“bonk, bonk bonk,” goes the knuckle against the glass window in Wrack’s room. “Who is outside my window at three in the morning,” asks Wracks.  “Bonk, Bonk, Bonk, meet me outside,” says BG.  “bonk, bonk, and bonk, it is 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 the 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 lets 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 the 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 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 really 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.  “I’ll get my stuff, “says Wracks. The dog spins around right side up and yawns.  “I’ll 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 a 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 neighbor’s 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 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 Mellowman’s, onto Quez Lane and then Sunrise Avenue and Wracks looks 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 Freeway 101 appear 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 fourth 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 the windows are halfway down and the wind whips around Wrack’s 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 stay inside the car.   The two eat in silence.   Then BG says, “Let’s 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 are situated 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 riders 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 waves 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 herself 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 closeout.  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 like a vampire from his tomb, 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 opens, three wetsuits hang on the car and wracks share the bar of paraffin with the other two, 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 rises 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, “We’re 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.  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, “Let’s 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 p.m.  “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 Mellowman’s land to Charmed Street where Cool lives.  Wracks stowed his board in the rafters and washed 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’s for dinner” asks Wracks. “Grab a frozen bag of chicken and microwave it, “says Mom.   “Where were you?” “I was surfing big waves up in SB with BG,” explains Wracks.  “go shower off and do your homework,” says Mom.   Wracks walks to his bedroom, then 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 wakes 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 shine 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 Wrack’s 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 grow a little older.

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.

There comes a time when a boy becomes a man.  It often does not occur in a bedroom, or in a van, or any special place.  A boy becomes a man when tossed into the elements, in the world, in a commonplace, in an extraordinary situation, all alone.  For a fifteen-year-old teenager, in high school, becoming a man meant riding big waves, radically, with commitment, for the entire world to see. For Wracks, his time comes now.

“Let’s go down to Diego, “says Getty

“The surf is flat, I checked it myself,” says Cool

“There might be something coming in at staircase,” says Getty

“Do you have smokes and brew,” asks Cool.

“We have smokes and brew, “promises Getty, “I need company.”

“I have gas money,” says Wracks, “I’m in.”

“Get your gear and throw it in back,” orders Getty.

Kool has a green Meth model shaped like a teardrop, and a green robe and a duffel bag filled with goodies, and he tosses them all in the back hatchback of the yellow and white Volkswagen van.  Wraks has a purple and red second hand NatPro purchased for a song from Bee aye the seventh member of the room.  Getty has a red pintail BK potato chip.  Wracks has drilled out the glassed-in fin on his purple monster and installed a neon large orange fin of his own design.  The result yields a blatant diamond tail billboard meant to handle large surf.  He delicately places his board in the back of the van along with his blue druid robe and a sack of food liberated from his parent’s house.  The ride down to Diego bodes long and boring and Wracks falls asleep, like always on the bed in the back of the van as the tuned exhaust blare a blatant note of existence. 

Kool drinks a Budweiser sixteen-ounce in a huge gulp, finds someone to throw the can at, and heaves the crumpled mass at them on the freeway.  The can bounces off the windshield of a sedan, the sedan swerves, and an angry driver displays the finger to Kool.  Kool displays the finger back and grabs a cigarette, then lights the Marlboro with a Bic butane lighter, smiles, and draws a huge puff from the reefer. The who blares from a tape deck suspended from the metal dashboard of the van and time passes.  Smoke drifts in eddies out the side exit windows, and the town of little happenings comes into view.  Looking down at the cliff, the three survey the beach break with rocky reefs interspersed amongst the long expanse of sand.  The waves break at two to three feet with a light wind blowing the soup into a delicate froth of soup.   

“Let’s go to seven-eleven.”  Says Getty “ I am hungry.”

“Yeah, dah.” Screams cool,   “Hamburger, candy, and a huge Slurpee to go for me.”

The yellow-white van growls into town and the first 7-11 looms in front of it.  Getty pulls in, he and Kool exit the car and go inside the store.   They both return with brown bags and large Slurpees in blue and red cherry.  Wracks eats his bread, a packet of Kraft cheese bits and savors a can of red sugared coca cola. 

“We are going to Windiness, “   smiles HP

“The cashier inside the 7-11 says that a hard south swell currently focuses on Windiness and the surf should be larger there. “

“I have never been to Windiness,” says Wracks

“The break appears to be a deep-water reef close to shore and the waves break right and left depending on the season and the swell direction.” “It is only fifteen minutes more, over the bridge, at the entrance to Diego Bay.  A colony of small houses is situated there and the person told me where we could park safely.”

Over the grey steel bridge and into the southern part of the niche, before Crown beach go the three surf riders with hopes, dreams, and ambition.  In ambition comes excellence and today excellence tests under the envelope of big.  Windiness beach looks like a short beach strewn with rocks, typical of southern California beaches.  Windiness sets straight like a flat beach break except here, south of The Niche, the bottom of the ocean a hundred yards out spans deeper than one thousand feet.  For this reason, ocean swells attract to the reef and rear up suddenly out of the deep water and break hard with much mass and water coming over with the breaking wave.  Wracks looks out the side window of the van and Windiness, today breaks at over twenty-five feet in height.  A tall man in a white helmet and long surfboard enters a huge swell and turns his huge board and banks toward shore on the huge wall of water.  The wave at Windiness rears up as a huge triangular peak and breaks in both directions. At this point in time, the lefts break better.  A slight offshore wind makes the surface conditions epic in nature and the waves tumble to completion with spray dancing off the top of the breaking waves.

“I think the waves are too large for me,” whimpers Wracks

“We are parking, and you are going out,” screams Getty. “The conditions are epic and half of Diego watches on the beach.  If you start to drown, they will call a helicopter.”

“Twisted,” screams Kool and the crowd on the beach turn their heads for a second and look at him. Kool tears his clothes off like a man possessed and stark-naked pulls on his wetsuit like a hotdog stuffing machine.  Today Windiness breaks like big Pipe and Kool rides goofy foot. Windansea and 18^th Street are the only breaks in southern California that fire on a hard south-southeast swell.  Both HP and Kool prepare with amazing speed and run toward the entry spot on the beach.  They both run to the water and cast themselves out like torpedoes steaming out of a submarine.  Wracks remain stolid and slowly waxes his board and counts the set waves.  The sets are four in number with the second wave the largest and the sets periodically appear at twenty-minute intervals.  Wracks decides to paddle out.  At windiness, a channel to the right of the reef sucks waters out in a huge riptide when the waves break large, and wracks enters the entry zone and the rip aids the paddle out into deep water and big waves.  Out in the middle of the ocean, an extraordinarily large set hits the reef and Wracks gets caught inside the area where the wave breaks and loses his surfboard, comes up after the set and finds him in the middle of nowhere in twenty-foot-plus waves.  He sees the older man in a helmet and asks him for help.  The older man says,

“Son, in big surf, you have to swim in.  If a rip pulls you out the only way in is to body surf the waves in.”  Wraks again asks him to help him in.   The man in the helmet repeats his command. “Body surf the waves in,”  “It is the only way. “

In large surf the ocean heaves in turbulence and without a wetsuit, most people soon drown.  Wracks starts to backstroke his way into the beach.  The riptide hinders his exit.  A huge set hits the reef.  Wracks turns into freestyle stroke and scratches hard to enter the twenty-foot-high wave.  The wave picks him up and Wracks hydroplanes down the face of the wave using his hands like fins  At the bottom of the wave, Wracks turns and points toward the open area and the wave overtakes him and pushes downward, deeply and the turbulence spins him around like an old rag doll.  When deep under water all watermen open up their eyes.  Watermen open up their eyes to see where the bubbles go.  Where the bubbles move signals the direction up.  Wracks swim in the direction of the bubbles, break the surface, and gulps down a huge amount of air.  A second wall of white   water hits his body and Wracks goes underneath again.  Watching the bubbles, he swims upward and breaks the surface again.  The set of waves concludes Wracks has been pushed inside towards the beach, and exit from the breakers seems possible.  Within ten minutes, the wrack scramble up on the beach and looks for his board.  Some kind observer rescues his board from the rocks and sets the purple explosion on a safe stretch of beach.  Wracks sits  on the beach and looks again at the breaking waves.

“It wasn’t so bad,” he thinks, I am going back out.”  

Wracks grabs the reins of his horse, gets back on and rides again.  Luckily, no huge clean-up sets made him swim in again.  Both Getty and Cool surf as the time of their lives on the left breaking waves, just like Pipeline.  Wracks surfs the rights which break slower and mushier but still huge in size.  Wracks’ gets three huge set waves presently and successfully performs two rollercoaster reentries in double overhead plus surf.  The wrack notes that the bottom turns feel good with the large custom fin.   By three o’clock PM. HP waves from the beach and heads up to the car at a parking place that mysteriously appears out of nowhere for the three at this exclusive and fabulous colony community.  The three exhausted wave riders strip their wetsuits and dress slowly.  Then the three sit inside the car and devour whatever remains of food in the car at hand. 

“That was epic,” says Getty “Awesome radical lefts.”

“Tubular,” asserts Kool as he smiles largely and eats a two-foot-long beef stick.

“I got two really good ones,”  says Wracks “I can’t go left yet.”

“I have to work tonight, “ says Getty, “lets go.”

The white and yellow van roars to life as the megaphone exhaust shakes and belches mist out of the header.  The van rolls over the bridge, gets on interstate five and the three head for home.  HP smokes cigarettes, drinks a Coca-Cola and drives.  As usual, Wracks falls asleep.  Kool Chain smokes and drinks a Budweiser red sixteen-ounce beer.  Wracks wakes up at the refinery, and again at dismal canyon road, past the high school.  At the corner of Mellow man’s lane, Bacon Way and Saint Inez sits the Wracks’ house, with grandma, the dog, and a little bit of home.  Wracks and Cool pull their gear out of the van and Cool takes his board and duffel and disappears down the street towards Marco’s way.  Wracks rinse off his gear with cold water and enters his house.  The little dog wakes up, yelps, and seems to smile.  No one resides within except for Grandma who sits in her room and watches Lawrence Welk reruns.  She waves at wracks and smiles. 

“I will make dinner in fifteen minutes,”  says Wracks

Wracks finds some chicken with wine left over in the refrigerator and puts the mass into the microwave oven.  The oven hums, the dog runs in his sleep on the cushion, the house darkens as light leaves the remains of the day, and night in tranquil hills begins.  Here nothing becomes of what it seems.  

Wracks never rode the waves at windiness ever again.  The drive remains too long, especially for a person who does not own a car.  The secret of windiness remains.  When a huge storm turns off the coast of Antarctica, in the west, extreme south swells focus on south-facing beaches on a north stretch of land.  A huge offshore canyon at windiness captures extreme south swells and Windiness can be twenty feet when everywhere else looks as flat as a lake.  Everywhere of course, except Jalama and the extremely well-kept green custom houses last another day in a time when darkness and immensity threaten the world and the intrinsic fabric of mankind. If a wave rider surfs windiness, watch out for great white sharks as Simmons disappeared mysteriously there one day in big surf in a deep fog. 

Back in the mind of many, so close yet so far away, but not forgotten, lies Sands Beach.  Sands Beach is located in the northernmost part of Island View and has the distinction of being the exclusive retreat for the students who attend the major university that becomes part of the state University system nearby.  No parking exists for Sands Beach.  Students walk in or lock their bicycles in the racks provided by the university.  The University stresses bio-complacency and urges its residents to walk or ride bicycles instead of driving a car.  A student places his or her bicycle in the racks, locks the bicycle, and then walks past a grove of planted pine trees to behold the undeveloped, unmarked, unspoiled vista of Sands Beach up to Naples reef.   The beach shares the same characteristics as beaches nearby in the Island View Community.  White sand with rocky stretches at the land-ocean interface, with plenty of seaweed dispersed, blending into Mediterranean scrub vegetation moving inland.  The Majestic Channel Islands sit offshore and block most southerly and northerly moving swells that might impact on this coast.  Clean ocean water lubricates the interface of beach and ocean and a rocky reef creates a surfing location amenable to board riding.  During the winter months of November to the end of February, intense onshore winds blowing around point conception create surfable waves up to eight feet on the rocky reefs after which the swells close out in a huge wall across the beach.  What makes Sands so attractive to wave riders stems not from its seclusion, or location, only the fact that the prevailing winds create wind swells all winter long.  During the winter months of Island View, Sands Beach breaks three to six feet almost every day.  A right-breaking wave predominates and pipeline tube riding becomes possible across the shallow rocky reefs.  Another byproduct of seclusion and University policy derives the fact that Sands is also the locally sanctioned nude beach.  Women in various stages of undress sunbathe or frolic in the breakers and show nature’s way in all shapes forms and nuances.  Modest girls only take off their tops and men become immune to the sights that normally would send a lone heart racing.

Wracks peddles his ten-speed bicycle to Sands with his Halloween orange progression surfboard shaped by Rdick every chance he gets and in Island View this happens almost every day.  The university does not enforce attendance in class and the girls do not magnetize to Wracks because he is nothing more than a starving student with no ways or means or committee.  Wraks loves to tube ride Sands Beach.  Dalman loves to tube ride Sands Beach, Cloy comes to tube ride Sands Beach.  The wave at Sands Beach has the attribute of being easy to master.  Merely paddle into a building right peak, put the board into a sideslip, and as the swell hits the rocky reef and becomes a tubular vortex; drag his or her hand and tube ride, pipeline style.  This action yields a wave cover-up and an easy exit over shallow water.  Even though the beach has pools of tar that riddle and trap a person who treks across its surface, Wracks never tires of the fine, offshore breezes that prevent the wave from breaking and create a spinning tube that breaks like a closing zipper with spray-pushing out to sea.  Wracks keeps a jug of paint thinner at his apartment to wash the sticky black goo from his bare feet.  Sitting out in the water on an early Saturday morning as the sun nears zenith and watching nude women parade up and down the beach, the reality seems like a vision from nirvana or utopia.  In a neoprene wetsuit, the cool, fresh ocean water, laden with beneficial minerals, replenishes and rejuvenates the body and the relaxation of the moment,  calms the soul making life bearable, even pleasurable.  Even the huge great white sharks that frequent the area bask benevolently and never intrude or molest people like Wracks or his roommate Cool.   Because the sewage outlet for Saint Barbara city, exits two points and ten miles to the south, the white sharks seem well-fed and almost friendly.  When a white shark has no hunger, the beast will hover underneath the surface of the water with its dorsal fin submerged.  A twenty-foot-long white shark can hover in ten feet of water, motionless for extended periods.  Occasionally, a huge white shark will shudder to warm its carcass in the cold water and vibrations from the shaking emanate in all directions like little ripples in a tide pool. At Sands Beach, white sharks often linger ten feet away.   When a white shark’s fin breaks water, the animal seeks to startle prey into bolting or flight. Motion excites predators.  In the presence of a predator, a wise human remains motionless, or moves slowly away from the animal, as they inch away.   Out in the water, if a fin comes up, a wave rider begins, without splashing, to paddle nonchalantly to the beach. This is because if a white shark touches him or her out in the water or bumps that person, the shark will ultimately attack him or her and devour them.  Once a shark has a person in their memory, he or she cannot ever go back in the water at that place and must hunt, catch, and harvest the shark because white sharks remember and live a long time.  Wracks never think about worst-case scenarios.  Waves at Sands beach break beautifully, the water cools and refreshes, and the young women look fabulous in the buff.  S.B. has a short winter period of wave activity, a narrow swell window, and a large surf that only happens for one day.  Wracks soon will return to the city of Angeles and intensive training in remorse.

Only the shadow knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men.  Only the shadow possesses the word or invisibility outlined in the Holy Koran.  Wracks do not want to be like the shadow. Wracks wants to work in a free clinic and ride large surf radically.  The future looms hazily in the mind’s eye of Wracks.  The future in its nebulous and stochastic parameters, floats silently, but majestically and never leaves Wracks alone.  In a time when darkness pervades all, and righteousness and justice go on sabbatical without notice, there remains beauty in nature for all to witness, partake in, and enjoy.  Man, no matter how important he or she seems still exists as a toy in the hands of Allah. 

Imaging is the future of modern Medicine.  In a world of procedures, surgeries, biopsies, and the like, non-invasive techniques will eventually eclipse current dogma.   In surgery, the risk of morbidity and death from anesthesia is present, and the longer the operation, the more likely complications and failures.   Biopsies demonstrate very little except the histologic picture of tissues, all of which are moot, and all biopsied organs bleed and lead to surgery.  Endoscopies show the presence or absence of inflammation and/or obstruction and the risk of perforation of a viscus is tantamount.  A perforated viscus leads to major laparoscopy to repair the hole made by a scope.

Enter CAT scans and static X-ray imaging.  These techniques focus on density differences and an increase or decrease in opacity usually means some sort of pathology.   X-ray techniques are easy, cheap, and reliable.   They cause little tissue morbidity and all the patients like their non-invasive nature.  One would think PET and MRI scans might be the new technology to evidence disease in situ, but they are not.   Magnetic resonance imaging relies on an atom changing orientation in the presence of a magnetic field, and when the current stops, the atoms jump to their natural configuration and liberate an electron.   This electron picture forms in a computer, and the pattern suggests various disease processes.  However, the picture produced on a screen reflects secondhand manipulation of nuclear data and sometimes does not illustrate what is happening.  MRI scanners cost an enormous amount of money and use fabulous amounts of electricity, and high Gauss magnetic fields cause cancer.  It is no secret that the cancer rate is statistically higher among people that live next to high power lines.  High-power electric lines emit magnetic fields.   Furthermore, the image on a screen generated by an MRI scan is a direct function of the program that creates the image, and the result is a nebulous picture subject to conjecture.  

What are we the people to do?    Do we rely on CAT scans?   X-ray technics show an increase in opacity dependent on the atomic mass of the tissue being assayed.   This is the reason physicians inject high-molecular weight contrast agents to delineate the area in question.   How about blue light and thermal imaging?    Shining a blue light against soft tissue can reveal masses that have calcium deposition or the presence of calcium in inflammation.  Tumors because of their change in tissue identity can be evidenced as lumps, masses, or accumulations of aberrant cells.   Why blue light?    Red light photons have the same wavelength as the bonds of water and are absorbed and diffused by soft tissue.  Yellow, orange, and green absorb to a lesser extent.  It is the blue light that exhibits the least absorption by protein and water and by Tran’s illumination; a scientist can see what is going on deep in the tissues without biopsy or surgery.  This technic has obvious significance for assaying soft masses and genital tissue.   The breast is a primary example

What is it with thermal imaging?  Isn’t thermal imaging what the Russians use to track jet airplanes and missiles in flight to identify adversaries at a distance?   Highly sensitive Russian thermos-sensors used for medical purposes can also identify and delineate disease.  Infected tissue and organs get hot compared to surrounding tissue.   A thermos-sensor can identify infection.   Cancerous tumors are cold.  Due to anaerobic metabolism and cellular metabolism according to Moore’s embryology, cancer of all types is cold in relation to healthy tissue.  From this primary difference, a physician can determine whether a lesion is an infection, an inflammation, or a cancer.  

Here is imaging in a nutshell.  All scientists relate that their discoveries occur because they stood on the shoulders of giants that preceded them.  This is no exception.  Let us, the public hope that medicine will take heed and not railroad sick patients into surgery.  Hope springs eternal and have a good day.

Everyone thinks that parasitic illness confines the tropics and underdeveloped countries.  This fact may be true, but sophistication brings parasitosis to the USA.  The United States exists as a country of tourists and the corporate airlines ferry them to exotic destinations around the world.  These people come back to the mainland with illnesses that the medical fraternity diagnoses as cancer and obesity whereas they truly are infected with parasites.  All people with protuberant abdomens harbor intestinal parasites in a myriad of types and symptoms. Midriff bulge in women and beer belly in men signifies an abdominal parasitic infection. Everyone over forty has an occult parasitic infection. They must be treated appropriately.  Any nation that lives in coexistence with wild animals, and insects, happen an endemic, reservoir for parasites. 

Most insects perpetuate as vector forms in the body of hosts and cause disease.  The act of living apart from insects is impossible because they are everywhere and reproduce rapidly.  The major parasitic diseases of the world are Malaria and Schistosomiasis.  Malaria is mainly an intestinal parasite that migrates to other parts of the body through trophic forms.  Monkeys and rodents rather than mosquitos, vector malaria in their feces, and when a human ingests contaminated food, they develop Malaria.  As to what insect, this middle form belongs to, is subject to future genetic analysis.  Similarly, Schistosomiasis fluoresces as the middle form of eggs in snail feces ingested by humans, rather than the meta-cyclic, transient, infective form, that students are taught in medical school.  To give human malaria, capture a wild monkey and feed the victim monkey guano.   To give a person fascioliasis, culture snails and feed humans strained snail feces.  To infect a person with schistosomiasis, culture aquatic snails in an aquarium, feed them bird guano, and sift the meta-cyclic trypanosomes out by pouring aquarium water through a coffee filter.  Similarly, for the fish tapeworm, diphyllbothrium latum,   puree raw fish, make a salad dressing or sauce, and feed it to friends or restaurateurs.  All vegetarians with protuberant bellies have been fed pureed raw fish sauces.  The list remains endless, and all parasites culture in sophisticated labs set up by affluent human beings cause endless misery for the unsuspecting citizens of the United States. 

People are mischievous, and treatment for parasitic disease involves lengthy courses under the care of a physician versed in the use of toxic medical agents.  American medicine to this day views swellings and protuberances as cancer to be extirpated surgically.  A surgical patient eventually dies.   All the media hype for colon cancer and the discovery of polyps in the large intestine by colonoscopy is the discovery of tapeworms and parasitic forms in the intestine.  The poor suffer colonoscopy, perforation, and eventual colectomy when in reality they have parasitic disease.  Parasitic disease is treated by an internist competent in the use of toxic anti-parasitic medicines over a prolonged period. 

The test of time determines ultimately the genetic pattern of parasites so that scientists can compare gene sequences with the gene sequences for insects.  Then we the people will have a definitive diagnosis and treatment.  Surgery, as a treatment, confines trauma patients, to stop bleeding, rather than people with bumps or obstructions.  A person cannot look at themselves in a mirror and diagnose their maladies.   A physician with lengthy training in tropical disease must exert their ethical religious influence to maintain the health of the population.  The treatment of intestinal snails involves toxic agents.  Schistosomas rapidly develop resistance to praziquantel.   The fish tapeworm is the hardest intestinal parasite to worm.   What the world needs now is competent physicians dedicated to preserving the health of the nation’s citizens.  We don’t need money-grubbing capitalists, who charge a lot and do very little, in modern medicine.  Civilization eventually becomes an economic franchise and we the people need God-fearing individuals to help us and we need them now. 

One day, after school, around 2:30 at Tranquil Hills High, Wrack pulls the chains from a red Suzuki 250 motocross bike set up for the street. He puts the chains in his backpack.  A tall, lanky, athletic male walks towards him from the Parking lot. The person has dark curly hair, and sports a Hawaiian shirt, beige corduroy walking shorts, and plastic flip flop zories.   The people in these parts call plastic sandals zories because Zorba wears zories and has a pair.  The person waves the classic star trek salute to Wrack and says, “Hello, my name is Lu, want to party this weekend?”   Wrack says, “Are you from around here?”  “I go to Sunni high school on the west side and am visiting a friend here in town.  I have all the stuff necessary to party and I need a shotgun. Are you in?”  “What you got?” inquires Wrak.  Lu points to a brand-new Volkswagen Westphalia minivan.  “I even have curtains on all the windows,” says Lu.  “The back seat folds out into a bed big enough for four people. It gets good gas mileage and even has a water tank in case of thirst, but I try to keep the water tank full of Vodka.”  ” Are you joking,” asks Wrack?   “Can I see?”   “Sure,” says the minivan is two tones with a light blue bottom and white top.  All the windows have cute sliding curtains done in beige cotton print.  “Look inside,” says Lu.  The side door slides open with a low metallic groan.  Inside is a huge bed fitted with turquoise vinyl foam cushions one foot thick.  A small wet bar constructed of stainless-steel sits opposite the bed on the driver’s side.  Next to the door is a small closet.  Indian-style curtains with beads separate the driver’s compartment from the bedroom so that one person can drive and another sleep in the back in total privacy. “I have the big 1800 engine,” says Lu.  “It will do 80 miles an hour and 65 miles an hour up hill.  “How much did this cost,” asks Wrack.   “Six thousand dollars,” says Lu, “six thousand.”  The van is totally custom with an electrical outlet and running water.”  “Unbelievable,” exclaims Wrack.  “If I am in town on Friday, I will stop by and pick you up with some girls.”  “Are you in?”  Whispers Lu “I’m in” says Wrack.  Lu walks slowly to his van door, gets in, starts the engine and drives off slowly.  Wrack waves goodbye and kickstarts his motorcycle to ride home.  Friday is three days away.  The sun sets early in tranquil hills because the mountains near the ocean shield the sun during its descent.  The sunsets on the beach are magnificent on a daily basis especially in the spring and summer.  The huge orange supernova orb descends minutely surrounded by   red, yellow and purple strata and Wrak never gets tired viewing them and today is a school day with homework to do, family to visit and dinner to eat before going to bed and early to rise to make a young man healthy, wealthy and wise. The little dog curls up on his cushion and lies on his side and runs and whines as he sleeps like he is chasing rabbits.  Then when you go to see him, punkin has gone outside, nowhere to be seen.

     “Be sure you brush your teeth,” says Lu-ay.  Girls do not like grungy teeth.  He is in the classic Hawaiian surfer wardrobe as usual.  My father looks at Lu, Lu looks at my father, and my father looks back at Lu.  My grandmother peeks out from behind the hall door with one eye and then she is gone. “Let’s go partying,” yells Wrak. “Yes.”  “Party we shall.”  Shotgun in the Van with seatbelts and down Bacon Way past Deadpan’s Lane to Market Street and then on Moonrise Blvd. the van hums with tuned exhaust headers and a glass pack muffler.  Lu pulls a gas mask from underneath his seat.  “What is that?” asks Wrak. This is an oxygen mask from a B-17 with a meerschaum pipe secured to its end.  “What do you smoke in it?” asks Wrack.  “Weed,” says Lu, “and Lots of it.” From behind the seat, Lu pulls a 30-gallon black trash bag into the driver’s compartment.  The bag is full of something.  The something is Mexican commercial green marijuana, about, two pounds worth.  Lu stuffs some Mexican grass into the meerschaum pipe, secures the gas mask to his head and hands Wrack a Bick Lighter.  “Light me up,” says Lu.  “The police cannot see me smoke anything while I drive,” says Lu.  “I can smoke pot on the freeway.”  Wrack takes the Bick lighter and flames the pipe bowl.  Lu puffs hard inside the mask and smoke jettisons out the side ports like a fire-breathing dragon.  The whole cockpit fills with smoke.  “I will smoke a cigarette,” says Wrack.  Lu pulls down his mask and says, “Ragweed.”  I don’t smoke ragweed, only the best.” “The police cannot believe I smoke weed through a B-17 oxygen mask.  They never pull me over.”  He pulls over to a street off Moonrise Boulevard in tranquil hills and stops in front of a residential address.  He honks twice.  Two girls ran out from the front door of a house set in lush bushes.  They have light brown hair rendered blond by the sun or peroxide.  Lu says, “This is Joanie and Jennie.  Jennie says she wants to meet you because she likes surfing. 

       Both girls have hot pants on without nylon stockings, and halter tops set off by tan bikini lines.  They have purses with chain straps.  “Don’t you feel cold,” says Wrack.  “Not at all,” says Jennie, “Not at all.”  “Wrak, get out of shotgun and go sit in back with Jennie.”  “Joanie wants to sit with me.”  Wrack opens the side door, gets out and then unlocks the side door and lets Jennie in.  Wrak and Jennie sit together.  She feels very warm to the touch.  “Would you like a drink,” says Jennie.  “Sure,” says Wrack.  Underneath the wet bar is a refrigerator, Lu says, “Jennie, there is a quart of beer underneath the sink, break it out, we are partying.”   Jennie obtains a plastic glass from the refrigerator and pours some beer into the glass and hands the cup to Wrack. “Drink all of it,” she says.  “Sure,” says Wrack,” ” I love Coors beer.”  Wrack drinks the cup down in one gulp and burps. “Pardon me,” says Wrack.  “That was really good.” “Here,” says Jennie. “Drink another.”  “I love beer.” Says Wrack.  Night moves in to tranquil hills and Death Wood and happy hills.  Wrack never could remember where the party was that night, only that it was fun.  The party location exists somewhere between the lines.

         The best parties have a live band and a keg of free bear, or three kegs of free beer, or four kegs of free beer, and a smoking room.  This party has it all.  Wrack feels high and Jennie asks him to dance.  Wrack starts doing the twist like Chubby Checkers and then the swim like Goldie Hahn.   Somehow a strange force throws him to the floor. He became the first break dancer in southern California, spinning and sliding on his back.  Jennie squeals with delight.  The night has just begun and the band plays “Gimme Shelter,” and “Brown Sugar”   and more.  A ton of pretty girls in scanty clothes appeared and now everyone is dancing.  The girls dance. The guys dance.  Kool is here He says, “Hi Lu-ay, what is shaking”.. The Getty is here with his Doctor’s daughter and night moves into night.  “Let’s sit awhile,” says Wrack.  “Let’s go back to Lu’s Van and listen to the radio,” says Jennie “I left the door open.”  “All right,” says Wrack, “Let’s go.”

“It is more comfortable back here,” says Jennie.  “Why are you closing the curtains,” inquires Wrack.  “So we can have some privacy,” says Jennie.  “Want some more beer,” “Sure, “says Wrack.  Wrack drinks beer. Wrack drinks beer because the world is incredibly high and colors and textures vivid and exciting. Wrack hopes the beer will cut the buzz that somehow permeates his being.  “I turned on the radio,” says Jennie. “You have a radical bottom turn.”  “What shall we talk about?”

The door pulls open with ferocity and Lu pulls Wrack out of the door.”  “I was wondering where you two were.”  “I have to get the girls back home by 11:30!  “I don’t know what came over me.” Says Wrack.  Jennie closes the door and composes herself. Lu and Joanie get in the front and start the car.  Wrack and Jennie lean on each other.  Wrack is back on earth and the van hum’s down the highway from Happy Hills to Tranquil Hills to the beginning of rationality and reality.  “See you later girls,” says Lu.  “Bye Wrakie, let’s go party again,” says Jennie.  Wrack waves goodbye.  Jennie turns around, puckers her lips and gives the air a slow long kiss, and then they are gone.  “Use the one-day delay,” says Lu, “The one-day delay.”  “What is the one-day delay.” Says Wrack.  “Date them once and do not touch them, the next date they are all over you.”  “I understand,” says Wrack.

The custom Westphalia sputters off into the night.  Lu has to visit a friend at Saint Elsewhere.  The night is dark and long and quiet and the porch lights on bacon way glimmer sadly and emphatically.  The quiet permeates the seaside atmosphere, and in the quiet broods something unearthly lives on the house on the corner.  Wrack opens the front door with his Schlage key.  Grandma stands at the door with pun kin sitting next to her standing form.  “You are home,” she says, “thank God.”  Punkin wags his tail and yips with a high note.  “It is fun dancing grandma,” says Wrack.  “It is late, go to bed,” she says. The door is locked and the house of Wrack closes up for the night, tonight and all are home and accounted for and Saturday is today when the sun comes up.

At the church, she is the most beautiful person in the world.  The billowing white dress made of lace and chiffon that she borrowed from her sister insists that she is very special.   She wears blue suede high heels that make her almost six feet tall.  Her long golden hair weaves into a bun, and her grey eyes and smile make her groom feel like he is worth a million dollars.  Dressed in a black tuxedo, dark, shiny, and new, the groom has a ring and nothing else except a lifelong promise.   The Catholic Church in a wealthy section of Encino is chosen by the groom’s mother; a woman of many talents and accomplishments, and the guild of her friends who live on the west side of town.   Full of figurines and stained glass windows that let colored light into the room, this church with many brown pews and polished marble floors, exudes the essence of a wealthy Christian heritage.    As the bride ascends the stairs to the alter where the groom awaits with hope and high expectations, the black-bearded Latino priest, dressed in a green gilded vestment, proclaims a union of families and a marriage between two, young people.  After a lifelong promise, the small gold ring goes on her finger, and then a kiss on her lips, and then the two begin their life together.    A huge black, Cadillac, limousine awaits them at the stone-stepped entrance to the cathedral.   Then off to the airport, with their nylon luggage, the two begin their honeymoon at Aunt Della’s timeshare in a tropical place

The parents subsidize most of the elegant marriage ceremonies and exotic tropical destinations. Roc notes that economy seats on an airline are small and confining, and when the person in front reclines his chair, a passenger must recline to remain comfortable. The cabin reveals rows of chairs, canted back, like an open can of sardines. The meal consists of a hot, meat sandwich and a cold soft drink, but most passengers buy the little bottles of hard liquor, drink them down, and get drunk.  The morning wedding turns into afternoon, and the afternoon darkens to night and the plane arrives at the tropical place.   Palm trees sway in the light sea breeze, the nylon luggage is light, and the two-engine transit plane waits for people to embark, to go to an upper-class place, that only the upper class frequent.   Flying in this light plane feels like your feet are hanging into open space as the hand of God wafts the children of the covenant to a new place. 

Hundreds of Portuguese man of war litter the tropical beach, and the water is warm, and the sun shines intently upon humanity.  A Cuban man with long black hair says “good morning” as he fishes for his daily meal from the beach.  He fondles a six-inch long stiletto, that is sharp, and cuts bait gingerly.

  “There is no rest,” he confides to the new couple.  “Good luck” he says as he makes another long cast and the life ahead begins.  

The players in their brightly colored uniforms and special hats play Jai-lei in the coliseum, and their scores post on the electronic board overhead.   Roc goes and bets on the games. He never wins and the old man with long white hair and a brief smile sits in a chair away from the action, knowingly. The Roc buys a rum and frascadito and throws them down his throat.  This is how they live he says to himself.

  “This is how they live”, and I am different and he gives his bride a hug.

Of all odd places to ride waves, Point Zero ascends to top of the list. When Zuckie was asked why Point Zero was named Point Zero he replied in his casual goofy foot manner,”Why don’t you go and surf it yourself and see why!” No one speaks about Point Zero. People talk about Sakis which is the next point to the north, and drainpipes, but never about Point Zero. Pick, the archtypal soul surfer and one of the most talented of the pre-generation used to surf it alone. He never would talk about it either. One day Cool and Wracks picked up Pick hitching at Moonrise Blvd and PCh and he said, “Bring me to Point Zero today.” Kool who owns a brown and yellow Volkswagen van acknowledges the plea, drives past Point Doom and drops off Pick who draws on a cigarette he claimed from Cool and disappears in the bushes. Cool finally confides to Wracks why no one talks about Point Zero. “Pick was surfing it alone one day and a twenty foot white shark grabbed him in its mouth and swam around with him for over five minutes. Luckily a large set of waves hit the reef; Pick unzipped his wetsuit, wiggled out and escaped. All the shark got was a neoprene taco for lunch. Cool who also is a goofy foot never rides Point Zero either. “I like Colony,” he says, or “Let’s go to Drainpipes.” When wracks finally bought his first car at age 21, a car previously owned by the famous one for one hundred dollars, Wracks pulled down the side road and switchback, past the torn down beach house and the sign that says Point Zero and to the parking lot on the ridge overlooking the beach. The old barracuda, belching smoke and smelling like a refinery on fire comes to a rest. In front of Wracks sits a desolate beach. Point Zero sits as short left point, littered with boulders and has huge stalagmites sticking out of the water in the zone where waves break. Out about one hundred yards floats a huge kelp bed. The beach although short beautifully typifies the beaches in north County: white sand, sea shells, kelp on the beach and brick a bract thrown about by the intense tides of large duration and amplitude that happen during the summer months. To the north about five hundred yards lays Leo Carrillo beach with its famous Rock, right slide, and huge campsite across PCH. Half way to Sakis point, a dark strip of water abuts up to the beach. No waves break in between Sakis and Point Zero because a deep trench divides the two points and he or she can see the deep water showing with a dark blue shadow. In this trench that ends only ten feet from the beach, huge white sharks sleep. The only fatal shark attack in southern California occurred ten feet off the beach, in calm water, on a beautiful day to a swimmer wading in the water alone. The buddy to the person watched in horror as his friend was bitten in half then eaten whole. The water then became calm again. Why then does anyone surf Point Zero? Most of the time, small piddle waves crumple haphazardly down the left point in many sections and slow spots. Most of the other surf spots break better including Sakis that lays a ten minute walk up the beach north. The answer to the question lies in propinquity and timing. When the Bu is six feet plus, the reef at Zero at the point breaks. On a big southwest swell Zero breaks two feet bigger than the Bu on the reef with fast left slides after a shallow take off tube. One Saturday Wracks awoke late to discover a large southwest swell starts to hit North County south facing beaches. Immediately he puts his new Lightning bolt gun into the Cuda, Fires up the beast with a screwdriver in the ignition and heads north. Everyone in space including heaven parks at Surfrider beach. The Bu breaks at ten to twelve feet at low tide coming up in spinning tubular vortexes off the far point and everyone including the messiah floats out in the water on their big wave board. No parking spots remain and Wracks outclassed heads to places north. “I am going to check out Point Zero,” thinks Wracks. “I want to surf backside today in big surf. “ The ride seems short and Wracks keeps the windows down because the cabin fills with exhaust smoke as he drives. Down the small road the Cuda bumps and Wracks beholds the secret that Pick will take to his death.
It just happens that a large southwest swell focuses on Point Zero! The slowly rafting kelp forests one hundred yards out cover a reef that only yields breaking waves when the swell exceeds six to ten feet. In breathtaking revelry, huge mountainous breaking caverns rear up on the hidden reef and throw over like a left Sunset Beach Hawaii. The wave then hits the point and barrels down the line for fifty yards until it reaches the deep chasm that divides Sakis from Point zero and there the water remains calm. On this day when Surfrider breaks at ten to twelve feet and God thinks about going in, Point zero looms outside at fifteen to twenty feet high on the Sets. In his mind, Wracks thinks in an instant, like a light, “speed, danger, and sharks Oh My.” Wracks puts fresh Paraffin on his Lightning bolt space ship, pulls on a spring suit in blue, buckles up his leash and paddles out. A huge set hits and wracks barely make it over the top of the second wave of the set. The third wave backs off smaller. Out in the middle of madness alone, in the Kelp Bed Wracks sits. A person with a long board arrives on the beach and watches. A huge set of waves appears on the horizon. Wracks paddles to the right to get the second and biggest one. He paddles as hard as he can and sees a wall rearing up in front of him and Wracks thinks he is too far back and will drown. Wracks make the drop to the bottom and turns as hard as he can in a squat. The board accelerates like a bar of wet soap, and the wave comes over him, and the wall must be ten feet thick, and Wraks prays for four seconds. Neptune releases him and mother earth bestows him with a kiss and Wracks shoots out of a spinning vortex like he never has experienced before. After countless S turns down the line, Wraks exits at the trench and out of the corner of his eye sees a head slowly rise out of the water and look at him. Wracks paddles back out as fast as his skinny ass will go and the Long boarder who saw the wave runs down the beach with a nine foot six inch custom long board gun, jumps into the white water and paddles like a man possessed out to sea. Back in the lineup, Wracks sees the other person. The other person Wracks later discovers is Roy. Maybe Joist paddled out to put Wracks in a headlock? Maybe Roy arrives to size up Wracks for a go. Whatever the case, Wracks and Roy enjoy twenty foot waves alone with deep respect for each other’s territory. Wracks surfs at least six, maybe more, twenty foot walls all the way to the trench. Joist gets many too. Wracks starts to tire but knows that this session may be the best one he will experience in his lifetime. Finally a huge twenty five foot wave catches wracks in the impact zone and his leash slices through half of his board like cheese cutter. In the middle of the maelstrom, Wraks freestyles into the white water soup and feels something touch him. Sprinting like an Olympic swimmer, Wraks heads to the beach and body surfs a small ten foot wave into the craggy beach where he Rock dances through the white water and the breaking soup upends him two times. On the beach lies his new Lightning bolt gun almost cut in a half like a band saw. Wracks sits for awhile and watches the huge waves break in the kelp forest in a light summer breeze as the sun relentlessly puts a shine and glamor on the water’s surface. The rocks on the beach cover with green and the seaweed smells musky and the warm sand sits alone and other cars start to show up. Wracks waves to Roy and heads up the cliff. Roy sits outside alone. Wracks smokes a cigarette, climbs in the car, and drives home. Surfrider beach still has no seating available and people pay the Parking lot attendants at Alice’s restaurant fifty dollars American to park there. Wracks enters his house, walks to his bedroom and falls asleep. Wracks woke up at night to eat something. The dog in the basket wags its tail and yodels. Wracks eats, goes back to sleep, wakes up in the morning to wash off his gear and check the waves and the swell dropped down to six feet in size and Wracks returns home to study and do chores.
Wracks would savor Point Zero three more times at greater then fifteen feet before he leaves southern California. Amazingly, Roy appears out of nowhere with his long white long board with a red band around the center and they share huge, gaping, spinning, kelp forest vortexes together. A few other people eventually join them out at the reef but never more than five people at a time. A fin never came up to circle Wracks out in the lineup. However, Wracks could feel something there waiting for him, possibly waiting for a mistake. Occasionally when Wracks made a long ride to the chasm, he would imagine a head slowly emerge out of the water in the periphery of his vision from behind. The images from these ventures ingrains into Wracks memory and imagination. Point Zero still exists. Few people surf Point Zero because Surfrider beach and the Colony break better and situate in town. The secret is this: on a huge southwest swell, in the summer, Point Zero breaks bigger than anywhere in Southern California including Lower Trestles. Please don’t surf Point Zero Alone.

Jalama Lompoc began as a destination away from it all, far away, in the resources of my imagination.  Everyone would say, “Let’s go to Jalama,” and no one would know why except that the word Jalama arouses the curiosity of Wracks and more.  Geographically speaking, Jalama Lompoc exists as the name for a city in Central California, on the west beach side.  To get to Jalama Lompoc from Los Angeles, a traveler embarks on the 110 north and then at the Danish town of Solvang, head to the beach to highway 1.  Another way is to take the Pacific Coast Highway all the way up, past the Point Mugu obstacles, Past Ventura, Past Santa Barbara, until the winding hill with no pity at a 15 percent grade, for twenty miles, takes the traveler to Jalama Lompoc State Beach Park.  Then and there a traveler has arrived after three hours of driving.  Jalama Lompoc Beach Park to the north consists of campsites on the beach.  A cliff then grows to the north and the place becomes Point Argüelles.  The beach has white sand, plenty of seaweed and a scenic cliff backdrop.  Up to the north sits the city of Surf, the sister beach to Jalama Lompoc.  The Jalama area points directly north, northwest and Point conception just outward on the map to the most western place on the west coast of the United States.  For some unknown reason, the water at Jalama invigorates at a temperature ten to twenty degrees below the surrounding ocean to the north and to the south.  To a surfer, this cold water means intense pain when dunked by a huge breaker far out at sea and Jalama Lompoc has the largest breakers on the California coast.   All winter long, Jalama breaks bigger than ten feet every day and large swells make the place a shipping nightmare with waves bigger then can be imagined. Jalama also breaks in the summer but in a smaller capacity.   A reef to the very south, almost to the North gate of the Ranch, of Jalama Lompoc receives the name Tarantula point. In the summer when every break on the coast was under 3 feet, Tarantula was triple overhead.  During the fall huge tarantula spiders migrate across the road and you can see them and pick them up.  Every day from November to March, Tarantula point breaks from fifteen feet to greater than fifty feet in size, all wrapped up in a huge triangular peak that a surfer can ride right or left.  The left breaks bigger and longer and Big D goes there and surfs alone.  ‘Why do you surf alone in shark infested water,” asks Wracks?  Big D says, “I hate crowds.”  The Wracks never had the guts and just watches.    Jalama Lompoc sits arithmetically, in the center of the red triangle of death.   On these beaches, up to Pismo beach, and particularly Jalama, the biggest great white sharks on the west coast up to Alaska, lurk just outside the area where the waves break and take advantage of the upwelling phenomenon that brings in bait fish, to gorge on albacore, seals and in a pinch, humans dressed as seals in black wetsuits.  When Wrack goes to Jalama, he mostly watches because intuition tells him danger floats in the water and looks at him.  Wracks also does not like the cold water that turns a humans head blue after one hour in a full length 5-millimeter wet suit, while being doused by breakers over ten feet. The cold water keeps the sharks friendly but the fisherman in the area say they are there.   Wracks has never seen a shark at Jalama or at Tarantula point but local inhabitants tell him that if he sits on the beach long enough with binoculars, a thirty foot long plus great white shark with a  six foot dorsal fin will break the surface or breach in front of them.  None of the local wave riders  surf in these waters. When Wracks surfs the beach break reef, north of Tarantula point, he would occasionally see the kelp forest heave upward as if a huge object swims underneath.  Great white sharks do come into kelp forests to hunt prey and the kelp forest at Jalama and Point Conception forms the only barrier between surfers and huge hulking predators.   The long expanse of pristine shoreline, with beautiful undulating green water, vast kelp forests, abutting a craggy and beautiful coastline, hides a garden of death.  Egg man took Wracks to Jalama one day in the summer when the entire coastline held no swell and mirrored flat as a gridiron.  Tarantula point that day breaks at eight to ten feet of hollow turning tubes.  Egg man thought again and decided not to surf that day.  “Why aren’t you going out,’ asked Wracks.  “There appears to be no one on the beach for twenty miles in either direction,’ let’s go home.”

Why does Jalama Lompoc live in the imagination of Wracks?  The reason breeds thus:  The Point conception area boasts the largest and most perfectly shaped waves in the world.  The negative scares as cold water, huge waves and hungry, hovering predators that create nightmares.   Rumor has it that the most perfect wave in existence lays at the tip of Point Argüelles and that the biggest reef break on the planet, “Perko’s” sits between Point Argüelles and Point conception. A Wrack only imagines.   Perko’s breaks larger then tarantula point.  Wracks never has surfed them and probably never will  The thought of surfing Little Drakes wakes up Wracks in the middle of the night, drenched in cold sweat, awe and hunger. The Riddler got into the ranch and surfs Drakes.  The Riddler has disappeared and his legacy lives on as a quandary and story tossed around an opium pipe late at night, in a cabana, in the trench at Pang Oh.  The Ridler has gone, Hamilton has gone, and only Butch Van Artsdale lives on. Wracks sits up, late at night, with a laptop, and transcribes his thoughts to a testament meant to inspire and also warn the next generation of intrepid wave riders in search of a thrill and self-actualization.  The weather seems good up North.  Water flows, birds sing, and life abounds in contrast to the vast colonized desert to the south.  Another day passes, the children become adults, the world turns, online gaming abounds, and the imagination of the one brims full of tales, adventure, speculation and more.