The Surfer
He was alone. He was unheeded, happy, and near to the world
heart of life. He was alone and young and willful and wildhearted, alone
amidst a waste of wild air and brackish waters
and the sea harvest of shells and tangle and veiled gray sunlight.
James Joyce
heart of life. He was alone and young and willful and wildhearted, alone
amidst a waste of wild air and brackish waters
and the sea harvest of shells and tangle and veiled gray sunlight.
James Joyce
It all seemed so exotic and remote. The picture was from a dog-eared, copy of Surfer Magazine. The issues date was fall 1962 and the photo said it all...Paul Gebauer at Sunset Beach, Hawaii. The twenty-five foot wave looked cold and terrifying, but at the same time beautiful. Gebauer poised cool and indifferent, an aquatic existentialist.
We were at Johnny Walczak's house after school. He wanted us to see why he had been going to the beach so often. We were alone because Walczak's parents were divorced and his father had custody. Even in the eighth grade Johnny went home after school to an empty house. He had complete run of it until his father came home at 6:30 pm. When he finally came home he would only stay long enough to shower and dress before he mysteriously slipped out again. (Frank Walczak cast a dashing figure, even by 1960s standards; slipper like loafers, linen blouses, and a mustache a la Gilbert Roland. He owned a beauty salon.)
Johnny Walczak was considered beautiful. All the girls in school said it. He had straight black, blue hair with see-through azure eyes and he had some kind of Zen deal going on. People were drawn to his quietness to see what he had to say. The biggest rumor about Johnny Walczak was that he had "gone all the way" with the Troy and Tracy twins. He was fourteen and they were thirteen. Walczak had achieved some kind of playground sainthood, ascending into the neighborhood myth.
That day he wanted to show us something called Surfer Magazine. One on one, his message about surfing was evangelical and almost feverish. " Freedom...speed..nothing touches it. Forget about baseball. SURFING IS LIKE...YOU'VE NEVER DONE ANYTHING LIKE IT. IT'S BITCHIN'.
We lived in Riverside, which meant we lived, not in Los Angeles, but in a place somewhat close, but very different. No one would ever recognize Riverside as a beach. It was not Malibu. But, oh, how we wanted it to be. It was a town built on the margins. To the east, the mountains and the desert. To the west, rolling hills and ocean. The sky was large and expansive. The horizon was an outline of hardscrabble, bouldered hills. Riverside's roots were shallow with a thin layer of surface dirt and deep bedrock. If you scanned the city above the tree line all you saw was desert. Some of the finest neighborhoods were built inventively on the hard edges of the cragged cliffs. The box canyon ran between the hills and nothing but rattlesnakes and lizards lived there. Everything that was green was artificial or transplanted. The magnolia, eucalyptus, and naval orange trees were planted in an effort to tame the untameable. My parents met in Riverside at the outset of World War ll. After the war it was a city in transition. A canal system wound through the neighborhoods. We lived at the end of a dead end street and our yard butted up against a small section of the canal. A six-foot industrial fence cut Harding Street in two. On the left side, the haves; on the right, the have-nots. As I looked out my bedroom window my eyes always veered to the left.
I sent for a copy of Surfer Magazine and I bought the poster of Paul Gebauer at Sunset. I waited for weeks and weeks for it to arrive. I eventually got a poster of Ricky Gregg at Makaha Beach. With the other space space on the wall I hung up pictures that I cut out from the magazine. Decorated in bamboo, my room was beginning to look like "Moondoggies" beach hut.
I saw it in an ad in Surfer Magazine. Kanvas by Katin. The logo was worth it all...a kid with "bushy bushy blond hair" holding a surfboard. I wanted to be that kid. I began to create my own copy. "Rugged canvas trunks that could withstand the incredible rigors of the ocean." I shouldn't purchase anything less. I ordered my first pair. Orange with a black pocket. They looked like Halloween.
The "surfer look" was on display at various concert halls in southern California. Harmony Park in Anaheim. The Rendezvous Ballroom in Balboa. And the National Guard Armory in Riverside. White Levis. A pressed Penny's 100% white cotton pocketed tee shirt. A pair of black Converse
We were at Johnny Walczak's house after school. He wanted us to see why he had been going to the beach so often. We were alone because Walczak's parents were divorced and his father had custody. Even in the eighth grade Johnny went home after school to an empty house. He had complete run of it until his father came home at 6:30 pm. When he finally came home he would only stay long enough to shower and dress before he mysteriously slipped out again. (Frank Walczak cast a dashing figure, even by 1960s standards; slipper like loafers, linen blouses, and a mustache a la Gilbert Roland. He owned a beauty salon.)
Johnny Walczak was considered beautiful. All the girls in school said it. He had straight black, blue hair with see-through azure eyes and he had some kind of Zen deal going on. People were drawn to his quietness to see what he had to say. The biggest rumor about Johnny Walczak was that he had "gone all the way" with the Troy and Tracy twins. He was fourteen and they were thirteen. Walczak had achieved some kind of playground sainthood, ascending into the neighborhood myth.
That day he wanted to show us something called Surfer Magazine. One on one, his message about surfing was evangelical and almost feverish. " Freedom...speed..nothing touches it. Forget about baseball. SURFING IS LIKE...YOU'VE NEVER DONE ANYTHING LIKE IT. IT'S BITCHIN'.
We lived in Riverside, which meant we lived, not in Los Angeles, but in a place somewhat close, but very different. No one would ever recognize Riverside as a beach. It was not Malibu. But, oh, how we wanted it to be. It was a town built on the margins. To the east, the mountains and the desert. To the west, rolling hills and ocean. The sky was large and expansive. The horizon was an outline of hardscrabble, bouldered hills. Riverside's roots were shallow with a thin layer of surface dirt and deep bedrock. If you scanned the city above the tree line all you saw was desert. Some of the finest neighborhoods were built inventively on the hard edges of the cragged cliffs. The box canyon ran between the hills and nothing but rattlesnakes and lizards lived there. Everything that was green was artificial or transplanted. The magnolia, eucalyptus, and naval orange trees were planted in an effort to tame the untameable. My parents met in Riverside at the outset of World War ll. After the war it was a city in transition. A canal system wound through the neighborhoods. We lived at the end of a dead end street and our yard butted up against a small section of the canal. A six-foot industrial fence cut Harding Street in two. On the left side, the haves; on the right, the have-nots. As I looked out my bedroom window my eyes always veered to the left.
I sent for a copy of Surfer Magazine and I bought the poster of Paul Gebauer at Sunset. I waited for weeks and weeks for it to arrive. I eventually got a poster of Ricky Gregg at Makaha Beach. With the other space space on the wall I hung up pictures that I cut out from the magazine. Decorated in bamboo, my room was beginning to look like "Moondoggies" beach hut.
I saw it in an ad in Surfer Magazine. Kanvas by Katin. The logo was worth it all...a kid with "bushy bushy blond hair" holding a surfboard. I wanted to be that kid. I began to create my own copy. "Rugged canvas trunks that could withstand the incredible rigors of the ocean." I shouldn't purchase anything less. I ordered my first pair. Orange with a black pocket. They looked like Halloween.
The "surfer look" was on display at various concert halls in southern California. Harmony Park in Anaheim. The Rendezvous Ballroom in Balboa. And the National Guard Armory in Riverside. White Levis. A pressed Penny's 100% white cotton pocketed tee shirt. A pair of black Converse
low top tennis shoes. And finally, a Pendleton wool shirt. I wanted one like Jim Fogler had...soft powder blue. My parents said Pendleton was too expensive and they could by one that was exactly like it. It was a black and red check lumberman shirt from Sears.
The first time I wore my new clothes was to a dance at the National Guard Armory in Riverside. That night it was Louie Louie night. A band played Louie Louie all night long. No other songs. I got a ride with Vito, who had a learners permit and his uncle's brand new truck. I tagged along with Vito and Mike Soccio. They were sophomores and I was a freshman. I had never been around so many old kids . I tried to stand indifferent hoping no one would notice me. I knew I was over my head so I didn't want any trouble. About halfway through the night a group of vatos from Casa Blanca started walking towards me in the men's bathroom. I recognized "Pinky" form Corona Little League games. He was the only kid that drove to the games in his car, a lowered pink Chevy Impala convertable...with his wife...and his baby. The "boys" were wearing their uniform; heavily strarched oversize khhaki slacks , pressed white tee shirts, and spit polished cap-toed Florsheims. The were walking, leaning backwards with their thumbs hooked to their front belt loops. Pinky walked up to me and "ese pendajo surfer boy.Fuck you chingada." He turned around to leave but completed the 360 degree turn and delivered a short, quick, right to my chin. I feel to the floor in a heap. I was stunned and wanted to cry, but I swallowed my tears and limped off. A bruised ego and a little more reticent to go out on weekend nights. I had gotten more that I had bargained for and I was way out of my league.
One good thing happened that night. Rick Gaynor, surfer/poseur, playboy, walked in while I was walking out. We went to his car and he showed me how to play Miserlou on his guitar. All on one string. Like many transient people in my life Gaynor eventually disappeared after awhile
Who the fuck knows. Probably ended up playing with the Challengers (surf band superstars).
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