A light and peculiar tapping, not a curious or raucous rapping, happens at my windowpane in the dark, in the night, almost in the morning, and the day is 4 AM. “Wake up wracks, the Bu will be happening soon.”
Whispers BG. “Don’t you ever sleep,” intones wraks. “The Bu will be happening,” whispers BG. “Get up.” “How did you get in my yard without the Dog barking,” asks Wracks. “Pun kin is with me,” says BG. “Say hi to wraks punk in.” A little dog growls somewhere in the dark. “For the right to surf the Bu when it is happening, I require a pack of smokes and two cans of Coca-Cola.” “Bring some bread too.” Whispers BG.
Wraks gets up as if summoned by God and grabs his druid robe and wetsuit that hang behind the door. He opens his door and creeps into the kitchen. Grabbing a brown paper grocery bag, wraks shovels food into the bag, grabs some coke cans from the refrigerator, and steals a pack of Pall Mall Gold from the stogey stash in the cupboard up above the vacuum cleaner storage bin. Outside, BG sits on the step behind the kitchen door and pets Punk. “Good morning,” says BG. “I have a seven-foot-three board I want you to ride today. The fin is crooked but it was shaped by Rdick and it is a square-tailed gun glassed violet. Let’s go. Do you have the smokes?” “I have everything,” promises Wracks. “Get in the car and let’s go. I want to be out at the third point at morning light.”
The remains of the night shelter the dark green car from the overhead lights on the street of Bacon Way. Close to the beach, the wet ocean smell of seaweed and brine reaches the street a mile away from the Pacific Coast Highway. Cool slumber darkness prohibits the morning from starting and the hatchback car moves at light speed down the way, onto Sunset, then to the highway stretching north for one hundred miles. “I didn’t hear breaking waves at my house,” says Wracks. “The swell will hit just as we paddle out,” says BG. “How do you know,” asks Wracks. “I have my sources,” says GB. “Who are your sources,” questions wraks. “A friend, far away,” speaks BG “See that white powder spilled on the carpet,” says BG. “yes,” says wraks. “Touch it and put your finger in your mouth.” “What is it?” says Wracks. “It is performance powder.” Says BG. “What will it do?” says Wracks. “It will make you surf better.” Smiles BG. Wraks complies, wets his finger, touches the spilled powder, and puts his finger in his mouth. “It does not have any taste.” Says wraks. “We are almost there.” Says BG “Get ready.”
The city of Malibu permits free parking at Surf Rider Beach if a person arrives before six a.m. Four vans sit in the slot next to the wall that has graffiti written on the surface. One sentence written in black spray paint reads, “Mickey Dora is the Cat.” Another says, “Kooks will die.” A final epithet written in dripping blue paint reads, “Malibu Masochist.” The wave riders huddle next to their cars, all of them in wetsuits, their boards freshly waxed with paraffin, some smoking, some eating bread, some sipping soup from plastic top ramen cups. One person sits in a van with huge headphones on his ears, drinking Jack Daniels bourbon whiskey from the bottle like seven up. “Who is that.” Asks Wraks. “That’s Moon doggy. Do not mind him, he takes pictures.” Says BG. “Are you ready,” asks BG, “Ready as I ever will be,” says Wracks. “Let us jog up to third.” Says BG. The race is on.
Pebbles, rocks, starfish, shells, crabs, and seaweed provide an obstacle course in the dark, for two people running without shoes, boards tucked underneath their arms up to the top of the third point. Two other figures crouch on the beach, waiting. “Do you have a light,” asks BG. “I do,” says the phantom in the dark. BG lights up a cigarette and hands it to wraks then lights another for himself. The four wait in the dark for ten minutes then the light starts to permeate the space and the beach and the sound of waves becomes more prominent and slowly breaking waves come into view. “Let us launch,” says BG. Wraks and BG hole their boards with both hands and run into the tide pool brimming with white water. Stroking hard, the paddle out is quick in a lull and the two sit outside in twilight in the morning at the Bu. The two others on the beach now race for the water and a six-foot swell appears on the horizon. BG as always takes the first one and wraks scratches for safety outward into the ocean. A similar wave rears up and begins to break. Wraks wheels around and pulls hard into a late takeoff and the race is on.
Back on the beach, BG says to Wracks, “See, I told you it would be good. It should get bigger all through the morning. The light of the sun comes on and the beach shows as a low tide estuary situation with waves breaking down the line, roundly with a hint of offshore wind to hold up the faces and make spray stream off the top. “Get as many waves as you can before the zoo arrives.” Insists BG. “When I wave to you, it is time to go. “ Waves fill in at Surf Rider Beach at low tide breaking in shallow water across Third Point Reef. Four feet, then six feet, then eight to ten-foot sets coming in three at a time and the Rdick square tail gun works well. Eventually, the sun looms brightly over the mountain to the east and the day begins and the waves come in and break and surfers ride them all. BG waves his hands on the beach and wraks starts to paddle in. The parking lot fills up full but it is too early for girls in bikinis to show off their young curvaceous bodies. Wraks and BG dress covered by their druid robes stack the boards and then enter the cab. They both pull out of the parking lot before noon as the horde of weekend surfers and beautiful girls descend on the Bu to become the one. “If the tide is high in the morning, like it usually is during the summer, come back at two PM when the tide starts dropping and the waves will increase as the morning crew rests on the beach,” says BG “I have to go to work.”
The green hatchback accelerates quietly down the Pacific Coast Highway toward Tranquil Hills. Up on the mountain over the ocean with Deadmans and Bacon as cross streets sits the house of wraks. Wraks unloads the gear from the hatchback and throws the equipment on the ivy under the big pine tree. Pun kin barks behind the gate. “Wow! See you soon.” BG waves then reverses the hatchback and is gone.
Wraks washes off his wetsuit and gear with cold water as sea water corrodes everything rapidly. The dog makes noises and wags his tail. Wraks is home and enters the house but no one is home except Grandma who watches Lawrence Welk with a speaker glued to her ear. “Hi grandma,” says Wracks. Grandma smiles and waves. Wraks closes her door, the dog goes to his cushion and falls asleep and Wracks sits alone with his thoughts and a twenty-pound world history book written by Arnold Toynbee. The day goes on and then the light fades and another day happens like pages in the book of life. All of this before the darkness in the days when ripping big waves was all that mattered.