When the gang first saw it, they were in awe.  The peak rears up out of the open ocean and breaks right and left but the left is longer and hollower and steeper.  Up the beach, to the right, the locals surf the first peak which is left also and has a channel to paddle out in.  Out at the Jetty, a long right breaks out of deep water down the jetty and all the way into the first peak.  The locals jealously guard this wave and threaten to maim anyone they catch surfing it.   No one surfs the big peak to the far left that breaks off a sunken shipwreck because this is where the swell focuses and pulses.   The paddle out here is too difficult, it takes an experienced waterman up to thirty minutes to get past the beach break out to the lineup where the waves crest.   No one surfs the peak except fools.   When Zucky first saw the break he exclaimed, “it looks like a huge washing machine,” hence its name that lingers onward into the twenty-first century.   “It’s the washing machine, zoom zoom.”

This Saturday at five in the morning, Kool, Playboy and the Wracks gear up for a visit to the strand and the washing machine.   Wracks has a new 4mm super suit with a spigot to inflate with air when you are drowning, Kool has a red rocket seven-foot eight-inch pintail shaped by Rdick and Playboy has another potato chip gun because he is a team rider and Wracks has his homemade six-foot eight-inch three fin inspired by Craig Wilson of Makaha and relayed by the Lu—ay.     Wracks glassed two trailer fins on his Wilken Meth model so he has one too.   Up the PCH past point zero and Sakis and the big rock into the Nards and the turnoff on Channel Islands boulevard to Mandalay and the Strand.   The Pang-oh gang heard of this creation of God probably from Kool and they with their girls and their vans and the four-speaker cassette players line up at the store on the beach for provisions before the go out.  Yeah says WW who is dressed in a mink coat and spent the whole night dancing and partying and the girls are in mini skirts with trench coats to brace themselves from the cold offshore wind flowing outward from the agricultural valley.

Let’s walk down the beach and check it out says the Wracks

I have to finish my beer and get a new smoke says Kool

Let me put on my jacket says playboy.

The white sand with grey flecks in it is cold to the feet and the three get a first glimpse at 6 thirty am of the washing machine with a hard offshore wind.   A huge wave rears up out of the open ocean and grows and crests and then breaks left down the beach like the pipeline on Oahu.   Another breaks, then another, and the ocean near shore turns into seething white froth. 

It is at least ten foot says Playboy, I can’t tell because it is so far out

I don’t go left that well says the Wracks, I am a Malibu boy

You are going to learn today says Playboy.   I hope you learn fast.

I love lefts says Kool.   Big lefts and fast lefts, spitting.

They run back to the car and everyone is gearing up.  Wracks brought a bar of super psychedelic Sugarman surf wax and they share the bar as they wax their boards. 

Remember to time the sets says Playboy.   Don’t paddle out till the last wave of the set hits the sandbar or you will never get out.  I forgot to tell you, this place swarms with great white sharks.   If you see one just paddle into shore, they only hit something that is stationary. 

The waves carve a huge ledge of sand from the beach to the break and everyone jumps off into the surf.

Remember to time the sets.

A four wave set hits the sandbar and huge peaks break churning into the shallow sandy beach water The peak waves hit every fifteen minutes.   The Wracks wades into the spinning shallows and steps on something that moves out from under his feet.   A set hits and the Wracks starts paddling as fast as his body will let him.   Luck favors him and a small set begins to break just as the Wracks clears the inner waters and spray shoots out from his board as he barely lurches over the top.  He continues to paddle because he doesn’t want to be caught inside and face a long swim in shark infested waters.  He sits outside of his friends and notices that he is long way out.   A huge set hits and he sees Playboy scratching for the horizon on his purple gun so the Wracks takes the first wave and goes right towards the shipwreck and he barely gets into it because of the offshore and he drops and drops and drops and makes his bottom turn going faster than he ever has his whole life.  Shooting towards the top of the waves the centrifugal force glues him to the top of the wave then he spurts out of it in the impact zone.  His friends were not lucky, they got cleaned up by a huge set and are swimming in.  The set must have been twenty feet high.  Not only is it an arduous task to paddle out at the Washing machine but out in the lineup cleanup sets come out of nowhere and drown anyone brave enough to challenge mother nature.  The waves are at least four times overhead and no one can tell standing directly on the shore.

The Wracks flounders in the white water, times the sets and paddles out again.   He catches a mid-sized left tube and drops and turns backside and trims and the tube catches up to him and it is lights out.   Using the backstroke to get to shore quickly, the Wracks retrieves his board and sits on the ledge in the sand.   Kool drops down a huge monster, fades and turns and gets a ride like you see on TV and then he pops out the back and scratches for the open ocean and doesn’t make it.   A huge wave slams down on top of him, his board is free and he is swimming.   Playboy gets a nice left and kicks out in time and so does BA on his NP gun.   Wracks time the sets and goes out one more time.    He catches a huge wave at the peak, goes to the bottom and turns, rockets to the top and hits a white shark on the back, and is stopped dead cold in the water.  He saw the huge shark and couldn’t turn because he was going so fast he hopes the shark is not mad and doesn’t come and get him as he freestyles towards the beach as fast as he can. 

That’s enough for me today says the Wracks.   I don’t want to press my luck.

He watches his friends get a couple more rides and then the wind turns hard offshore, it is 11 thirty and the session is over. 

That was the hardest paddle out I have ever experienced says playboy

I got a big left tube says Kool.   Big and round

I ran over a shark says the Wracks and am still alive.   

Good session says, Playboy.   Let’s head home

The white and yellow Volkswagen camper with blaring tuned exhaust heads south after the boys raid the local dairy for fresh chocolate milk and donuts.  Playboy and Kool sit up front and share something smoking and the Wracks lays supine in the back with a rug and the surfboards covering his body.

Time flies by and soon he is home on Bacon land and he unloads his board and suit and thanks Playboy for the ride.   He goes inside and his father sits in the green chair and smokes and asks him

Where have you been?

I went surfing up in the Nards

Did you have a good time

I caught some big waves and ran over a shark and it didn’t eat me

You have a fervent imagination says Father Wracks.

I couldn’t believe it either because it was where the waves are breaking

It probably was a huge piece of driftwood says father Wracks

Driftwood doesn’t swim says the Wracks

Whatever says father Wracks, take a warm shower and continue your studies.

I will says the Wracks, I am really tired

The Washing Machine is still there.   It breaks three times bigger than any break near it on a northwest swell.   No one surfs it because the paddle out is too arduous and difficult.  There is a little convenience store on the strand that lets you park there if you buy food from them.  Later Wracks would drive up there and watch solo,  no one else on the beach with ten to fifteen-foot waves every day, and a couple of times he went out alone.  And time moves on and the past is gone and now Wracks doesn’t surf anymore.  It was just another Saturday in the past.   

Let’s go, says BG.  I have to make a run up to SB and visit some friends. Are you in?

Sure, says Wracks. Can I bring my board? 

We are going to surf Hammonds reef, says BG. This place exists as the secret spot of SB and only locals get to visit there.  Tag along and I will show you why.

Let me get my stuff, says Wracks.   I always wanted to surf Hammonds reef but never knew where it is.

The colony situates on the beach, north of the Con and its existence shrouds by a huge strand of tall trees that obliviate notice of its existence.  Bates Hammon owns the hotel at the hill overlooking the little corner.  Keep your mind open and don’t say anything and you will get by.  

A wrack grabs his grocery bag and loads the usual stuff of a surf adventure with BG.  In the sack goes American cheese, a loaf of bread, cans of coke, an apple and a pack of cigarettes.   Wracks scoops some change up from the change pail in Dad’s room and says goodbye to Grandma.  She sits in the green recliner in her bathrobe watching a small color television set with Lawrence Welk reruns,  smiles,  and waves her hand in the air without looking.  Wracks throws his blue south bay pintail gun in the car and the hatchback closes with a clang.   Thrown in with thinking, the NP bright blue full suit wetsuit double layer nylon goes in the trunk.  A wrack enters the car, seats shotgun, buckles up the shoulder harness, and the car accelerates into the early day coolness off the pacific coast highway. 

We are going to take M. canyon road up to the 101 and get to Ventura faster than taking, the coast route, says BG. Hold on to your hat.   Light me up a cigarette, says BG as he motions with his right hand. 

Wracks grabs a gold Pall Mall Cigarette, pushes in the car lighter, pulls the lighter from the socket and burns the new cigarette with the glowing red coil.  Wracks hands the cigarette to BG, s open hand and BG takes a long drag and blows the smoke out his nostrils like a flaming dragon. 

Good draw, says BG, hold on to your hat.   Wracks  puts a Jim Hendrix album, Electric Lady land into the cassette player that swings on a Pod off of the console above the manual shift. They both smoke and the car rockets in the fast lane of the 101 with the rear vent open and smoke streaming out in a long trail.

How does your car go so fast, asks Wracks, I thought it only has a four cylinder engine?

I put model plane fuel in the gas tank, says BG, it has nitro methane in it like a dragster.  It really makes your car go. 

Entering the PCH at California Street from the 101, the green car merges into the flow and soon the little corner comes into view on the left as a long point sticking out into the Pacific Ocean with a bunch of houses inside.  The front houses have forward viewing rooms with telescopes to watch the ocean with. 

The big sign says, “Winter land next turnoff,” and BG veers the car off and down into a private road that disappears into a strand of trees in a heathen wood and white pillared gate.  The thick steel gate pillars opened as if the two are expected.  BG enters slowly, cautiously in first gear, looking for someone, something or at least a signal.    Large southern mansions with cypress borders and green lawns abut majestically, and green lawns with Rolls Royce automobiles fill the driveways. 

What is this place, asks wracks, It is like the New Orleans ride at Disney land done in Hollywood.  Who owns those cars?  The richest people in Central California maintain a house here at Winter Land.  They do not like outsiders, says BG.   Don’t move quickly and do not pretend you are taking pictures and they will not molest you. 

BG goes to the back of the car, lifts open the hatchback and pulls a small briefcase from the wheel well where the spare tire lives.  He examines the case, closes the hatchback, and starts walking towards the driveway of the biggest southern mansion in the colony.

Sit in the Car and stay put, shouts BG without looking back.  I shall be back soon.

BG walks up the flat white driveway with the suitcase, goes to the front door, knocks, the door opens and BG enters and disappears.  The huge door looks like it fabricates out of oak with brass fixtures and lists at an impressive eight feet high with windows on top.  Wracks sits in the car and about fifteen minutes later, BG reappears with another person who has wavy brown hair and stands at about the same height as BG. 

My name is Kip, says the man.  Nice to meet you.  Park in my driveway and surf the reef, it is about six feet today.  He turns and leaves.

BG starts the car and pulls it in to the driveway of the huge southern mansion.  The house looks wet and moss and cypress hang in strands from the rafters of the domicile.  Wracks and BG strip in their Druid Robes and walk to the strand where the reef lies.  Hammons reef looks like a semi point with a wave that peaks up at the small point.  A large conglomeration of stones form a reef and the wave rears up like a pipeline type wave tubes and then turns into a long shoulder wave that breaks down the point. The surf runs inconsistent today and BG and wracks surf for about two hours and get some good rides. The wave peaks up at takeoff and the drop feels critical and the acceleration feels positive.  Seaweed grows everywhere and Wracks long fin catches the weed as he takes off on steep bowling waves.  Super glassy, good takeoff and rip able face categorize the reef.

I feel sharks, says Wracks, where are they he asks BG

All the houses have septic tanks and the sewage attracts them, says BG. They are well fed.  I have never been chased in.

Bg takes a set wave in and Wracks feels the feeling and his hair stands up on his head and he hurriedly paddles in on a small inside wave.  A wrack exits the break on the boulders in waist deep water and turns to look back at the water.  The kelp bulges and undulates but no fin appears and Wracks continues his exit up the beach back to the mansion. GB is changing and his green robe and fit in perfectly to the place, time and situation.  The Wracks puts on his blue robe and strips off the blue wetsuit and tosses it in his duffle bag.  They both stow their gear in the hatchback and Wracks grabs his chow bag and enters the passenger side of the car.

Can I have some food, asks GB. 

Sure says Wracks, I will make you a sandwich

A wrack takes two slices of American cheese and peels off the cellophane. He inserts the cheese in-between two pieces of bread.  BG takes the sandwich and shoves half of it into his mouth and bites and his eyes roll back in his head like a big shark. 

Throw me a coke, intones GB.  I am late for work. 

GB finishes the sandwich, shakes the coke can and pulls the tab in front of his mouth while holding the can upside down.  The coke spurts into his mouth like a fire extinguisher and the can empties in two seconds. 

That was good, says BG let’s get home.  Light me a smoke.

Wracks pushes in the cigarette lighter and lights a cigarette for GB. BG takes a huge draw, puts the car in gear, expels the smoke out of his nose, and accelerates.  The two adventurers pull outside of the gate at a fast clip and exit winter land.  A wrack turns back to wave goodbye and sees the gate already has closed and a huge bolt holds it closed and off limits to everyone.  Everyone except GB and Wracks, just GB and wracks. 

The most epic wave in SB reveals as Hammonds reef.  Hard west Swells funnel through the gap lying between Santa Rosa and San Miguel in the channel islands and focus on Hammonds.  The reef at Hammons can hold any size swell and when the reef works, everyone in SB, SM, and the central coast go there and try to get in.  The wave builds up like a huge A-frame peak and throws out top to bottom at thirty feet.  Be aware, the water brims with sharks that smell the septic tank waste filtering directly into the break from the colony on shore.  Wracks felt them there. 

We will be back, says BG.  They like you.

Who likes me, asks the wracks. 

Them, says Bg.  Don’t talk anymore, I am in cruiser mode.  We will come back up next shipment.

Nitromethane fuel makes a car go really fast, thinks Wracks.  Maybe I should buy a can for my motorcycle when I go riding, he thinks. 

The long two-hour ride to SB goes by quickly and Wracks finds himself moving by the self realization center up moonrise Boulevard toward tranquil hills and the Death star.    Like usual, his dog waits for him at the gate and barks and Wracks unloads his gear and board and GB pets punk and gets back in his car. 

Thanks for the ride GB, says wracks

Anytime, says GB and he rockets off again. 

A wrack reenters reality through the kitchen door into the world of electric ranges, refrigerators, microwave ovens and home life.  Mom is home and asks wracks if he wants some food and dad works at his second job downtown, teaching business at night at the College there.  Wracks sits down and has some more of the stewed chicken that he lives on made with onions, green peppers, tomatoes, garlic, chicken quarters and a little bit of love.  Reality is not what it seems.  Reality is people, people who love you and make significant contributions to a person’s personality because everyone ultimately becomes something and the best trained and most loved rise to the top.  Like a family doctor once told Wracks.  You don’t have to worry because cream always rises to the top, the very top.  The day ends once more and books open and the lights focus and sleep overtakes the mind and the darkness interludes and sweet bliss of dreams hold the respite in this the living of life.  Dreams behold in the darkness of the night.

Wrack is sitting in Grandpa’s green recliner.  The chair grandfather would sit in before he died.  Wrack studies history in Summer school.  Taking classes at the local community college costs less than a University and the perquisites need to be fulfilled are cheaper. GB opens the front door and walks into the house and into the living room where Wrack sits on the green chair and reads a history book that weighs five pounds and looks like a phone book.  The history is American history from inception to 1945. “A southern hemisphere southwest swell is about to hit with ten to fifteen-foot waves on south-facing beaches,” exclaims BG as he waves his arms in earnest.  “I had a smoke at the lookout last night and the ocean seems flat as a board.”  Says Wrack.  “I have sources,” says GB. “What sources,” intones wrack.  “Good sources,” says GB.  “What good sources,” questions Wrak.  “Secret sources I cannot disclose.”  Insists BG.  “It is eight o’clock now.  Let’s go check the Bu.”  Get your stuff and bring some of your Dad’s cigarettes.  “History bores me anyway, “says Wrack. 

     Down the Marquee street, past the self-realization center with a swami dome stuck in secluded madness and on to the PCH goes Wrak and GB. This morning shows summer as the water looks green and the smell of sea weed and crustacean fill the air pushing into the green General Motors economy-car with a hatchback and Michelin high-speed tires.   Up past the Sealion and then Alice’s restaurant where you can get anything you want.  Drop right in around the back,  its only twenty miles from the railroad tracks.  Anyone can get anything they want at Alice’s restaurant and the mixed drinks taste good too.  The booths look directly into Malibu first and second point and when the sun sets, the restaurant lights up in color until nightfall.  Pulling into the parking lot BG and Wrak witness the current state of wave height and conditions.  A slight south wind makes the waves look weak and crumbly, kind of like broken cookies.  The waves appear a disjointed two to three feet at best.  “BG, you told me that a huge south swell is hitting now and the Bu breaks like weak mush in a porridge bowl.  “My sources are A1,” says BG. “Let’s go surf San Clemente.  I know the swell will be hitting there.”  “But the drive to San Clemente lasts about two hours,” says Wrak. “Even if the waves break big the coast will be blown out by twelve o’clock. “  “No it won’t, “say GB. “If you drive with me, this time you do not have to pay for the gas.”  “Why not, let’s go.” settles Wrack.   The green Chevrolet econocar revs up and BG patches out of the parking lot.  “Light me a cigarette.” orders BG, “I am driving.”

               After driving southward to San Diego a thousand times the route becomes monotonous and the sites breeze by at an incredible speed and time lapses until the destination looms upward in sight. From the one to the ten to the five and then off at Christianitos Ave. in San Clemente, the time flies by at seventy-five to eighty miles per hour.  “I still get twenty miles to the gallon flat out,” smiles GB.  A secret parking lot off the main street becomes the final resting spot for the two north county surfers looking for the perfect wave and the endless summer in a youth they both know will end soon.  “No one comes this way, “says BG. “They are too lazy to walk in.  The locals sneak into the south entrance and frequent Lowers never looking north to where the two true gems of the trestle lie.  “They hide in the brush with varmint rifles and sight on each other,” says BG.  The trail from the secret parking lot underneath the trestle and onto the first point reveals as a dusty path amongst scrub vegetation across a lagoon and onto a beach strewn with small pebbles of odd sizes smoothed by the constant action of waves on matter.  Now the two surfers are close enough to see the water and the waves are at least fifteen feet high.  When a wave gets big, the size of the swell becomes hard to estimate.  Surfers discuss wave height in terms of body length, one body length being six feet.  At the Cotton’s point the waves are at least three times overhead.  “I told you so,” screams Bg.  “It is three times overhead and churning.  Let’s go surf some rights first at Uppers.  Wrack hugs his yellow anti-meth model.  His friend John was drunk when he shaped the blank and put the meth model template on backwards.   The result becomes a seven foot seven mini-pin gun with square rails and a seven and one half inch fin in shark tasty yum yum neon yellow. Against all odds known to man the board rides beautifully and does not spin out in large surf. Wrack starts singing, “Every girl likes a sharp dressed man,” just like ZZ top.  Uppers roar huge with a peak and a huge throw-out inside section daring the intrepid to make or die and swim.  GB has a new gun. “I took it off the rack and Robbie shaped it,” smiles BG.  “Big Uppers, how delightful. “  Compared to the washing machine up at The Strand, the paddle out at Uppers remains a cake walk.  Both surfers time the sets and scratch out to the peak.  “Line up with the last trestle,” exclaims BG, “Then make the drop.”  A huge set of waves pops up on the Horizon.  BG likes to take the first wave of a set. He turns and paddles furiously and disappears with the hiss of a cresting huge wave.  Wrak scratches out and the second wave is three feet bigger and Wrak is too far out but exerts against the odds and is in to a giant and the run is on.  At large size, uppers yields a soft take off compared to Pipeline, but the wave then hits the cobblestone point and no time exists to turn back into the wave, only to turn at the bottom and go as fast as possible.   Wrack mistimes the huge inside section and chickens out. A huge lip starts to fall ten feet in front of the nose of his board.   He exits off the top and shoots his board upward so the wave cannot trap it.  Wrak is safe and scrambles to his board and starts the scratch to safety. Wrack paddles out to the lineup and finds the last trestle to align.  He sits on his board waiting for BG to return.  GB rode the first wave almost to the sand and now walks up the point to re-launch again at the impact zone. Something juts out of the water behind him and Wrak is scared.  A huge Great White comes up, opens its mouth, and licks Wrack. Wrack prays.  The huge twenty-foot Great White shark slides back into the water and is gone.  “GB, a huge monster just came up and kissed me,” screams Wrak. “Don’t get excited.” Drones BG.  “If it was hungry, it would have taken you. Lightning does not strike twice in the same place.”  “I hope it kisses you too,” whines Wrack.  For three hours the two are the only ones out in the water in triple overhead Uppers. The locals are lazy and wave after wave pours through the peak and into the cobblestone point.  “I cannot move my arms anymore.” Says Wrack.  “Let’s go in and surf the lefts at Cotton’s  point.” Says GB.  “Did you bring your canteen?”  “Yes, “says Wrack “But I saw someone walk over to it on the beach.  “What did they look like,” says BG “He looked small and with blond hair but that was all I could see, “says Wrak.  “I know who it is, “says BG.

               Ten minutes of walking north of Uppers is Cotton’s  Point.  The point reveals as a left jutting beach set out into the water.  There lie rocks on the beach just like uppers.   The wave at fabric point at large size shows as a huge triangle peak like Sunset Beach Hawaii.  The largest waves then hit the point and break in a tubing fashion all the way to the beach. For some reason, Uppers breaks bigger then Cottons but Uppers breaks right and Fabric breaks left and goofy foots love left breaking tubular waves.   “I am too tired,” says Wrak.  “I will watch you and be lifeguard.”  “How do you have so much energy,” asks Wrak.  “My arms ache from exertion.”  “Performance powder,” says BG. I use performance powder.  “He launches out from the rocks into the exploding surf.  BG caught three huge triangle peaks at Fabrics.  He descended straight off, bottom turned, arced off the top and then again and would kick out before the inside beach break and paddle furiously to get back to the takeoff point.  “Let’s go.” Says GB.  “I want to surf the glass off at the Bu.”  The pair jogs back up to the secret parking lot at Christianitos.   Youth and vitality are wasted on the young and the two gorge on brown bag food, pack the gear and head north at warp speed.  “Light me a smoke,” says GB.  “I need the nicotine.”  “I told you so, I told you so. Don’t forget I told you so.”  The econocar fills up with smoke and Wrak sips his red sugar coke and the machine rockets northward.

               “Are you sure we have time,” questions Wrak.  “I want to nab a few waves at the Bu just as the swell hits.”  Says GB “If we miss the traffic, we will be in Malibu by six thirty P.M.”  Sometimes the Northwest wind which flows through Malibu in the afternoon every day abates for the good and the faithful. At two P.M. in the summer every summer the Bu glasses.  At six thirty, Surf rider beach breaks six to ten feet high with a slight north wind which is offshore in direction.  The tide ran out and the rocky point shows like a huge bingo board and the waves break forest green tubes with misting lips flying down the point like a big machine.  Everyone and their mother are out in the water.  The waves break six to ten feet spitting low tide tubes and the sun sets as a yellow orange fusion orb set in a blue sky with wispy clouds and the island of Catalina illuminated in the distance.  If Poseidon himself came up to greet the world, he never would be noticed among the beauty, intensity and uniqueness of a glass off at the Bu in the summer, at low tide and spitting ten foot tubes. “I have my sources,” says BG as he turns his eyes up into his head. “I have my sources.”

      Out in the water Wrak sits by himself outside, like always, waiting for a big set wave.  For some reason, a terrifically tall left  peak looms up out of nowhere at the shift and Wrak surfs left at a right point.  “Just like Pipe, thinks Wrak, “Just like Pipe.”  The sun sets and the ocean drowns in  the orange red light with green-blue fullness.  “Let’s go now or you walk home.” Insists BG “I have to go to work.”  “Where do you work,” asks Wrak.  “In the city,” insists Bg, “In the city.”  Unloading the equipment at the house of Wrak again for the zillion times happens.  The boards are bounced on the ivy and suits thrown over the fence.  “Wash my wet suit in cold water,” commands GB “O.K. says Wrak.  “Thanks for the ride. “  BG takes the hose and gives himself a shower behind the fence near the trashcans and dresses quickly from a satchel bag, wave goodbye bye and is gone, again.  Wrak walks into his house and the little orange platinum terrier spins around and yelps.   “Hi Punkin,”  “I am home. Where is everyone.”  “Your mom and dad are out.” Says grandma.  “There is some chicken in the refrigerator.”  Wrak makes coffee and eats the chicken then takes a shower then falls unconscious in his bed. His last thoughts are: “triple overhead surf at Uppers all to myself.”  Wrack probably smiles as he sleeps because few are on the scene at the right place, at the right time, anytime during their life.  Wrack was there.  The swell peaked overnight and the Bu was not as good the next day.  Surfers know that when the waves beckon, they must entrain or the moment passes unfulfilled.  This reality stilts the life of wave riders who must decide whether to follow the tides or walk away forever.  Wrak sleeps in the grey house on Bacon way down from Enchanted way and close to the green house on the corner unknown until the present day.