Things change. People change and get older and their grandchildren look just like them. The earth changes too. Volcanic activity from forces beyond comprehension adjusts the sea floor, and the beaches and the mountains which are really upthrust from the center of the planet. This morning BG and Wracks reconnoiter on a hill above Salt Creek, a little bit off the beaten track on a fire road in the hills of San Clemente. BG has a scope, and he and Wracks are watching a surf break that was off limits to the public like the upper trestle is.
here, take a look at the Salt Creek Peak says BG
Alright, there is one person out there surfing the reef alone.
His name is TJ says BG, and I know him. How many grads is that on the scope, This is my favorite optic that I put on my rifle.
About two grads says the Wracks.
Thats about two hundred yards says BG, my turn.
It is summer in Southern California and the ground is brown, and dry, and when the wind whips in from the west, sometimes dust eddies spin around like demons. Salt Creek is an exclusive enclave, with a gate and fence with a wire, People live there because of the Beauty, and an ephemeral creek drains into the surf during the wet season. What makes Salt Creek so special is the wave, a surreal majestic figure to be looked at and admired. Maybe it is the ocean bottom contour, maybe the orientation of the beach to the ocean fetch, or pure luck, but Salt Creek for some reason breaks twice as big as the trestle on a similar swell. When Lower trestle is a four foot mushy peak, and Uppers is about the same with a long section and full of shark, and Cottons is not really breaking yet, Salt Creek can be ten feet. This is the situation that makes the peak out in the ocean that breaks both ways but better on the left. Today BG and Wracks are here and it is working.
I washed out of the Seals says BG.
Sorry to hear that BG says the Wracks
They dropped me from a pavelow in the middle of the Pacific Ocean at night and ordered that I maintain communications until morning. Something kept grabbing my feet in the survival suit and I started screaming. I thought it was a shark tasting me. I radioed that they come and pick me up and they found my transmitter within an hour. When they were hoisting me up on the rope, a scuba diver appeared from underneath the water and waved. When he was up in the copter too, I asked him what had happened. He said it was me underneath you, it wasn’t a shark, and that you chickened out. I was the backup he said, we always work with a backup. They told me back in Pendelton that I hadn’t made the cut and here I am. If someone in command does not like you, they think of a reason to get rid of you and I was gone.
Somebody had it in for you says the Wracks
It is probably something else but I cant do anything about it.
Do something else says the Wracks, you can swing it.
Lets go sneak in Salt says BG I cut a hole in the cyclone fence commando style
BG found a place to park closer to the beach, and he and the Wracks hiked in with their boards to the cyclone fence. A blond person appeared, one of BG’s friends and said that we couldn’t come in today, somebody had called the police about suspicious people loitering around at night and the security patrol was on the lookout.
BG and the Wracks walk back to the car and BG says he is depressed and wants to go home
I don’t want to surf four foot mush at lowers with the crew.
The drive back in the econocar is fast, and it seems the police let BG through and don’t mind that he I going at least seventy in a fifty-five mile zone. The five and miles of petroleum refining factories feeding the wealthy and desperate of L.A. slowly eclipse . Soon they are back in tranquil hills and behind the fence the orange silky terrier jumps two feet in the air to welcome them.
Hi Punkin says GB, we didn’t score today, and then he asks for a cola, Wracks gives him one and the green econocar with the prototype aluminum engine put out by his dads company fires up and he is gone.
Wracks never had a chance to surf salt creek, he had no one to drive him and no push to get him in the gate, kind of like 18th street in Newport. For some reason ordained by Yahweh, the reef at the salt creek fell into the sea and the exceptional surf break no longer exists. The area now populates with well endowed Japanese expatriates and the beach is no more than a closeout with very few takers except those that do not have to work. Everything changes, hopefully for the best, and the earth modifies, time passes and new generations arise to learn about things already said. History does not repeat itself, it only returns for another engagement. Enjoy the summer and give her a hug for me instead. I wonder what happened to TJ?

Welcome to your life

Theres no place to run

Theres no place to hide

Do you have a heart

It’s you I seek to find

I think I am on to something major

Please be on your best behavior

Everybody wants to rule the world

It is my desire

It is my design

Its love I do admire

I have no reason why

Leave me with a sigh

Lost In a court of knights and kings

Jewels and gold and beautiful things

Everybody wants to rule the world

Welcome to my mind

There is nothing inside

I have nothing to hide

Sit down and unwind

Promise me you will never ever leave me

Promise me you will keep me

Everybody wants to rule the world

Let the economics community know, that a new concept populates in intelligentacia. The new Buzz word is Peopleism. Peoplism defines as the governing of a democratic nation by an elected human and his family with a term limit. Let this author probe deeper into “Peoples” by a psychoanalytic profile of people and their attitudes, tendencies and development. Throughout history human beings choose their kings by asking them to be kings. A king does not declare himself king, the people ask a king to rule them. In a democratic society the populace elect human beings to serve in public offices, in effect to organize, rationalize, and institutionalize society while the working class works., Most offices except for state governorship, and as a justice for the supreme court have term limits. These term limits prevent human beings from declaring themselves king as all people try to do when placed in the similar situation. Elected officials like all animals start a clan of personals: their family, their friends and key business officials to broaden the scope of their realm. The net effect of Peopleism is that elected officials obtain easy and lucrative positions in government and sensitive private institutions for all their family members. For example: most elected officials secure entrance for their friends and family in professional schools, doctor, lawyer, and businesses to extend their push or scope of influence, and these people their families, their friends and loved ones try to steal as much money from public funds as they can during the term of their election. Once voted out of office, their lawyer sons and daughters try to get them reelected after another term, so they can continue their dominion or dictator ship. Yes, women can be dictators. Thus a dynasty is born and they try to monopolize every situation possible to remain in power and blight or cast into disrepute their foes. This is solely a human trait. Ultimately the stigmata of success and riches makes the line die out and another takes their place. Every one it seems gets a chance in the sun and you and me are no exception. In summary, all people when elected to public office in a democracy, not matter their race, creed or color, try to make themselves and their family rich and successful during their term, and then try to have their son or daughter elected to replace them.
Let I be known as a blighter or sordid iconoclast but let me stipulate explicitly that “Peopleism”, is better than a monarchy, elitism or communism.
In a monarchy, the ruling family secures the “kings fifth”, or twenty percent of all the business deals that occur in the realm. The royal family slowly expands as desirables marry into it, and the integration of the result yields a nation of the very rich and the squalid poor who serve as workers and are killed when they retire. Monarchies become “top heavy” in economic parlance.
In elitism, only the beautiful people or highly educated get to share in the spoils of a Malthusian marketplace. The elite like the royals have cushy jobs and want their children to have cushy jobs and lead lucrative lifestyles. Because the elitists value education, and hard work the bell curve shifts from 80:20 into maybe a 60:40 percentage and greater percentage of people get to share the spoils. This situation by definition fares a trifle better in fairness.
In Communism, the white tower iconoclast hard line rulers rule in fairness, the people live austere lives but on the whole, the country runs well and is well oiled. To be admitted to the communist party people must be schooled, and when awarded a red card they have access to the best jobs and prettiest women. Unfortunately like all human beings, when the iconic hard line shakers and movers pass away, communism turns into a monarchy and the result is inevitable like a pogrom or civil war.
Then we have democracy, Let us hail the red, white and blue for the most costly, inefficient corrupt political system in existence. Let us be patriots and fight for freedom because the affluent will jet to France until the war is over , then come back again. O so American. Political candidates are Peopleists and will steal, kick back or parlay all funds at their disposal until they are kicked out of office or their term expires. Then their offspring will try the same thing but WE THE PEOPLE at least have a chance to maybe elect our own, our well educated, our dedicated souls to make existence more equitable to all and to all that follow them. Let this author not scream Americanism to all around or stand on a soap box, but to guarantee that us, the ones that clean the sewers, and pipe the water, and watch the electric turbines, that this democracy is the best that we as humankind can do. A democracy is not a panacea like the Greeks extrapolate, or a god sent fixture sent by Jesus or Mohammed, but the best system we can devise to make life in our society more equitable, happy and livable. Democracy is crap but the best the economists like the founding fathers can think of for a bunch of people exiled or cast away from the mother country. Do you have a better system? Bring it to church, everyone, even your grandmother wants to hear and I am sure so do you. For all us couch potatoes, that smoke pot and watch the late show with Jimmy Kimmel, democracy with free elections is the way to go. Don’t forget to have the marines guard the ballot boxes because the president is around, and have the organization get a piece of the action with all the contraband coming in on the west coast on container ships. Pip pip, Cheerio and carry on.

A spacious place, and so green, a large pasture with Quonset hut-like structures linked together like a frontier outpost. No fence, no gate, just anonymity, and designed like a military structure because not seen by the unaided eye, most of it lies underground, and tunnels link it all together.
This is or at least was, the major psychiatric facility of the United States of America, and was built to withstand an all-out bomb attack. The front doors to the main unit are wood, hard wood like walnut or oak, and have huge parallel steel bars vertical to the ground set in the wood with steel bolts, so in case of attack, they can be chained shut, and no one can ever leave.
Dr. Whacker is here, and he just aspires to be a general practitioner on the beach and sell psychedelic surf wax on the side. The doctor or Sheldon and Kretchner somatotype welcomes the fifth pathway students to a vacation stay at his life calling; an insane asylum for the criminally insane, that is also open to military personnel shunted in from Walter Reed.
Dark, deep, foreboding, but in New York State, the sun shines on the Statue of Liberty, and the tunnels that link the facilities have fluorescent lights that dim and sparkle when they get old, and the ambiance is southern gothic. After a brief lecture by the head honcho, who got beaten up by a catatonic psychopath, the students retire to their quarters, small prison cells without lights, clustered together and isolated by a big wooden door with the best lock hardware money can buy.
Dr. Wracker is happy; his new domicile has a reading lamp, and the sheets on his futon are clean.
He gets a message from the lead doctor of the inpatient psychiatric facility to come to his office at 0800 military time for orientation, in the main unit he finds the office with a number on the door in metal so it cannot be pried off, and Dr. Wracker notices that the door is reinforced hardwood with metal laminates so it would take a bazooka to breach it should it be locked.
Come in, Wracks says Dr. Lector. My name is Dr. Wracker says the student. Your friends call you Wracks, and so will I, he says. How did you know my nickname is Wracks asks Dr. Wracker. Dr. Lector says that is what your friends call you. I am your friend. The office is a lot bigger than it looks from outside, kind of like a uterus, and a huge walnut desk, with a chair and a huge, powerful reading lamp appear inside. Still dark, quiet, and unassuming, large bell jars filled with yellow formaldehyde stand in his bookcase that occupies the majority of the room. Immaculate books like a library stud the walls, and they look like they have been read several times. In the bell jars are various parts of the human anatomy, pickled and preserved for eternity, and one has a hand inside with a ring still on its finger. Dr. Lector follows wracked eyes and says they are souvenirs from past clinical cases. Wracks, you are assigned to the main unit with me, and another doctor, and the other students will work in the outpatient unit. I don’t think I am up to the competence dealing with patients like these, says Wracks. Your dossier says you are board accredited in Internal Medicine, Am I in error asks Dr. Lector. Yes, I am, says the Wracks. Fine, says Dr. Lector, if you are up to snuff, you will learn in the main unit and live with incurable psychotics. If the law puts someone insane in a cell, they eventually go berserk and kill someone, says Dr. Lector. Here, in the military, the patients spend their day in a rumpus room, watch tv, play ping pong, poker, and the game of life or monopoly. Your job is to sit in the corner, so they can’t get behind you, and observe. Take notes. Get to know the inmates by name. Be sure you have a straight line to the door at all times, and if someone gets rough, run out the door and lock it behind you. Do not let anyone touch your key. Not anyone except me. The reason for observation is to note any side effects of psychiatric medications and alert the pharmacy. They like the professional wrestler guards work until five P.M. and then you are on your own. Observation is key and critical because people presage their actions with behavior, and the way to treat a psychotic is to prescribe medication with an intrinsic side effect opposite to their psychiatric behavior. I will be around, just shout and I will appear. You are here to learn. I will interview you periodically to transfer information from caregivers and modulate treatment protocol for the patients. Do you have any questions? No Dr. Lector. You are dismissed says Dr. Lector. Exit and the door will lock automatically. Enjoy your day.
The Wracks do not know why this place seems so dark and quiet, so quiet. Almost like eternity, and he walks down the hall to the cafeteria, because it is lunch time. Three meals a day and a small box of chocolate milk. The military has all the calories counted for logistical purposes. The patients are all there, sitting at the benches, some of them smiling, He is new someone says, come talk to us. The wracks takes his tray with a processed cheese sandwich and some chips and sits down. A tall patient from another table runs over and steals his chips from his tray. The chocolate milk is mine says Wracks. I think we like you says one of the florid psychotics. I love chocolate milk, thinks the wracks. Back in the hall, a PHILIPPINE doctor in his group screams a bunch of obscenities to no one because no one is there, and no one is listening, except maybe Dr. Lector. The Wracks heads back to the rumpus room, with his key, open the door and enter, and they don’t notice him, they already know he is new.

Office

A spacious place, and so green, a large pasture with Quonset hut-like structures linked together like a frontier outpost. No fence, no gate, just anonymity, and designed like a military structure because not seen by the unaided eye, most of it lies underground, and tunnels link it all together.
This is or at least was, the major psychiatric facility of the United States of America, and was built to withstand an all-out bomb attack. The front doors to the main unit are wood, hard wood like walnut or oak, and have huge parallel steel bars vertical to the ground set in the wood with steel bolts, so in case of attack, they can be chained shut, and no one can ever leave.
Dr. Whacker is here, and he just aspires to be a general practitioner on the beach and sell psychedelic surf wax on the side. The doctor or Sheldon and Kretchner somatotype welcomes the fifth pathway students to a vacation stay at his life calling; an insane asylum for the criminally insane, that is also open to military personnel shunted in from Walter Reed.
Dark, deep, foreboding, but in New York State, the sun shines on the Statue of Liberty, and the tunnels that link the facilities have fluorescent lights that dim and sparkle when they get old, and the ambiance is southern gothic. After a brief lecture by the head honcho, who got beaten up by a catatonic psychopath, the students retire to their quarters, small prison cells without lights, clustered together and isolated by a big wooden door with the best lock hardware money can buy.
Dr. Wracker is happy; his new domicile has a reading lamp, and the sheets on his futon are clean.
He gets a message from the lead doctor of the inpatient psychiatric facility to come to his office at 0800 military time for orientation, in the main unit he finds the office with a number on the door in metal so it cannot be pried off, and Dr. Wracker notices that the door is reinforced hardwood with metal laminates so it would take a bazooka to breach it should it be locked.
Come in, Wracks says Dr. Lector. My name is Dr. Wracker says the student. Your friends call you Wracks, and so will I, he says. How did you know my nickname is Wracks asks Dr. Wracker. Dr. Lector says that is what your friends call you. I am your friend. The office is a lot bigger than it looks from outside, kind of like a uterus, and a huge walnut desk, with a chair and a huge, powerful reading lamp appear inside. Still dark, quiet, and unassuming, large bell jars filled with yellow formaldehyde stand in his bookcase that occupies the majority of the room. Immaculate books like a library stud the walls, and they look like they have been read several times. In the bell jars are various parts of the human anatomy, pickled and preserved for eternity, and one has a hand inside with a ring still on its finger. Dr. Lector follows wracked eyes and says they are souvenirs from past clinical cases. Wracks, you are assigned to the main unit with me, and another doctor, and the other students will work in the outpatient unit. I don’t think I am up to the competence dealing with patients like these, says Wracks. Your dossier says you are board accredited in Internal Medicine, Am I in error asks Dr. Lector. Yes, I am, says the Wracks. Fine, says Dr. Lector, if you are up to snuff, you will learn in the main unit and live with incurable psychotics. If the law puts someone insane in a cell, they eventually go berserk and kill someone, says Dr. Lector. Here, in the military, the patients spend their day in a rumpus room, watch tv, play ping pong, poker, and the game of life or monopoly. Your job is to sit in the corner, so they can’t get behind you, and observe. Take notes. Get to know the inmates by name. Be sure you have a straight line to the door at all times, and if someone gets rough, run out the door and lock it behind you. Do not let anyone touch your key. Not anyone except me. The reason for observation is to note any side effects of psychiatric medications and alert the pharmacy. They like the professional wrestler guards work until five P.M. and then you are on your own. Observation is key and critical because people presage their actions with behavior, and the way to treat a psychotic is to prescribe medication with an intrinsic side effect opposite to their psychiatric behavior. I will be around, just shout and I will appear. You are here to learn. I will interview you periodically to transfer information from caregivers and modulate treatment protocol for the patients. Do you have any questions? No Dr. Lector. You are dismissed says Dr. Lector. Exit and the door will lock automatically. Enjoy your day.
The Wracks do not know why this place seems so dark and quiet, so quiet. Almost like eternity, and he walks down the hall to the cafeteria, because it is lunch time. Three meals a day and a small box of chocolate milk. The military has all the calories counted for logistical purposes. The patients are all there, sitting at the benches, some of them smiling, He is new someone says, come talk to us. The wracks takes his tray with a processed cheese sandwich and some chips and sits down. A tall patient from another table runs over and steals his chips from his tray. The chocolate milk is mine says Wracks. I think we like you says one of the florid psychotics. I love chocolate milk, thinks the wracks. Back in the hall, a PHILIPPINE doctor in his group screams a bunch of obscenities to no one because no one is there, and no one is listening, except maybe Dr. Lector. The Wracks heads back to the rumpus room, with his key, open the door and enter, and they don’t notice him, they already know he is new.

The district attorney is elected by the people to prosecute. That is what he or she is there for. Often, they must carry a personal firearm because they are solely responsible for the health and longevity of the populace. Bad guys don’t take no for an answer. A crime defines as any action that impoverishes or hurts people in any way, and this is the reason A district attorney exists, to put criminals in prison. The question is this: Does the DA know justice? Few people know her, and this is why.
Justice is a beautiful lady incarnated by the maker to save mankind from undue attack. She is a tall brunette, and she dresses in a long flowing gown and holds a scale outstretched to the people in her right hand. She is large in case she has to defend against an attack. She wears a long, flowing gown so men do not become obsessed by her immaculate figure. Justice is overly beautiful to war like Helen of Troy, and her figure is exceptional, and she holds a scale. Justice is almost perfect, not perfect like Jesus Christ, but almost……..
She holds a scale and shows it to everyone who draws near. The scale represents mankind. The right or white side juxtaposes with the black or left side, and in human endeavor, never balances. The human condition, like the scale, is not black or white, but shades of gray, and she weighs this fact in her judgment
Justice is a woman, and the maker made her feminine because justice is matronly, hysterical, and merciful. Justice has a dark side. Otherwise, the law would look like a dinosaur that carries a weapon and breathes fire.
All a criminal has to do is show justice that he or she is 51 percent good on the scale, and she, like a devoted mother, will take it into consideration. Justice can be prone to illogical and exceptional actions because she is a woman, and this is what people who love do. It pays to be on the right side of Justice because statutory law is written in black and white.
Like all humans, Justice has another side. In ancient history, it is said she was the mistress of Hades, the king of the underworld. Whether she did this to contain him or whatever is the substance of speculation, humankind must be aware that she associates with darkness, and it is not prudent, fashionable or imperative that anyone socialize with her. It is important that the DA understand this fact and beware. . Justice is the most important and desirable commodity that can ever be bestowed on humankind. Justice is exceptionally beautiful, and the thrill never dissipates.
What does this mean to coke-snorting adult movie human beings? From basic mathematics and relational operators, If a criminal donates more than half their earnings to the church, when the DA sees a writ of investigation or litigation, he or she takes it, tears it up, and allocates it to the circular file. Remember, Justice has a scale and holds it for all to see. Justice is a woman but I wouldn’t go bar hopping with her at night. The consequences might be dramatic.
If the DA or a Judge is having problems with decisions, decisions that might affect millions of people, rather than have a shot of whiskey, walk out to the main hall in the courthouse and look at the sculpture of justice holding the scale, and she will give you solace. She will give you inspiration, and know that justice is the most beautiful condition to be bestowed upon mankind.

Load and lock and kiss your wife, goodnight. We may have to fight for it.

     “A tall, dark, handsome surfer enters the back gate.  “Hi Wrak, will you repair my surfboard?”  Wrak sits on the back doorstep smoking a cigarette and drinking a red can of Sugar Coke.  The little dog Punkin, who sits at his side with his tongue hanging out, panting like dogs do, turns and scurries back into the house through the Sears, Roebuck patented doggie door.  “Sure, I will fix your board. What does it need? “I am going to surf a place called the Strand up north.  The surf at the strand in the wintertime runs two to four times bigger than the popular winter breaks.  I have two small, green, fiberglass finlets I want you to resin to my surfboard, one half foot in front of the fin to stabilize the board in big surf.  I am worrying about spinning out at the bottom of a fifteen-foot wave,” explains Lu. “I will shape the fins and then glass them to your board with four-ounce glass and laminating resin, and then I will shave the product and give it a final coating of glossing resin.  The board will be ready by Saturday,” says Wrak. The three-fin surfboard is born.  Lu turns, salutes and walks out the back door gate, and the steel bolt hits the platen, closing making a sharp metallic sound.  A  Volkswagen bus starts up, and the tuned megaphone exhaust with glass pack muffler blares a popping noise, and the van turns, and the sound slowly disappears in the distance.  Wrak takes Lu’s board, a seven-foot-two Wilkin Phaser model, sands the spots, then mounts the fins with epoxy glue.  “I will form the fins with a sure form after they are glassed.

     The strand is situated as a deserted beach with large homes set one hundred yards from the beach because during high tides and large surf, the water moves up the beach, sometimes more than one hundred Yards.  The beach near the water juts sharply downward due to enormous tidal action.  Surfers time the surge coming in and then fling themselves off the ledge into the water, paddle furiously, and hope to make the sometimes thirty-minute paddle out to the breaking waves. The Strand consists of three surf breaks:  the jetty, the second peak, and the Washing machine.  A huge freighter run aground sits broadside at the south end of the beach in about twenty feet of water.  Some people agree that the Jetty at the entrance to Manta Ray Bay is the best spot at the strand. A surfer can jump off the jetty or paddle with the outgoing boats into the surf break.  The jetty at the strand can hold any size swell and breaks right going left almost all the way to the beach.  The jetty usually breaks the smallest of the three definite surf areas.  The local blond owners shoot to kill.   The second most popular spot is the second peak.  The second peak breaks right or left in a pipeline fashion, similar to Windansee in La Jolla.  The main attraction of the second peak is a channel that facilitates paddling back out to the waves on big days.  On big days, the rip tide surges through the channel, helping a surfer paddle back out to the break.  The tallest wave at the Strand is the peak that breaks next to the deserted ship on the south end of the beach.  Local surfers call the peak there the Washing Machine because the water between the shore and the breaking waves swirls like a huge Maytag upright washer set on fast.  The Washing Machine breaks big, and the waves primarily break left, then spit like the Pipeline on Oahu.  Paddling out in ten to twenty-foot surf sometimes takes half an hour.  Once out in the lineup where the biggest wave’s crest, a sneaker set breaking five feet bigger sometimes drowns experienced surfers.  The only way to the beach is to bodysurf a huge breaking wave to the white water impact area.  This is easier said than done.  On the beach, The Washing Machine does not look that big until a surfer starts his or her descent down a peak, and the drop takes three or more seconds.  Then everyone knows, a surfer will get the ride of their lives, or die trying. On a small three-foot northwest swell, the Washing machine will break eight to ten feet or bigger, easy. Today, the boys will surf the Washing Machine.  A bonus to the adventure shows as huge dorsal fins sometimes appearing next to the hulking wreck, serving as a lineup reference out in the water.  The option for traveling surfers is to either surf the Washing Machine or have their cars dismembered by an armed and unruly local surfing population that guards the beach like a paramilitary outpost. 

     “Where is BG?” asks HP. “BG does not like the paddle out here.  He says it is not worth it and goes up to the little corner where he has a girlfriend.” Says Wrak.  Lu and Eck wax up their boards on the beach.  Lu has his phaser, and Eck has a seven foot three tear drop pintail with a big fin.  Lu and Ech have teamed up as they are in the same socioeconomic group and share similar tastes.  Lu tires of carting Wrak around with a huge grocery bag of food.  Lu and Eck dive off a sand dune into the churning seawater, and the race commences.  “Let’s watch,” says HP.  “I might want to go backside today.”    The door to HP’s banana yellow Volkswagen scrap van flies open, and Cool sits in a druid robe with a cigarette and a Heineken bear.   “Is it good?” Cool yells, and then he starts singing like at a concert.  HP says, “It’s really big.”  Cool screams, “I’m going in.”   Lu and Eck duck-dive two large waves and continue paddling.  In a couple of minutes, two surfers sit in an undulating ocean framed by a huge grey, rusting freighter lying on its side.  Eck starts paddling furiously as a cleanup set begins to form outside.  Eck paddles to get in the monster like a man possessed, and he drops down, drops down, further to the flats, then squats and begins a bottom turn on a wave at least four times overhead.  Eck turns into a huge tube, and the wave covers him up, and Eck disappears.  Two seconds later, Eck shoots out of a wave along with a hissing spit of spray framing his exit. He begins paddling furiously to get back out, arms going like motor boats, and Lu takes off on a smaller one.  The wave approximates three times overhead, and the phaser bearing Lu jumps on the turn because the board is too wide.  The two small fin-lets hold him in.  On this day, Lu becomes outgunned.  All surfers who surf the big waves know a pintail board will draw out their turns to safety, and a big fin will not spin out on the ridiculous angles of huge breaking waves. Cool runs past in a super suit by O’Neil with a bright red rocket ship with a rounded tail. He has a job as a singer in a band. He jumps off the ledge into the water and enters the arena.  “I’m going in,” says HP.  “I will too,” says Wrak.  Wrak goes into his big brown lunch bag and retrieves a Gordon and Smith nine and one-half inch high-performance fin and screws the unit into his six-ten Blue Cheer Hinson natural Rocker design.  Wrak knows his backside remains weak, and today will test his spirit.  Eck gets another big tube.  The Pang gang rolls in along with their girls, and the three-ring circus begins. Wood leans out of the shotgun seat of a Volkswagen van and smiles to the crowd. He wears a mink stole ripped off from somewhere?    HP and Wrak begin their entry.  Wrak times the set, and they hit every twelve minutes, three waves to a set.  When a huge set of waves fills the panorama, HP and Wrak start paddling like men sentenced to life imprisonment.  “I am going to wait for a right-hander on a big set,” says Wrak.  He waits far outside where big sharks prowl and sometimes strike stragglers.   An enormous cleanup set of waves hits the horizon, and everyone scratches for existence.  The first huge wave starts to crest, and Wrak sits in position.  “I hope I do not die,” thinks Wrak. He turns and paddles like he never paddled before, and the wave lifts him up, and the board starts tracking down a four or more times overhead right-hander at the Washing machine.  Wrak doesn’t know the set cleaned up the gang, and they all swam for half an hour as he started to make the turn at the bottom.  The short board arcs up the face, and wrack goes vertical for the first time in his life.  He turns back down and drops endlessly again.  The wave slows down, and Wrak starts an even cutback into the hook of the breaking wave.  His fin hits something hard, and Wrak launches off the board into the washing machine.  Wrak at this moment fin dinged a great white shark.  Wrak hopes the shark is not mad.  Wrak pops up like a cork due to the buoyancy of his wetsuit and looks for the shark.  Poseidon, in all his mercy, sends a large wave breaking toward Wrak.  Wrak body surfs a fifteen-foot wave on his side to the shore where safety lives.  Surf cords have not been invented yet.  Twenty minutes later, Wrak retrieves his board and thinks twice about going back out.  B.A. surfs a purple gun with a small fin, spins out at the bottom of a triple overhead wave, and eats a soggy lunch of seawater and churning sand.  The pang boys on the beach slap their sides and laugh.  Bobbie ponders the situation intently.  Cool has a seven-eight long narrow, round tail pin and is riding a board more appropriate to the environment.   Cool and Eck rip huge pipeline tubes at the strand in the early morning as light offshore winds fringe the breaking waves with spray.  Wrak does not want to sit around, so he paddles back out for more torture and abuse.  He surfs two smaller waves, one right and one a leaning left, trimming for survival.   For some reason, only weathermen and women know, the north wind on the strand starts to blow at about eleven A.M.   The beach slowly blows out, and the ocean becomes capped with a white crest blending in to a huge seething cauldron of corduroy madness. Everyone comes in, strips their suit, and redresses. The paddle out is too hard, says Eck, I like pipe better.   The vans rev up and are gone.  Taco Bell and McDonald’s are the next stop for tanking before the one-hour ride home past the dunes, past the aperture carved out by an atomic bomb, and into the cool hills of Malibu County.

     Wrak would ride the Washing Machine occasionally with his friends with more appropriate equipment, namely an eight-foot Waimea gun surfboard.  Everyone agrees the paddle out is too difficult and the result of a wipeout at best disheartening if not lethal.  Nowadays surfers have tow-ins and surf jets. Bonze boys control the second peak.  Once, when alone driving a cast-off barracuda with carbon monoxide in the interior, Wrak happened into a twenty-foot-plus day, right, off the jetty.  The waves break like San Miguel, only bigger and churn almost all the way to the beach.  A huge ex-marine, at least six feet three, introduces himself to Wrak as they watch the waves from the parking lot at the jetty.  The marine says to Wrak.  “If you take off in front of anyone on these waves, we will punch you out.”  Wrak agrees and watches perfect surf spin off a long jetty bordering a boat inlet to Manta Ray Bay.  After watching a while, Wrack goes home, the barracuda spewing noxious fumes out the back and both windows open to air out the compartment as Wrack’s hair-do tosses and tumbles in the wind. 

     The sad point of Wrack’s surfing career is revealed in the fact that he never could tame the surf at the Washing Machine.  The waves, the current, the under tow, and the huge sharks punish the mind and body incessantly.  Wrak never saw another big shark there, but fishermen pull in eighteen-foot great whites with regularity and publish the picture in the Nards local paper.  The surf crew of the cosmic children, satisfied with their conquest, moves on to better things.  The beach at the strand blends back into quiet seclusion, and the waves keep pounding with a roar.  The Army Corps of Engineers removed the huge, rusting, corroded hulk of a freighter, and the sand forming the Washing Machine disappeared.  The huge waves, the intensity of feeling, of being alive in adrenaline madness, and the virtual picture of surfing will forever remain conscious in the memory of those who did.