The sun was rising in the east, through rippled clouds that were the color of peaches.  It was quiet at the end of the pier. Despite the surf competition that was going on, the only thing getting attention at the moment was a black seal that was swimming between fishing lines, looking to snatch up an easy snack.  I saw Lydia in her uniform, the black track suit, her grey hair up in a bun, wrapping up her nightly ramble, in search of a son who disappeared in the waves years ago.  Another long vigil and still no clue, like so many of us who wander through life never finding the answers we seek.

The contest was beginning to wind down and so were the waves.  Although they had peaked out at six to seven feet midweek, the surf was predicted to be three to four feet during the finals.  I’d been out there every morning with my ukelele.  The idea had been to celebrate the twenty-fifth anniversary of my first record Ghost on the Roam, but I hadn’t done anything to promote it, instead, mostly playing to the waves.

There is only one copy of the record that remains.  I tracked it down on E-bay after burying six boxes of it in a landfill twenty years ago, more to hide my disgrace than conceal any great treasure.  From that copy I’d created wave files that I transferred onto my phone.  Now, with an Anker Bluetooth speaker, I figured I’d sit and play the record in its entirety.  It had been a long time since I listened to it.

What I heard was an enthusiastic, unpolished burst of energy, and a young guy I didn’t even recognize anymore, wearing his heart fully on his sleeve.  He’d hoped at the time that it would open some magical door, when in fact every door had stayed closed and forced him off the map, in sheer desperation.  I sat mouthing the words at people who looked right through me.  Were they blind?  Were they deaf?   Who were all these people who’d never once stopped to listen?   I was used to it by now, but momentarily felt the pain of rejection come back and lash me like a stingray’s tail.

The area where Main Street meets the PCH in Huntington Beach has been called the Times Square of surfing.  You have Jack’s, with the surfing Hall of Fame, on one side of Main Street, and Huntington Surf and Sport, with the Walk of Fame, and statue of Duke Kahanamoku, the father of modern surfing, on the other. 

As I was leaving the pier, I saw that a big tent had been set right at the intersection.  It was an induction ceremony for the Surfing Hall of Fame.  The audience was made up of a lot of long-time locals and some of the titans of surf.  I pushed the Cruiser over and stood in back, listening to a couple of the speeches.  A famous board-shaper was being inducted, as well as a former Open Champion, and a popular band that used to play at the Golden Bear.  No matter how long I hung around my mother’s yard in Huntington Beach, I’d never belong to that club.  I would always be an outsider among outsiders, just another phantom blowing through.

At the end of the ceremony, a collection of surf-greats, past and present, all wearing Hawaiian shirts, got up for a group picture.  That’s when I noticed Fresno Joe climb up on stage and try to wedge his way into the picture.  That figured.  Where he’d gotten the Hawaiian shirt from, I have no idea, but it hardly matched his tattered board trunks and dirty, bare feet.  If there was attention at all to be had, he was sure to be there.  He was going around shaking hands, trying to pass himself off as one of the Big Kahunas from the 70s.  Later, he even signed a program for a kid.  That was just messed up.