"In 1963, when I was seven years old, a previously-unknown rock n' roll band called The Surfaris suddenly scored a monster hit, then sank like a stone. The Surfaris were textbook one-hit wonders.The tune was a bare-bones, mechanically repetitious instrumental, but there was definitely something new there: the spark of whatever is meant by "style."
It rocketed up the charts, soon becoming a staple among garage bands across America. After all, any idiot who could master three guitar chords could play Wipe-Out.
The song helped ignite the nationwide surfing craze which went on to dominate that era. And anyone who was growing up then knows what its title means: to "wipe out" is to fall off your surfboard and land, ignominiously, in the drink.
Decades later, I've been learning of such things firsthand.
Late last August, about six weeks ahead of my 49th birthday, I decided to take up surfing.
Although I have traveled much, I spent most of my childhood and youth right here in the South Bay, and have as much right as anyone to claim the title "Californian." When I was with the U.S. State Department, moving around the globe, my Foreign Service friends would invariably ask me two questions when they learned I was from California: (1) Have you ever been in an earthquake? And (2) Are you a surfer?
Do it, I decided. It's a birthright.
I contacted Randy Couts, a 30-year veteran surfer and professional surfing instructor, and we arranged to meet in Coronado for my first lesson.
Loitering in the family kitchen with my sisters Carla and Lynne, I mentioned my plans. Carla approved wholeheartedly: "It's great exercise!" My little sister Lynne, who always knew how to flatter me, chimed in with, "As if he needs it. He's as hard as a rock." Yeah, right. Anyway, I had my first surfing lesson Saturday, September 4, 2004.
Six days later my little sister died.
She was addicted to both alcohol and painkillers, and our 90 year-old father had a doctor's prescription for methadone. Lynne got into Dad's methadone, unwittingly took more than she could handle, chased it down with liquor, lay down for a midmorning nap and, soon after, stopped breathing. She was 47.
That was Friday, September 10. My next lesson was scheduled for the following day. I canceled.
But a week later, I was back in Coronado with Randy, paddling around in the soup, going "outside," (e.g. beyond the breakers) learning the trick of "arching" to establish balance before attempting to stand up on the board. And wiping out. Over and over.
The cliche about climbing back on your bicycle doesn't really apply here. After all, my surfing lessons and my sister's death had nothing to do with each other except timing.
But when you lose a loved one, you're handed the most basic existential choice anyone ever faces: do I go on, or not?
Some people don't. Lynne, for example. Our mother died in 2000. While the rest of us worked through the seasons of grief until the pain faded as it will, Lynne could not and would not relinquish her grief. It stayed, and co-opted her life. Chronically depressed, she withdrew into booze, pills and comfort food. She did little during her final year except sleep, watch TV, drink brandy straight from the bottle, smoke cigarettes and order pizza from La Bella's. Her death was accidental, but by the time it happened, her interest in going on living was perfunctory at best.
People still ask Carla and me how we're managing. We have a ready reply: "We're putting one foot in front of the other. That's all you can do."
Perhaps it sounds trite, but that really is the choice. Put one foot in front of the other. Or don't. In my case, beneath the umbrella of that long walk falls the ongoing attempt to master a zen-like art: getting my feet positioned properly on the surfboard so as to stay balanced on a wave. "Catch a wave and you're sittin' on top of the world," the Beach Boys once sang. Well, I'm a long, long way from sitting on top of the world, but at this point I'm doing well if, coming "inside," I manage to avoid a wipe-out. "
The tragic death of my younger sister aside, from which I am still recovering, it was a pretty conceit I had back then: boy returns to California after years of traveling, and, on the fair cusp of age 50, decides to become a surfer.
I was serious enough about it. Not only did I take some lessons from the redoubtable Randy Couts, but I also bought a used surfboard from him, not to mention a brand-new $200 wet suit from the Surf Hut in Imperial Beach, CA.
But this idea went the way of the best-laid plans. For one thing, my lessons kind of fizzled out. I had engaged Randy on a for-trade basis: instead of cash, I was going to pay him for the lessons by writing an article for the local newspaper about him and his business, teaching people to surf for $50 an hour. Since he wasn't being paid in cash, Randy's motivation for continuing the lessons probably wasn't the strongest, and in any case his interest was listing away from surfing and toward golf. After four lessons, we just didn't get together anymore.
The romantic image of the lonely surfer catching a few last waves in the sunset may be an attractive one, but that lonely surfer is probably not a beginner, as I was. Without someone to surf with, my own motivation to go out and get wet wasn't much better than lukewarm, especially being a beginner and therefore likely to make a fool of myself in front of more experienced surfers.
There was also my fear of the water. Randy concentrated on trying to get me over it, and he had a small measure of success, ("Here, where we're paddling, it's only about eight feet deep.") but he had a big demon to kill: when I was 11 years old I got caught in a rip current and damn near drowned at Silver Strand State Beach, just a couple of miles to the south of Coronado, where Randy was teaching me. I'm a good enough swimmer, but ever since that day have had a fear of going into the ocean deeper than up to my shoulders. Paddling out to the line with Randy was one thing, but after he was gone, it took a lot to get me to try it alone.
The truth is, after my lessons with Randy petered out in November, 2004 with the higher surf of winter coming on, I only attempted to go out two more times. In January, 2005 I strapped my board to the roof of my 1995 Saturn, went out to Coronado by myself, got into my wet suit, paddled around for about 30 minutes and then went home.
I didn't try again until June, when I placed an ad on the Internet for someone to surf with, and a nice guy up in Pacific Beach sent me an e-mail. He invited me to meet him at Tourmaline, one of San Diego's most popular surfing spots, the following Saturday. We did meet, and we did take our surfboards into the water, and we did start paddling, and that's where any resemblance between what he was doing and what I was doing ended. He was surfing, e.g. catching waves and riding them in while standing on his board. I was floundering, e.g. slipping, falling off, not even attempting to stand up. I made it out to the line once, but was having such an exhausting time just sitting on my board trying to not to tip over that I gave up in frustration and came in after just a few minutes.
He was nice about the whole thing, ("Well, you did make it out there once") and even suggested that we might try again in a couple of weeks, but I didn't hear from him again and I don't blame him.
Since then, my surfboard has just sat in the weeds, gathering dust.
And now I'm getting ready to leave the ocean far behind. My wife and I have purchased a business in Spokane, Washington and we plan to be moving there within the next few weeks. Spokane, as a quick glance at the atlas reveals, is roughly 250 miles inland from Seattle. That means 250 miles from the beach. Skiing is very big in Spokane. Surfing is not.
We will be having a garage sale soon, but believe it or not, I do not plan to get rid of my surfboard. I'm going to keep it, as a reminder of a nice idea I once had, and perhaps even as a hedge against the future. Who knows whether I might once again live near the ocean one day, and want to try taking up this wonderful sport again? My recent conceit was to be a 50 year-old surfer. There's no reason why I couldn't be a 60 year-old one.
In fact, we went up to Encinitas a week ago and ended up having lunch at a Caribbean-themed cafe there. I picked up a copy of the local newspaper, the Coast News, and, while waiting for my lunch, read a column by local surfer Chris Ahrens, who has written four books about surfing and who regularly writes for that paper. His Feb. 27 column was a tribute to local surfing filmmaker Hal Jepsen, who died Feb. 6.
Chris' column mentioned a memorial paddle scheduled for Feb. 26 at Buccaneer Beach. This is a lovely ritual in the world of surfing: when a famous figure in the sport dies, quite often his brother and sister surfers will get together at a specified beach and paddle "out to the line" in his memory. I actually thought of e-mailing Chris for directions and joining the memorial paddle, as a gesture of respect from a wannabe who loves the idea of surfing but didn't manage to quite "get there," at least not this time.
But no, the memorial paddle was set for the next day. Too short notice. I decided to let it pass. (Besides, what if I were to slip and fall off my surfboard in front of all those experienced surfers? It would have been too much to bear.)
We leave in four weeks. My surfboard is lying in the driveway, my wet suit down in the garage among boxes of old clothes and rusty bicycles.
But I'm trying to get psyched up to go out to the beach, by myself, just one last time. Before we pack up and leave for Spokane, I am determined to get that surfboard back atop that Saturn, toss my wetsuit into the trunk, drive out to Coronado myself and, by hook or by crook, get on that board and paddle out to the line, whether there's actually any "line" there or not. (Actually, I think I'd feel less pressure if there were no one around.) As Randy reminded me, the water at Coronado is only eight feet deep, and I can swim. If I fall in the drink, which I'm bound to, I'll make it to shore okay. After all, the board floats; that's what surfboards do.
As I say, I owe it to a good idea I once had, not to mention my love for the southern California coast where I grew up, and my somewhat-hushed respect for a sport I've always admired, if somehow from afar.
Hail, cowabunga and farewell.
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