Wrak is sitting in Grandpa’s green recliner.  The chair grandfather would sit in before he died.  Wrak studies history in Summer school.  Taking classes at the local community college costs less than attending a university, and the prerequisites that need to be fulfilled are cheaper.  BG opens the front door and walks into the house and into the living room, where Wrak 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 south west 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 Wrak.  “I have sources,” says BG. “What sources,” intones Wrak.  “Good sources,” says BG.  “What good sources,” questions Wrak.  “Secret sources I cannot disclose.”  Insists BG.  “It is nine 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 Wrak. 

     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 BG. This morning shows summer as the water looks green and the smell of seaweed and dried crustacean fills the air, pushing into the green General Motors economy car with a hatchback and Michelin high-speed tires.   Up past the Sea lion and then Alice’s restaurant, where you can get anything you want.  Drop right in around the back, it’s 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’s first and second points, 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 to be 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 in 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, “says BG. “If you drive with me, this time you do not have to pay for the gas.”  “Why not? Let’s go.” Wrak.   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 sights 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 BG.  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 itself 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 Apparel 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.  Wrak hugs his yellow anti-meth model.  His friend Eck 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-a-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. Wrak 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.  BG 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 wave 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.   Wrak 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. Wrak paddles out to the lineup and finds the last trestle to align.  He sits on his board waiting for BG to return.  BG 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 shark with bristling teeth comes up, opens its jaws, and mouths Wrak. Wrak prays.  The huge twenty-foot shark that might be a Mako slides backwards into the water and is gone.  “BG, a huge whale just came up and kissed me,” screams Wrak. “Don’t get excited.” Drones BG.  “If it were hungry, it would have taken you. Lightning does not strike twice in the same place.”  “I hope it kisses you too,” whines Wrak.  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 pour through the peak and into the cobblestone point.  “I cannot move my arms anymore.” Says Wrak.  “Let’s go in and surf the lefts at Fabric Point.” Says BG.  “Did you bring your canteen?”  “Yes, “says Wrak, “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 Fabric 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 concerted fashion all the way to the beach. For some reason, Uppers breaks bigger than Fabrics, but Uppers breaks right and Fabrics breaks left, and goofy feet love left-breaking tubular waves.   “I am too tired,” says Wrak.  “I will watch you and be a lifeguard.”  “How do you have so much energy?” asks Wrak.  “My arms ache from exertion.”  “Performance powder,” says BG.   “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 BG.  “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 Bg.  “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 BG, “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 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 cobblestone 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 is 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 is 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 peak looms up out of nowhere, and Wrak surfs left at a right point.  “Just like Pipe, thinks Wrak, “Just like Pipe.”  The sun sets, and the ocean drowns 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 happens a zillion times.  The boards are bounced on the ivy, and suits are thrown over the fence.  “Wash my wetsuit in cold water,” commands BG. “O.K. says Wrak.  “Thanks for the ride. “  BG takes the hose and gives himself a shower behind the fence near the trash cans and dresses quickly from a satchel bag, waves goodbye 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.”  “There is some chicken in the refrigerator.”  Says Grandma.  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.”  Wrak probably smiles as he sleeps because few are on the scene at the right place, at the right time, anytime during their life.  Wrak 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 stunts 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 Disenchanted Way and close to the green house on the corner, unknown until the present day.

Inflation defines as the increase in price of a market basket of common items necessary to sustain the life of an average American family. It seems inflation is the persistent affliction in a democratic free society that relies on the economic cycle as given in the “Wealth of Nations” written by Adam Smith. Many factors cause inflation in the western civilization but this author feels the most important is the stock market. Ivy league MBA’s with all the current education that work for mutual fund companies cause an increase in stock price every year. The reason for this condition follows as such: When stock traders buy or sell stock, they make a commission and the commission is added to the price of the stock. The natural impetus of human beings to generate commission also called stirring, in the stock market, results in a buy or sell commission to be tagged on to the current price of a common stock offering. This increase in stock price which happens with every trade, accumulates, the traders slip into their own pocket commission and the stock of price increases. Eventually with the accumulated trade commission, the stock is not profitable anymore, it is sold at a loss or disappears due to liquidation, and inflation moves on. It seems pertinent at this point to exert the government to limit the times a stock can be traded per year to limit inflation. The educated workers in the mutual funds coerce the wage earners to invest in their devices, promising a better return than a bank, and a prosperous future, at least as long as the market is bull and remains solvent. Intense speculation and trading may generate a stock market disaster, now called by the educated elite to be a correction, and those that lose in the market cry, the poor die in poverty and cycle starts again. It seems the consistent quality of a free capitalistic society is inflation and top heavy corporate infrastructure.
Sir Warren Buffett, the king of the mutual fund, in his amazing rise to wealth and national stature, ironically states these four things. Investing is a long term maneuver. If you want to profit from the market, become a trader and profit the commissions. Buy only stocks you know.
To an hourly wage earner like the most of us, video game companies who produce interactive gaming, game console producers like Microsoft and Nintendo, or cannabis growers who ensconce in northern California and Humboldt counties, like Mr. Buffett says “make sense” and can be the basis of a diversified portfolio. An average American shouldn’t buy technology or aerospace companies Like Martin-Marietta or Grumman Aerospace because they really have no idea what they are producing and the sixth generation fighter F-47 is no more than a Roger Ramjet pipe dream. This is where the inside traders, and let me remind you that inside trading is illegal, make a killing, because they buy stock the minute they hear the government is going to purchase 100 stealth jets at 100 million dollars a piece. It is not what you know, it is who you know. Like Sir Buffett, and the king of Saudi corruption Gene Getty, the adage “buy low sell high” is good and real and like Berkshire Hathaway, an investor watches the market and the economy as an daily ritual. This takes time and like on schedule R for renter in the 1040, real estate losses cannot be deducted unless an investor is 20 percent active in their interest in the offering. Like Sir Buffett admonishes, watch the market even though a person works an eight hour day, sleeps and goes back to work again, the next day for thirty years. The fourth thing sir Buffett states is have a diversified portfolio so in one aspect hits rock bottom, the others will still be substantial enough so on a mathematical average over time, the portfolio looks substantive so that darned wage earner doesn’t throw himself off the Brooklyn bridge, or cry “uncle”. We live in a golden age where everything now is electronic, and remote, and battery powered on a RISC-C platform that is energy efficient and everyone walks around with a personal phone and can watch adult entertainment off a hot spot pirated from the local Burger king. At this point in the discussion, read a basic Economic text inspired by the local community college and see that the economy runs in cycle, each product has a business cycle, and economic geniuses die and cant run the show to fruition anymore. Like he says in the four ways to wealth, watch the cycle and sell when things begin to go bad. Be on the lookout for economic geniuses that appear on the scene and go “all in” when you find one. Have hope and belief that God will smooth out the ridges and make the going smooth, give to church to bribe the maker, and pretend that the altruists will prevail after you take control of a country in a bloodless coup and put their treasury in your own pocket.
If the believe the foregoing, you have a good belief in God and the almighty, and remember that you have to go to school for a long time to make money on the market. If Mommy and daddy love you and pay the exorbitant tuition to go to Wharton School of business, than you can be a trader and become extremely wealthy as a buccaneer on wall Street. Remember, however, you need an in to run and she most likely loves you for what you are, not what the bank statement reveals. Give to the church and know that way down inside, the commissions you make will ultimately destroy the economy. Os

Another beach day for mosquito. His mother is having the time of her life like all young upperclass women do so she dumps him at the Bu to be with subculture criminals. The best surfer who ever entered the waters at the Bu is a counterculture decrepit who has a side job as crooner for the rest. They had his father develop spy planes for the government during his lifespan like the SR-71 blackbird. He has long hair and wonderful personage and mosquito is hoping he tells Kelly Slater how he did it before he passes. They call this little grom in a silk hawian shirt mosquito because he hovers around the beautiful children and begs for food. Occasionally Moon dog buys him a hotdog. Elephants never forget. The bikini originated here and the girls let him hang around in their briefness because he is a child and not in puberty yet.
He watches one girl, she has olive skin like a European and a fine luscious body with breasts not to big to clunk around. Mosquito notices she is not like the other girls and her hair is cut very short so the boys cant spy her at a distance and chase her. Her eyes are light grey and mosquito wonders how she ever happened. She chooses bikinis that exactly match her light olive complexion and of a fabric that really clings and she looks like she is walking around naked. Mosquito wonders and he comes close to see and she bares her teeth at him, like a mother wolf protecting her litter. She makes bikinis for the cosmic children. In the thatched hut which is a meeting point for the gang she measure a womans fourchette and derriere, writes the measurements on paper and makes the most incredible mind boggling swim suits under the gaze of God. She lets Mosquito hold the measuring tape while she measures because he is not in puberty yet. the models then put their cut off jeans back on and look at Mosquito and he smiles and the thatched hut is no more at the Bu. Women are amazing when they are young, and innocent , and pretty and wild.. The cat is out surfing now with the Malibu Masochist. Together they beat up anyone at the Bu who doesn’t have respect. The masochist flies off his board in a side thrust kick and breaks people in half. They whisper he is a black belt. The only one he cannot beat up is the cat, and he tries repeatedly to no avail. This is why his nickname is the masochist. Maybe it is because the cat is six foot three inches and an expert in tZu Jan Men that he learned somewhere in the military.
The sun is shining, the waves are up and mosquito sits next to the wall watching their surfboards so no one steals them and the girls walk around in the land of freedom and liberty and all is well, and the clouds move in and the west wind comes up, and there is a glass off phase between two and three PM when everyone is gone and the jobless pros are here and go out. Mosquito has a little Timex watch his mother gave him so he can be at the pickup zone on pacific coast highway at about three thirty and his mother bat turns the blue Chevrolet station wagon in the turnaround
zone and waves. She has on dark Rayban sunglasses and a chiffon scarf around her thick, thick hair cut short so she can wear a wig. Mosquitos mom has been a blond, a brunette, and a redhead on a mission just like Tokyo rose. Mom uses mosquito as insurance and he is happy he has a bed to sleep in. He wonders who lives in the underground logging, dug in and camouflaged on the beach. Word is it is the beach house of the Joe Bfstky, and he sleeps there when one of his five wives cannot take him to a luncheon. He has a bigger house at the base of Sunset boulevard, but his relatives make him lock himself in the bedroom. When the waves get fifteen feet, once in every couple years, the Bu is the place to be and people live in Malibu their whole lives just to ride it and experience it once. The day ends and Mom smiles and hands mosquito a popsicle for the ride home. Fonz is not here. He is her favorite and is elsewhere and the peak at third point does not break anymore. The Movie industry diverted the runoff and it doesn’t exist anymore and time goes on. Don’t bother to go anymore.

“bonk, bonk bonk,” goes the knuckle against the glass window in Wrack’s room[R1] [R2] . “Who is outside my window at three in the morning,” asks Wracks?  “Bonk, Bonk, Bonk, meet me outside,” says BG.  “bonk, bonk, and bonk, its me BG.” Says BG.  “Where is my dog,” asks Wracks. “I gave Punkin a milk bone and put him to sleep,” says BG.  “How did you get in my house,” asks Wracks who now is wide awake. “I reached through the dog door and opened it up,” explains BG. “I did not want to wake your parents so I put Punkin to bed and came around to your window.  Meet me in back.”   “I have to put on some pants,” says Wracks, “give me a minute.”  Wracks exits his room, walks down the hall, closes the hall door and looks at the cushion where Punkin the house dog sleeps.  Punkin dozes upside down with a smile on his face and stirs when Wracks walks by.   He opens his eyes, makes a whining noise and goes back to sleep.  Wracks let BG in the back door. Bg wears a cardigan sweater and a large woodsman hat because it is winter even here in the best climate in North America on the west coast in December.  “The con is on,” says BG.  “It should be about eight to ten feet at the point and bigger at indicator.”  “A new swell is hitting today and then it will drop tomorrow. The con is on and we should go now and be out in the water at sunup. The tide is low at two PM so the swell should peak in the morning and then drop with the tide. Let’s have breakfast.  What do you have? “   “We have eggs and toast,” says Wracks.  “I’ll have two eggs sunny side up and two pieces of toast with butter,” states BG. Wracks takes out a pan from underneath the stove, adds butter to the bottom of the pan and turns on the electric range and then drops four eggs into the melting and then sizzling butter.  Five minutes later the two sit at the kitchen table and have breakfast with two cups of Yuban fresh brewed coffee.  “It will not be as big as last time we went but it should be real good and have excellent shape. “  BG takes a draw on his coffee and finishes his eggs. “Bring some gas money and a pack of Pall mall Gold.   We will need the nicotine.”  Says BG.  He rises from his chair, takes his dish and sets it in the sink like he would at home.  “Ill gets my stuff, “says wracks. The dog spins around right side up and yawns.  “Ill see you out front, “says BG as he exits the back door in the dark in December as the mist from the ocean puts a shade and shadow on everything.   The dog goes back to sleep.  Wracks gets his jacket, his coke and bread, his paraffin bar, a pack of cigarettes, two dollars in change, and an O’Neill super suit, and goes out the back door into the garage.  A red diamond tail Nat Pro gun sits in the rafters and Wracks pulls it down with a hook and brings his gear outside the gate to underneath the big pine tree on Bacon way as the street lights illuminate the misty air about the night. The green General motors durabuilt engine econocar hatch sits open and Cool is loading his surfboard into the car between the seats.  “I invited him along, “says BG. “The more the merrier.”  Cool turns his head in a Mexican pullover with hood and says,  “Hey brau,”  He then takes a draw on his cigarette and finishes a Heineken bear in a dark green bottle then heaves the empty into the neighbors yard.   “tonight you are going coffin,” says BG.  “Wait till I get my motorcycle helmet,” says Wracks.  Wracks dashes back into the back, into the garage and extracts a black bell motocross helmet and puts it on.   The three surfboards sit in the middle of the car separating the two driver seats and the back folds down into a large cargo area.  The gear of the three surfers sits on the right behind the “passenger side,   On the left will go Wracks coffin style. “Get in,” says BG, we have to get going.”  Wracks climbs into the cargo section, sits down facing back and lays into the car like count Dracula going to sleep.  BG closes the Hatchback over him, enters the car, ignites the ignition, puts the car into gear and the three set off into history. Down Bacon, past Mellow man’s, onto Quiz lane and then sunrise avenue and Wracks look up at the stars with his helmet on, chin strap on and starts to fall asleep and the car accelerates like mad up highway number one.  “We are going to take the freeway today,” stipulates BG.  Up Pang oh road the hatchback flies and the tires screech around the hairpin curves until the plateau and the freeway 101 appears as a green sign in the headlights at night perpendicular to the direction they were going.   Onto the onramp the car flies and BG accelerates until the car is in forth gear and floored at night with the high beams on traveling on the 101 north.  Wracks awakens from sleep to see the stars and the car fills with smoke and the windows are half way down and the wind whips around Wracks helmet, the icy coolness bringing him back to life.   Within a short time the three arrive at the junction, the junction of California street and highway one, and the ocean makes sounds and the moon sets largely on the ocean, illuminating the way to the little corner.   The little corner is the most consistent surf break in SB and gets a northwest, a hard north and a straight west swell.  BG says today the swell sweeps in straight west and Wracks dozes coffin style in the hatchback.   Kool comes to life and says, “let’s stop at the little clam for provisions.”  BG acknowledges and the car comes to a stop a half hour later at a little market, in a shack, set against s a hill with a gas station a half block away and the ocean rumbles and roars.  BG buys a hot dog and a pastrami sandwich heated in the store microwave.  Kool gets a sandwich and a bag of candy.   Wracks stays inside the car.   The two eat in silence.   Then BG says, “Lets get going and be out in the water at sunrise.”  Kool acknowledges with a hand gesture.  BG ignites the car and heads out on the highway. Within ten minutes the three are at the little corner and pull into the big parking lot made especially for wave riders surrounding  them with cyclone fencing and concrete blockades.   The night closes and the scene begins to lighten into a dark grey and morning arrives.  Eight cars situate inside the parking area.  Die hard wave riders who scoff a normal life sit in their cabs or hang out of the cargo doors of their vans waiting for first light.  Sharks cruise in the darkness and light sends them back out to deep water until the sun starts to set again.  Vans of ladies arrive to watch the wave rider’s surf the long thin tubular swells of the little corner.  The little corner breaks mostly on a west or northwest swell.  On these disturbances, the wave’s line up perpendicular to the point and break with ruler straightness in cylindrical almond shaped tubes.  From the outer first point three separate tube sections exist and a wave rider can situate his or her self strategically at each section to ride deep inside the wave.  The little corner holds a west swell up to fifteen feet, and then it starts to break erratically and close out.  On a rare hard north swell that refracts off the Channel Islands onto the west facing beach, thirty foot waves will break for a morning and then disappear in the afternoon.  For these waves people dedicate their lives and wait and watch for the perfect big day to arrive.  Once initiated, the little corner draws addicts from all over the coastal region of southern California.  Cool is the first out of the car. BG uncorks wracks who arises life a vampire from his tomb, the shucks the helmet and saunters with the other two down the little trail unto the base of the beach to catch a glimpse of what morning brings.   Today, the three are lucky, a solid ten to twelve foot swell sends lines three to five at a time to break down the point into the bay.  The morning starts, the light arrives and a cool offshore breeze holds up the waves unto perfect spinning vortexes larger than ten feet and growling.  Cool screams out an unexplained word and runs back to the green hatchback along with BG.  The hatch open, three wetsuits hang on the car and wracks shares the bar of paraffin with the other tow and white streaks appear on the surface of the three long surfboards. With boards in hand, the three run down the trail, through the flotsam and jetsam of wood and seaweed up to the point.  Timing the sets, they launch during a lull and are outside.   The sun comes up over the mountain interior to the little corner point and the day begins.  About twenty people ride the waves that morning and enough waves arrive to give each his or her own to enjoy.  When the sun raises to directly overhead, the offshore wind stops and the ocean becomes completely smooth and glassy like a window pane.  Three wave sets pour through endlessly.  Within an hour the wind reverses into a westward flow and the ocean surface starts to roughen up and chop.  BG turns to Wracks and says, “Were going in.” Wracks starts to paddle to shore without waiting for a wave to ride and then arrives on the beach by going along with the white water.    Cool waits up at the car. BG opens the car, cool grabs a bag of candy and starts eating.  Wracks strips off his wetsuit and enters his druid robe.  Cool takes off his wetsuit then noticing some young ladies down the parking lot, starts dancing stark naked and singing.  He is a rock star.  The girls laugh and blush and Wracks stows his gear in the hatchback and modestly puts on his corduroy jeans and tee shirt and then his jacket.  BG smokes a Pall mall gold and drinks a coke.   The waves still pour in and the parking lot shows full.   Surfers run down to the beach with their boards and the wind is a light five knots on shore.   BG tosses his cigarette butt and says, “Lets go.  Wracks get in the coffin.”  Wracks dons the black bell helmet and descends into the hatch.  Cool drinks a beer and tosses the can as close to a trash receptacle as he can.  The green Chevrolet launches southward at light speed. “I told you so, I told you so,” chides BG….  Ten to twelve feet slides and churning green tubes.  What more can you ask for.”

“I have to go work for my father,” says Cool “mellow.”    Wracks as customary fades into oblivion as the car enters the 101 at California street.    The three arrive back at Bacon way at three thirty pm.  “Service with a smile,” says BG.  “Wracks, get out, I have to go to work.”  Wracks grabs his gear in a brown grocery bag and plucks his red NatPro gun from the car.   “Thank you very much BG that was a session I will always remember.  BG and cool accelerate in a close circle and rocket up Mellow man’s land to Charmed street where Cool lives.  Wracks stows his board in the rafters and washes his super suit with cold hose water.   The little dog sits on the kitchen step, growls and wags his tail.   Wracks enters the house.  “What for dinner” asks Wracks. “Grab a frozen bag of chicken and microwave it, “says mom.   “Where were you?” “I was surfing big wave up in SB with BG,” explains Wracks.  “go shower off and do your homework,” says Mom.   Wracks walks to his bedroom, the falls into his bed and is asleep.  The day closes, and night arrives again and the darkness brooding in the silence becomes a reality.  Wracks wake up when it is dark, makes his meal, boils water for a cup of coffee and reads by his little desk lamp.  The dog saunters in through the doggy door and falls asleep on his little cushion and wracks turns on the evening lights and locks up the house.  A light shines from under the door in Grandma’s room and Grandma is watching tony Orlando on television.  “Do you need dinner,” asks Wracks.  “No she says and smiles and holds a speaker up to her ear.  “I already ate.”  The day ends, the night begins and another page turns over in the book of Wracks life.  Today he rode long thin tubular waves for a quarter mile ride while the world turns.  No one noticed except Wracks and maybe his little dog and tomorrow he will wake up and read the Sunday paper and maybe go to church.  Then a new week begins again and wracks grows a little older.

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Why not get on a plan with free vision, dental, exercise and spa membership, all that is necessary is a co payment and an administrator sitting at a desk and playing video games, and shuffling papers for a 5 figure salary. Don’t mind the decadent luxury, the government pays for it all if you make it to 65 and debit for schedule B coverage. Thirty percent of the gross national product pays for medical care for the working class, the upper class can pay for what they want out of pocket. The administrators of corporations and small business huff and puff when they inform their loyal workers that health care coverage is matched by their employer, and they are lucky indeed. Unfortunately, the health care the working class receive is not worth a single cent and like the diehard professionals adamantly state that “it is better than nothing.’ this author tends to disagree.
Working people go to medical doctors with maladies mostly due to workplace noscomial pathogens or environmental factors, and the professionals take their blood pressure and fasting sugar glucose and inform them that they have either high blood pressure or diabetes, and all people eventually acquire high blood pressure or diabetes. The medications sanctioned by the AMA are cooked in a pot by organic chemists at big pharmaceutical companies and eventually induce blood cancer or cancer of the pancreas. A patient makes an appointment with a physician and does not get a cure, only carcinogen and a promise, and the professionals check with the pharmacists to make sure their patients are taking their medication. Employers pay for one half this charlatan behavior and they think that their monetary output is helping their staff that they depend on for performance and reliability. When a patient has an infection, these salt of the earth people are told to drive to another city to see a specialist. These dedicated humanitarian professionals do not want to live in the same town as their patients, they might be seen by them.
Unlike what people are led to believe, human existence is free from disease unless it is given to them. In a lifespan time line, a spike in incidence arises in youth and early adulthood when people are most sociable. In essence do not leave your children with others unattended. As humans age, the incidence of disease slowly increases until government retirement age when it spike up to termination.. These maladies are usually chronic and due to environmental or career choices, and there is no cure for them, only palliation with snake oil remedies that exert no effect. Medical administration states that it is a persons long lifetime and that this is normal and they need some kind of organ transplant to extend a normal life span. A transplant of any kind costs the government one million dollars in medicare costs and lasts at most five years. It would be prudent at this point to ascertain the environmental or work factors that induce disease and to reduce or eliminate them. Emergency rooms do not test for chemical toxins, Current diagnosis and treatment only list them in a glossary, in the back of the book and alas , the panacea is symptomatic support only.
In mid life, around the age of forty everyone should be wormed! That bulging beer belly or horrible increase in a woman’s waistline is probably due to intestinal worms of many types depending on the diet. Everyone who eats meet, especially rare meat acquires intestinal tapeworms and in our McDonald hamburger culture this usually means Taenia saginatta which is the tapeworm seen mostly in beef. Taenia solium is the similar tapeworm in pork. When your belly is growing fast or your wife cannot fit in her old clothes he or she has a tapeworm of some sort and needs to be wormed. Allopathic doctors regard an increase in girth as obesity and put all their patients on diets and order a colonoscopy. Diet is only temporary and colonoscopy often leads to perforation and an exploratory laparotomy. Health care administrators do not fund a veterinarian to worm human beings. In a animal clinic most animals are either wormed, spade or euthanized. Health insurance does not pay for a worming. Do animals, receive better care than human beings?
If a worker makes it to retirement, and their employers have doled out half of their medical costs for twenty years, they need to be chelated. All commercial foods contain some type of metal to preserve it from spoilage and bacterial contamination. Returning food to the store and crediting it to loss is an expensive undertaking and corporate does anything they can to prevent this loss in their commercial product. The English were the first to use metal salts to preserve food and they work great but metal, of any kind builds up in a human body, causing aging and senility. All humans at sixty need to be chelated but this is an expensive undertaking. The duration of Chelation therapy can last ten years of admission to outpatient surgical units for IV therapy. The government can not afford this, only the upper class pay for this out of pocket, so the working class get a colonoscopy and post surgical morbidity.
Hurrah, Hurrah. An hourly worker lives on boiled rice and an egg their whole existence with some fruit for soluble vitamins. They survive the opposition that most assume in our hamburger society. The aged now, have either hypertension and diabetes and they get prescribed carcinogen to escort their goodness to the undertaker. If a devoted scholar reads pathology books, he or she notices that the percentage of occurrence of cancer has increased exponentially in relation to industrial development in Technology. In other words, Cancer existed as a rare disease in the Nineteen hundreds, and our educated professionals ascribe this tremendous increase in cancer mortality due to extended life spans. Our doctors are humanitarian and highly intelligent and this must be the case. THE ONLY REASON MANKIND LIVES LONGER TODAY IS BECAUSE WE NOW HAVE ANTIBIOTICS THAT COMBAT INFECTIONS. Before 1940 and the advent of penicillin, everyone in the snow belt died of pneumonia in old age, and everyone in the deep south eventually died of dysentery due to shigella, salmonella or otherwise.
If everyone wants to live on bread, rice and fruit, be a vegetarian, and work on a farm, he or she might live a long time. Except for we the people and not everyone else, this is not the case and we get tired of medical doctors living in mansions and refusing treatment if the patient does not want a colonoscopy. Something has to give.
On to standard time.