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And maybe I'd keep it going to Sav-On to get an ice cream cone, paying my nickel and wandering over to the magazine rack where there'd be copies of Surfer and Surfing on display, one or both of their covers always showing a mammoth wave whose doomsday crest threatened to engulf the surfing Evel Knievel racing for his life down the heaving liquid slope. It was a world I had to finally discover for myself, and when track season ended sophomore year I gave Jim Kalahani a ring and told him I was thinking of buying a surfboard. The polevaulters weren't "athletes" in the conventional sense, but nature boys swinging through the treetops, trapeze artists gliding through the ether and flipping and twisting above the fray, free spirits and renegades who conveniently forgot to wear the prescribed necktie to school on meet days, and who habitually violated the team hair code, and who wouldn't have been caught dead wearing some hokey letterman's jacket.

Surfers rule! Nothing seemed quite so glorious.

Today's tide times for carlsbad 1 km from tamarack ave. tamarack ave. tide times & tide charts

A fter eighth grade Jim and I temporarily parted ways when we graduated St. Teresa's and enrolled at different high schools. They'd experienced hard usage, with dirty wax build-up in the ridges of the supporting bars and the plastic-tubed bungee cords permanently blackened, but I think Jim went for that because mounted on his car it made him look like a seasoned vet. Never quite got that far. No, I never really rode it.

Real ones. N ow, you say "west coast" and it brings to mind all kinds of gaudy images, of palm trees and bikinied blonds and crashing waves on broad sandy beaches—but I was born and raised in the San Fernando Valley, where the closest thing to a beach was the narrow concrete banks of the L. River flood control system. I'm no carpenter, and the legs might collapse. Guys who rode waves standing up.

Here's the Flea from Natural Progression, came the drawling, deviated-septum surfer voice, and we got a fabuloso day shaping up: air temp seventy-eight, water temp sixty-nine, but the waves—sorry guys—a sloppy three foot with onshore winds picking up. Down along the rail. W e started by going halves on a set of used Bay Standard surf racks we saw advertised in the paper.

Other boys I knew at the time were into astronauts, and I remembered reading or hearing somewhere that NASA had once considered recruiting big-wave riders to blast off into space—the idea being, I suppose, to find guys who were on the absolute edge and ready for anything—but apparently the surfers were too busy having a blast in the waves. Even neater was that his father worked as bartender at a Malibu seaview restaurant called the Tonga Lei, and summers we'd leave behind the muggy swelter of the San Fernando Valley with Mr.

Jim's musical taste was informed by his brother's record collection, and as we drove along he'd keep the radio tuned to "Too Hip" KMET, which featured a surf report that came on at a. That would be the report. Here was a world of raw vitality and daring that made even polevaulting seem like pretty tame fare—while reducing practically everything else I'd ever experienced to the level of Disneyland. The nomenclature itself conveyed a dangerous thrill.

Built it into one when I was just a. It's a surfboard, all right, though, and a good one. Yes, in fact, if I were to be honest, the pinnacle of adventure in my life to that point had been automaton pirates in a fake Caribbean and a Jungle Boat Cruise with pneumatic hippos rising out of the water to be shot by a cap-gun wielding teenager at the helm of a boat on underwater rails that always guided you safely past. Then after the credits rolled I'd switch off our console Magnavox and go outside to hop my clay-wheeled skateboard, riding clickety-clack down the street and pretending to shoot the curl at Cape St.

Francis, old ladies and their schnauzers diving from the sidewalk as this pint-sized hellion streaked past. But Robert and Mike weren't bent on saving souls—they were on a quest for the Holy Grail: the perfect wave. Kalahani would first set us up with a couple tall cokes with cherries skewered on toothpicks bobbing in small cubes of ice, then we'd take our place in one of the red naugahyde booths in that part of the restaurant built on pilings over the water and affording a view to the pier.

I showed some aptitude for the event. A lot of coin back then, almost thirty years ago, and a long ways away, out on the west coast, where I grew up.

Never was. Got some solar cruelty in the offing and it's hottin' up in the water too, some grinding overhead barrels that might be hazardous to the health of the Surgeon General but they're just what the surf doc ordered Roger that, Carlsbad, this is Paradise Surfboards in Newport Beach and today we got some Orange County juice pumpin' in—a clean swell outta the southwest that's just startin' to blaze. It's penciled in. Here we learned how to judge the swells, time a takeoff, and keep cool on wipeouts as we got held under and tossed around like gnats in a high-speed blender.

After arriving at the Tonga Lei, Mr. Kalahani would start in to polishing up his glasses while we caught the bus on Pacific Coast Highway the famous "PCH" and rode it to Zuma Beach, bellyboards braced between our knees. But it was more than that: here were my own private, cherished thoughts according exactly with those of another. Not only was it a sport at which I could excel, but it seemed to attract the type guys I liked being around. A slight grit taking the bloom off that morning glass but still very workable, and it can only get better with the low Welcome to the space world of cosmic surfing, earthlings, this is Tamarack Mack's in Carlsbad.

In his aloha shirt and in this kitsch tropical paradise, you half-expected him to grab up a yuke and start crooning Tiny Bubbleshula girls in coconut bras swaying in from the wings. Robbie Dick. Gang way! After awhile we'd pick up and return to the Tonga Lei. Arriving there with bellyboards under our arms and sand still caking our ankles, we'd pass between carved tiki gods into a chill dark lobby and shiver and grope our way through to the lounge, its thatch ceiling hung with exotic lamps and its walls decorated with South Sea artifacts.

He was a full-blooded Hawaiian who could Seeking Germany with surfers at tamerak faster and punt or throw a football farther and smack harder line drives than me or most anyone in our class. As a kid I'd fooled around with gymnastics, so polevaulting's acrobatics didn't spook me, and that first season I made jayvees and then the following year I trained with the varsity and upped my personal best to 13'0", which was also cutoff for making the Los Angeles Times "Best Marks" list appearing every week, where it was parenthetically noted that the youngster who had scaled this worthy and honorable height was only a sophomore.

We'd never discussed the matter before, and I felt a conspiratorial pleasure, as if confessing our mutual plan of running off to the circus. Today we got a low pressure system making for some hot-doggy, three-to-five foot surf with occasional larger sets.

Broke da mout! Y ou didn't know I was a surfer? With polevaulting I felt I'd really found my niche. Sure, it used to be a surfboard, but now it's a coffee table. That's what I'd been hoping he'd say, since at fifteen I still wasn't driving.

(tide times for tamarack ave. are taken from the nearest tide station at carlsbad)

We were starting guards for the Saint Teresa team. Don't sit on it. And the closest I ever got to surfers was viewing The Endless Summer on TV, which the local channels would show now and then on Saturday afternoons. Not the way you're supposed to, at least, standing upright and cutting diagonally across the face of the wave, away from the whitewater, on the green edge of the swell.

Well, I'm not. But man, this place spits. Kid's stuff. Then fifteen minutes later, after driving through Malibu Canyon, you crested the rise near the church and more often than not the ocean would be ribbed with swell and the waves peeling into shore with a smooth geometric precision. I give it a six on the fun-o-meter-six foot and hollow!

This surfing world had nothing safe about it. On that same pit, lolling in the sun and waiting for practice to begin, they'd always talk surfing. That there? Jim had once rented a surfboard for the day at Waikiki, and I'd picked up rudimentary body-surfing on occasional family outings to Santa Monica Beach, but it was at Zuma that we gained our first real lessons in wave-riding. But my chances of doing that appeared somehow less remote What was so tough about sitting atop a thirty-story rocket and letting someone light the fuse?

In the past couple years surfing had been pushed to the back of my thoughts, but now the youthful longings came surging back. Then in seventh grade I started paling around with Jim Kalahani. Ono ono!

Biathlon heaven at mammoth mountain

Not even flying to the moon. Unless ya wanna put a bag over its head and do it for Old Glory, best bet today is just take your board to the pool and have Brian Wilson jump in. When the Santa Anas blew hot and strong, they'd let the pit cover billow out and pretend a wave was pitching over their he.

We can go together. He went to Reseda High and I was placed in an all-boys Catholic academy, where in the spring I ed the track team and started polevaulting. Our authentic kanaka barkeep.

I could see their point. And wonder of wonders they found it, at a secret spot called Cape St. Francis, a place of healing waters on a par with Lourdes but a heck of a lot more fun. Propped on the bamboo-trimmed bar would be middle-aged men in cardigan sweaters rolled to mid-forearm and scooping salted peanuts out of iridescent abalone shells and sipping vivid drinks with parasols and plastic monkeys hanging from the rims, and stationed behind the bar would be a stocky chocolate-skinned guy with thick black hair parted on the side and a double row of white Chicelets teeth.

Beyond the pier we could make out the white lines of breakers peeling off the first point at Malibu, and just ahead of the white were upright figures, sovereign and in command. But in one sport I'd attained rough parity: basketball. Jim was a neat friend to have.

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You wunna eat? Just like Pipeline, breaks on a reef, and if you make the drop, baby, you're gold. I'd sit cross-legged on the shag carpet in our wood-paneled den and watch Robert and Mike traveling the globe, going from one airport to the next with their short haircuts and black suits, longboards under their arms, and for all the world looking like a couple Mormon missionaries wanting to squeeze in a little surfing between conversions. I paid a hundred bucks for it, and it probably went for two hundred new.

Then the report would finally check in at Malibu, whose hookup, Natural Progression, gave all those eager listeners in the hinterland deliberate bum steers so as to keep the water free of detested "Vals" and other non-locals. We also learned how to maneuver, riding a slalom course through all the fully dressed Mexicans and other waders splashing around in the shorebreak—no mean feat—and after swallowing our limit of saltwater we'd emerge from the surf and pick our way through all the dead jellyfish and kids digging for sandcrabs and then flop onto our towels before switching to our backs and staying propped on our elbows, watching the be of water dry on our chests and breathing an air spiked with the fragrance of suntan oil as tinny transistors sounded from neighboring blankets and loud-mouth mothers warned their children not to go in the water if they'd eaten the potato salad in the past half hour.

They say he was one of the best. It was a world of "dawn patrols" and "cleanup sets," of "closeouts" and "wipeouts," of "elephant guns" and "surfaris" to places like Shark's Cove and Razor Blades and Hazard Canyon. Yeah, it's pretty old-fashioned, but boards back then weren't the tiny slivers they're riding now. But have a close look at the shaper—the guy who deed the board.