On the third morning of the US open, the swell generated by Hurricane Frank off the coast of Central America had reached Huntington Beach, and overnight the waves had gone from two feet to six feet.  From PCH, the muffled thud of them breaking could be heard and felt, as if the ocean were a field of land mines.  I took a bench right above the impact zone and stared into the breakers.  It felt like the world was falling away right below my feet.

Up until now, I’d been playing my ukulele for anyone passing by, but this day I decided to direct my music at the waves for the rest of the contest.  I’d spent too many years hoping that a life-changing break was right around the corner, instead of appreciating that any day you’re able to sit around and play music is a lucky one.

Just then I was approached by a man who went so far as to sit on the bench beside me.  Yes, another ukulele enthusiast.  There is no shortage of them.  Dick was also a surfer and fisherman who had spent twenty years living in Hawaii.  I told him the history of the ukulele I was holding, how my father’s first church had been in Waikiki, on the ninth floor of the only skyscraper at the time, and how he’d purchased it on a return visit to the islands and later given it to me.  I neglected to say anything about the anniversary of my record.

Although the waves were big, there weren’t many rideable sections, and there was a treacherous current from the south.  Indeed, during the first heat of the day, one of the women in the Challenger series ended up too close to the pier and couldn’t get out, paddling in place for the next five minutes, barely ducking beneath the murderous sets.  The lifeguards on their jet-skis hovered in readiness, 

At that point, Jiminy appeared over my left shoulder.  As usual he was all smiles, mangled smiles, but still smiles, even more so because it was women who were doing the surfing.  What he admired about their form wasn’t what the judges were looking at.   He’d become an icon, a symbol of all that’s right with surfing, the day he attempted to shoot the pier, flashing a peace sign at everyone looking down, before crashing head-first into one of the pilings.

He began to shout directions to the girl still struggling below us, and though the north wind may have already been blowing too hard for him to be heard, she seemed to sense what he saying.  She caught the next wave in and then ran down the beach to get in front of the tide while there was still some time left on the clock.