twin fin, and some other guy who Adam didn’t fully identify, and whose name I’ve forgotten (or didn’t bother to try to remember). Those two guys remained on the shore as Adam and Keith surfed, the waves fading fast, but Nate offered to sell Keith a Robert August “Wingnut” surfboard, a leash, and a board bag, for a really good price.

Not that it’s really pertinent, but Keith called me (in Seattle, working, after getting lost) to ask if I thought the potential purchase was a good deal. “You know, I once surfed in a heat against Wingnut…” “Erwin, I have to talk now.” “Yeah, okay, um, yeah; I’m sure it’s…” “Gotta go.”

Okay, so, in the process of delivering the board and stuff to Keith on Monday, Nate, with or without his friend, but without Adam, decided to head out farther on the Straits. They didn’t find rideable waves, but saw Clint’s Camper, but no Clint. So, they decided to go the actual coast. It was big, a little out of control, and the surfers out were having troubles. So, Nate and his friend stayed on the beach where they witnessed Clint (who, his rig broken down, maybe, had hitched a ride farther out) go over the falls at least once; maybe twice.

So, Nate relayed this message to Adam, because Adam just has to know these things, and he called me the next day (I was still, or, really, again, in Seattle), wouldn’t let me talk over him until he told me that he had talked to Clint, asked him how the session on the coast had gone, and, and Adam says this really speaks to Clint’s authenticity (because Clint didn’t know he was being observed. See? Yes, Adam, I get it), Clint said, “Actually, kind of shitty.”

If it had been me, I would have said, “You know, great.”

Then again, even going over the falls beats camping on a long ass northwest winter night.

 

Selfie No. 37, Go Pro Joe, Bro

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What really happened is this guy paddled out on a really long long board, a bit closer to dark than when I had. Since it was only Clint, me, this guy, and his girlfriend out, I thought I should ask him something. You know, seem friendly. Not that I am. Friendly. What I asked is, "Go Pro, huh?" What he said was, "Uh huh," adding, sort of sarcastically, I felt, "And why not?" "Oh, sure," I said, "You don't want to miss anything." He paddled off, caught the one wave I would see him catch, way on the inside, way down the line. I hope he got a good, um, video. I've always thought the shots taken from the front of the board, no matter how good the surfer is, how big the wave is, seem to really show someone doing some sort of exercising, maybe with dance tunes playing in their heads. Disco, maybe. But really, I'd rather add something to the story, like, me asking, "So, you send a lot of selfies?" This would be responded to, with him saying, "Oh, yes, and I use a variety of social media devices." "Uh, huh, and, um, a little light, waterproof surf makeup might be..." And he'd say, "Oh, I do my own. You never who'll see my next viral performance, and...." ...And, and, and, and I'm still thinking of lines for him and clever and wicked lines for me, and, well, it gets confusing because then I start thinking about how awesome a go pro dealeo I could make; dropping in late, dropping sideways, free-falling, catching a rail, going highline... you know, not me, just by me of an awesome ride. By me. Me, because I don't do selfies. Really.

What really happened is this guy paddled out on a really long long board, a bit closer to dark than when I had. Since it was only Clint, me, this guy, and his girlfriend out, I thought I should ask him something. You know, seem friendly. Not that I am. Friendly. What I asked is, “Go Pro, huh?” What he said was, “Uh huh,” adding, sort of sarcastically, I felt, “And why not?” “Oh, sure,” I said, “You don’t want to miss anything.” He paddled off, caught the one wave I would see him catch, way on the inside, way down the line. I hope he got a good, um, video. I’ve always thought the shots taken from the front of the board, no matter how good the surfer is, how big the wave is, seem to really show someone doing some sort of exercising, maybe with dance tunes playing in their heads. Disco, maybe.
But really, I’d rather add something to the story, like, me asking, “So, you send a lot of selfies?” This would be responded to, with him saying, “Oh, yes, and I use a variety of social media devices.” “Uh, huh, and, um, a little light, waterproof surf makeup might be…” And he’d say, “Oh, I do my own. You never who’ll see my next viral performance, and….”
…And, and, and, and I’m still thinking of lines for him and clever and wicked lines for me, and, well, it gets confusing because then I start thinking about how awesome a go pro dealeo I could make; dropping in late, dropping sideways, free-falling, catching a rail, going highline… you know, not me, just by me of an awesome ride. By me. Me, because I don’t do selfies. Really.

How to ‘Water-Proof’ Your Child

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“Daddy, is that what will happen to me if I go in the (pointing) ocean?”

“Well, yes; it could. I mean, no, no; that sea lion was probably old and… The ocean (pointing) is a dangerous place and…”

“Will a seagull (pointing at the carcass) bite my eyeballs out?”

“No. No. Probably not. Usually some… (fluttering his eyes) small fish will…”

“But… (points) you go in the ocean; and you don’t get eaten.”

“Well, yes; but that’s because… (points to himself) I…”

“Do you have… (puffs out his chest, strikes pose) super powers? I mean, when you put on your costume, and…”

“Super? Well; sometimes… (puffs chest, strikes several surfing poses) I get a super ride; a head dip or, um, three; but usually…”

“I want a blue and red costume when I get super powers. Okay? Oh, and, Daddy; you know… (walks closer) you’ve just given me Post Twamatic Stwess Disorder… for life, and, someday, when I’m older, with or without my superpowers; I will have to sue you. (long pause, looking into each others’ eyes)          Oh, and about swimming in the pool, later; I won’t need the waterwings.  I’ll just watch.”

“No, no; watching’s good. You know I’m supposed to be watching you. Right? Well, if Daddy catches a few waves…”

“Sure, Daddy; But remember it when you give… (removes a glove for effect) your deposition. (smiles somewhat menacingly) Later. Much later.”

Thanks to Adam James for the photo, one of several from a recent James Family trip to the Long Beach Peninsula area of Washington State.

Celebrating the Wave

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Other than hydrosexual (in love with all sports water-in any form-related) Stephen Davis and me, there were only two other surfers out on this particular section of track. Track, I say, partially because Stephen described the inside section, after the late-takeoff-only drop, after the first bowling portion, as a ‘racetrack.’ Yeah, but this was a morning when the dark swells approached, lining up way up the point, and advanced toward us like high speed freight trains, heavy. spinning.

I’d love to make some comparison to cement mixers, though they’d have to be backing up, the barrels moving, counter-clockwise, one just to the right and behind another, picking up the chalky water flowing out of the Olympic Mountains, approaching, closer; and as each wave did, it would pick up that gray-green color characteristic of cold, cold water.

With the sky threatening, layers and splotches of muted greys, near-blues, and the surface glassy, reflecting those subtle tones, and another four wave set (one each) moving steadily toward the little point in a long sweep, one of the other two guys, looking up the long lines, gave the wave the universal gesture of celebration, of jubilation, of appreciation.

A bit farther down the track, I turned and paddled.

Bro-dads

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realsurfersBro-dad 001The word HODAD, back a ways in surf jargon, was used to identify people who had all the proper items necessary to look like surfers, you just never actually saw them surf. It should be mentioned that no surfer believes another person surfs if that person hasn’t been observed by that first person, surfing. And, even then, if the possible Hodad isn’t seen actually catching waves, the possible-poser might be merely relabeled as a KOOK. Even having multiple surfboards, wearing the proper semi-authorized surf garb, having appropriately cool stickers on your appropriate surf vehicle, and having a working knowledge of surf spots from Mainland Mexico to Alaska, and having the ability to drop names of surf legends/stars, and some local heroes, from Bob Simmons to Robert Kelly Slater, and having conversational/storytelling skills that would hold up in parking areas from Swamis to Velzyland, and… wait a minute; I’m sort of describing myself.

No, no; it can’t be.

I’m not nearly friendly enough to be a BRODAD. And besides, most of my beachside surf wear comes from Goodwill, my wetsuit is ragged, patched with cutouts from old wetsuits, my surf rig smells like mildew and, again, old wetsuits; my boards are dinged, yellowed, the wax dirty.

Oh, yeah; I know how to look like a REALSURFER, BRO. Except, BRAH (and I never really use either of these terms in real life), I do get in the water.

To surf.

Competing (Vicariously) With Kelly Slater

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I started thinking about why I root for someone who has won more major surfing competitions than anyone else some time before the Hurley Pro at Trestles. I’m not sure Maybe it’s because I’m well over 42, his age at the moment, and he represents… Maybe it’s… still thinking…

But, now the Association of Surfing Professionals (ASP, soon to be something else) tour has moved on to France, and I just tried (and failed) to stay up late enough to watch the first heat of round two; Kelly relegated to the loser-goes-home heat by not winning in round one as the current wunderkind, Gabriel Medina, did.

Kelly Slater is probably the only other surfer on tour, and, even at that, he’d need help (as in other surfers who can beat Medina in a heat) who can catch the Brazilian, now the same age Mr. Slater was when he won his first of twelve world titles.

Oh, did I say twelve?

Maybe that’s the magic number; the one Slater, so close the past several years, is looking for. Or, maybe, maybe he just loves to compete, loves to win. It’s hard not to love competing when the water is cleared of other surfers during the best conditions (often questioned) during a waiting period lined-up with the optimum swell window for a given spot; not to mention the other perks.

Let’s count up a few: Fame, reserved parking spot, private dressing rooms, clamoring and adoring fans around the world, fame, contest winnings, sponsorships, fame, the true life drama of surfer-to-surfer competition, and, I almost forgot, money.

Fame should probably be broken down to the components; the part that includes those adoring fans who know you’re one of the world’s best, and the part that includes the respect of peers (well, wannabe peers), the fellow surfers who can’t devote their lives to being THAT good; those of us who compete whenever we’re in the water, those who seem to have other reasons for surfing (Yeah, yeah; spiritual, sensual; hard to think of those aspects scrambling for a wave in choppy, crowded, sub-epic waves).

There is the PEER RESPECT portion of what makes up ‘fame,’ proper respect from those surfers WHO HAVE devoted large chunks of their lives to getting as good as they can get at surfing, and, placed in a situation where their best two waves over thirty or so minutes, at any surf spot anywhere in the world, would be measured against Kelly’s best two waves at that same spot, with priority and wave selection and ability to pull off a move factored-in, and with the nerves associated with any competitive activity, and with judges and online viewers and a crowd on the beach… and just the worry that Kelly might (and probably doesn’t have to) give you a look, maybe just a nod, that completes the mind f___k, well…

Okay, sign me up. I’ll do my best.

Mr. Slater has been at the game so long, had the fame and respect so long; with the knowledge that so much of fame is so ridiculous, just has to be ignored, washed or dusted off, pushed aside; that he is casual about it. So casual. That’s style.

One must remember that he brashly said, and this was years ago now, that, when he got into professional competition, he was surprised at the level of the surfing. “At how good it was?” “No, at how bad it was.” Shocking; now that everyone says, and it’s true, that the surfers on the world tour, men and women, are some of the best in the world.

This elite surfer list doesn’t count, of course, the guy you see every time you go to any certain spot; just lighting it up.

So, I got up early, tuned in the ASP feed, just in time to catch Freddy P. in a heat, needing a score in the last few minutes of the last heat to be run today, late afternoon in France. I opened another screen to get the results from earlier. Kelly against Dane Reynolds, the very embodiment of the guy who lights it up without a jersey, sometimes when wearing one. Most surfers can relate so much better with Dane; a seemingly regular guy with freakish abilities (I don’t really believe the regular guy part). Kelly needed the points to maintain position in the world title race. Dane… well, Dane also has sponsors. Despite this being the 14th (out of 14) time he’d beaten Dane in a heat, Kelly was generous in his post-heat statements, saying that didn’t matter, we all know what Dane is capable of. Stylish, again.

Clicking back to the live feed, I caught Freddy get the score he needed. Buzzer beater. Yes, Mr. P said in his interview, after too many close heats that didn’t go his way, he was starting to get some confidence back.

I’d like to believe Kelly is a little more like most of the rest of us; maybe the respect he most wants is his own. I have to believe that each of us wants to surf up to the limits of our ability on any given day. That’s how we judge ourselves. If contest judges did the same, I could, occasionally, score a 9.5 without ever cracking through the lip.

Of course Mr. Robert Kelly Slater would, for the same moves, get a 2.35. Or less. So, and this isn’t just trash talk; “bring it on!”

Meanwhile, still a fan. In my neighborhood, Seattle Seahawks fans call ourselves some part of “The Twelve.” 12. 12. 12.

The Last Saturday Surf Session of Summer

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waikiki-crowdsIt seems to be important to me, because I’m self employed, because I don’t HAVE to be a WEEKEND WARRIOR; that I avoid surfing on the weekends. However, and there’s always a HOWEVER, sometimes the swell peaks on a Saturday. This is not just true on the Straits of Juan de Fuca; it’s true at the beaches you want to surf. So, on the last weekend of summer, to mitigate the situation with everyone checking out the same forecasts, making the same decisions, and because Trish was out of town, I got up at four am on a Saturday, checked the buoys, loaded up my stuff (if the buoys had looked more promising, I would have done this the night before), fooled around enough to determine if the swell had already peaked, and headed out.

I arrived at my (current) favorite spot before the sun. DAWN PATROL. I probably favor this spot because no hiking on trails and down cliffs is required, my vehicle is in sight from the lineup,  and usually (if there are waves) there are easy paddle-outs around the waves rather than through. There were four other rigs in the parking area when I pulled in, four other surfers suiting up. I leaped (why is ‘leapt’ incorrect?), glanced over at the rights which I’ve called ‘slow motion Malibu’ at their (almost) best (full speed at the very best), and saw it was breaking, so, naturally, I asked the others, almost suited-up, where they were headed.

“Oh, the rights look good.” “No, no; it’s deceiving. They’re really only, like, ankle high.”

So, here’s the thing about doing the dawn patrol: You get a few waves and then more and more surfers join you. When there aren’t that many waves and those who arrive are trying, as you are, to get in a maximum number of waves before… before whatever they have planned, you can get a bit anxious, perhaps irritated; and, if that is irrational, uncool, non-mellow, maybe resentful; man; that doesn’t mean you don’t have these feelings. Really, only two other surfers came over to the rights while I was there, but, on the lefts, which are longer, a crowd was beginning to grow. And the parking area was filling up with other surfers waiting for the right signal before entering the water- a bigger set, a few waves breaking on the outside indicator, perhaps waiting for their fast and/or ferry food to settle down.

Because I’m self employed, and because the other reason I went so early was because this wasn’t a weekend for me, I had to go back and work; I was looking for a good wave to go in on. I got one; one of those ‘to the parking lot’ rights, but…

…but I wanted a few more waves, so I moved over to the lefts. Usually featuring long walls, the more crowded side seemed to be offer slightly bigger waves. I caught a few, but had to share each wave with others. I caught a few more. With several sections and quite a few other surfers of varying skill levels vying for each wave, of the ten or so I caught, none were solo rides. If I got into one early, another surfer might catch it farther in but closer to the reef. I’d try to allow room, make a section, be alone for a moment until someone else took off inside. Fine. At least no one yelled, “PARTY WAVE.”

There was kind of a party atmosphere; and I did try to go with that. I’m sure my smile looked genuine. “Waikiki!” I’ve yelled in similar circumstances, tight to the wave with two people paddling just beyond the next section, one I would have every intention to make.

Just wanting this last wave to go in on, and already standing, a guy who had done this to me already turned around to do the ‘take off behind’ thing again immediately to my right. “That’s not right” I said, paused just a moment, sped into a section, turned, and made it all the way to the parking lot, at least two shoulder hoppers backing off as I, spontaneously, rather than the “f___k, f___k, f___k” I’d muttered (probably) a little loud in the last similar circumstance, broke into the classic soul song, “I know you want to leave me, boom, boom, boom…”. I should have been happy with the ‘to the parking lot’ ride. Actually, I was; but, discussing the situation in the parking lot with Clint, a boat repair guy from Port Townsend, with whom I’d had a bit of a non-race race with in the traffic lights in Port Angeles, he said he was just about through with this spot.

It gets crowded, not just because sometimes (in answer to someone else’s prayer) a swell sometimes peaks on a weekend, but because this spot is so user friendly. Everyone else is there for the same reason I go there.

And I don’t want to be is the angry guy, willing to get hostile over knee high waves. Maybe I’m ready for more challenging waves. I asked one of the guys who moved their car into a beach side spot next to mine when someone else left why they didn’t go all the way to the coast where the same swell would no doubt be producing overhead, maybe ten foot waves. “I’m scared of ten foot waves,” he said. “Oh.”  I have other excuses; time, um, a certain amount of, possibly, laziness.

But, right now; I’m planning, scheming, getting ready. There’s a swell forecast that’s too south in direction to make it to the Straits; long period, overhead. The first swell of fall. I’ll let you know how that goes. Meanwhile, Clint went back out, trying the lefts, the party atmosphere continued, someone pulled into the spot I left beachside, I passed at least eight board-topped rigs headed out on my way to go to work. Later, Clint surfed a secret(ish) spot near Port Townsend with one other surfer out.

 

Trestles- In Progress

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TRESTLES- UP AND DOWN- IN PROGRESS

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This photo was taken by Grant Ellis for SURFER MAGAZINE in 2011. It’s pretty much the view I had from the maintenance shed for the San Onofre Housing Area on Camp Pendleton. I worked there from the spring on 1975 to the early summer of 1976, painting interiors when marines and their families were transferred elsewhere. The actual view was from higher and a bit to the left. I could easily crop out the freeway as I was checking out the surf, almost an equally spectacular view from most of the housing area. You might as well delete most of the crowd. Okay. Now focus for a moment on that visible patch of beach. That was about where I’d park, extending my official half hour lunch to an hour and a half, depending (you know what it was depending on). I could have easily been busted by the Military Police or my Civil Service co-workers. Luckily, they were more interested in other activities.

MY ORIGINAL INTENT was to add to the TRESTLES STORY, Trestles from my particular vantage point, and, rather than have Part II, Part III, out of sequence, move the added-to piece up to the first spot with each additional update; but now that I have the photo… we’ll see.

“YOU CAN JUST GET GOING SO FAST…” I told my surfing buddy on the phone. Surely I was as excited in describing my latest surf story as I am when I do so now. Definitely. By this time, 1976, my friend Phil had just become, or was about to become, Doctor Phillip Colby Harper. Back in the conversation, with the tendency, still-with-me, to talk over others, I continued “…going so fast that you go up the wave, then freefall back to the bottom, like… um, it’s like dropping, sideways, with the lip… like, even, inside the lip; then back up again; over and… and… yeah, Trestles. Every day. Extended lunch. Yeah!”

THE FIRST TIME Phillip and I saw Trestles was in 1967. I guess, really, it was Church; we were riding with Bucky Davis, a few years older than us, way ahead of us in surfing, and the boyfriend of Phillip’s sister, Trish. He turned right instead of left past the creek, away from our destination of San Onofre, and up along the beach. He stopped the VW bus when we saw a Marine Corps Military Police jeep on the beach, perpendicular to the water, waiting patiently for the two or three surfers in the water to come in.

“Some day, maybe,” Bucky said. “Not today.” Phillip and I, following Bucky’s lead, flipped off the M.P.s (not so they would notice); the van made a three point turn and we headed around the cove.

THERE WAS a local TV show about that time, on channel 9, possibly titled “Surf’s Up.” It may have come from Santa Barbara rather than Los Angeles. From Fallbrook, North San Diego County, we got that city’s three stations, 6, 8, and 10, and a couple from LA, but the TV Guide listed this surfing program, and, the one time I enlisted my brothers to move the antenna on the roof, I got a blurred, fuzzy image of a segment that happened to feature the magical and forbidden waves of Trestles. “They just roll on and on,” the commentator said, “spinning, like a washing machine.”