The whole time that the US Open had been going on, I hadn’t paddled out once, instead focusing on sitting on the pier with my ukelele every morning, commemorating a record I’d made twenty-five years earlier.  Now that the contest was over, the crowds had dispersed, and the Van’s Village was coming down fast. 

The pulse of the day was coming on strong, so I decided to head down to Tower 7 with my board before the Gathering, and at least get wet.  In one week, the waves had gone from epic to almost nothing, as if the competition had used them all up, but I’d observed a few things from the pros that I wanted to try and put into practice.

I got the Muley out from the side of the shed, the bike with the surf rack attached to it, and grabbed the spring suit I’d picked up from the Frog House at the beginning of the summer.  My board was a 9”0 Russel that had been my brother’s prize board in high school.  It had sat beside my mother’s house so long the resin had turned to amber, and the fin had come out of the fin box, but I’d managed to pound it back in.

After taking the Muley in to get the back tire fixed, it had been returned to me, stuck in seventh gear, and that’s what I struggled with now.  It was almost impossible to pedal, and the front tire kept hitting the nose of the board every time I turned too sharply.  Just making my way to the beach, I was already putting on a seminar.  How to recognize a kook.

I’d surfed enough to know the difference between a kook who’s a beginner and makes honest mistakes, however, as opposed to one who knows how to surf and consciously disrespects surf etiquette and the other surfers.  I’d missed a lot of waves in my time and blown a lot of rides, but I’d never dropped in on anyone on purpose, and had been able to celebrate the achievements of others, without getting too envious. 

Jason always said that the best surfer on any given day is the one having the most fun.  When the Gallows first got together, we all would have tied for first place on any given day. As I made my way to Tower 7, I remembered seeing the other guys one morning, crossing the bike-path ahead of me, looking like a team of superheroes, one I was proud to be a part of.

Back then we’d always joked about staging a kook Olympics.  We had all these patented moves: the stunt man left, stunt man right, pearl jam, Malachi crunch.  I had my own invention, the cat on a hot tin roof, but also another stunt I was saving, should that much joked-about contest ever come into fruition.  It is a variation of the Niagara Plunge, except one where you need to lock both your arms and legs around the board, bent at the elbows and knees, and go over the falls sideways, looking at the crowd with a big smile.  That would be untouchable.

When I got to Tower 7, I could hardly believe my eyes.  It was high tide and the waves were no bigger than a foot.  I wasn’t even going to be able to catch any shore-break.  Still, I paddled out and sat facing Catalina.  There were things to consider.  As a seasoned ghost on the roam, it felt about time to be hitting the road, but by now I’d made some friends, was thinking about another record, and had even met a girl.  What did it all mean? 

Maybe one day I’d actually leap to my feet and ride a big wave around the world.  In the meantime, I’d have to just keep showing up and see what happened next.