Wrack[RR1] does not know why he woke up so early today. Today is Saturday and the automatic coffee maker is off and father does not have to leave at seven fifteen today after a cereal breakfast and a cup of coffee. Today is another day of summer in Tranquil Hills and the sun shines in the kitchen window now as it does almost every morning except in June when the coastal fog crawls up the canyon into Bacon way and Mellow man’s Lane. Wrack does not know why he drifts around the house so early today but notices his little dog Punkin is not on his cushion. Where is Punkin, wrack thinks. Wrack walks over to his father’s Pall Mall cigarette pack and steals one because he does not have money to buy his own. I will go outside for a coffee and a smoke thinks Wrack. Wrack opens the back door and steps outside where the garage meets the back door of the house and a little herb garden sits in front of the trashcans. GB is sitting on the ground playing with Punkin. Punkin is sitting up and begging with his little paws making a praying motion. If a person was not sane, they would think BG and the dog were having a conversation. Any sane person knows this is not so. “GB, what are you doing out back with my dog at 6 AM,” Inquires Wrak. “I had nothing to do so I am playing with Punkin,” says BG. He ignores wrack and pets the little orange platinum Silky terrier. “Besides he says, a new south swell should be hitting right now and I want to see if the Bu is catching it.” “Get your board and wetsuit and let’s go.” “Get some food and steal some of your Dad’s cigarettes for the road.” Wrack does not have a board, or is at least in between boards so he borrows his brother’s lily white seven foot eleven inch pipeline gun with winglets shaped by Dean. “Be sure the board fits in between the seats before we start off,” says BG “I have my sack of stuff,” says Wrak. “Light me smoke and lets have at it,” says GB.
The Pacific coast highway remains a beautiful stretch of road on the good side of town and touches in the opulent beach area of Northern Los Angeles called Malibu and Point Dume Estates. The army corps of engineers built the road wide and the palisades to the east rise beautifully in the east and the ocean sparkles dazzlingly on the left and west side of the street. Most of the movie star beach house has been torn down and the ocean beckons alluringly, sweetly and innocently as Catalina Island shimmers sixty miles away to the south east. Surf rider beach has a parking lot and a wall and a secret house hidden in the moat inside of the creek belonging to the Getty family. Surf rider beach today displays three foot waves and a slight south wind which ruins the shape somewhat and makes the lines section raggedly as they turn inward into first point. “Let’s go out,” says Wrack. “There is hardly anyone here!” “No!” I do not want to get in my suit for three foot mush and south wind,” asserts BG.
“I am deciding,” insists GB. “Don’t talk, I am thinking.” “Probably the swell is too south for the Bu and the tide changes right for the pipeline. “What pipeline,” says Wrak? At Newport Point there is a secret surf break only some people can surf. Houses are built on the beach and no parking exists so there exists no way to enter the surf zone without having your car towed. “I know Juan van says BG.” “We can park at his house on the beach.” “Light me another smoke,” We are jamming to the pipeline.
At seventy plus miles per hour the Chevrolet econocar propels down highway one. Highway ten appears and then Highway five appears and the huge refinery burns by and highway 58 becomes a reality and then into Newport. BG’s uncle is Richie Rich.
“Who is the guy,” says Juan Van “GB you know better than to bring strangers here!” “He is cool,” says GB “Beside; He is a friend of mine.” “OK,” says Juan Van “Pull it in and close the garage.” “I just finished the night shift as a security guard.” I am going to have coffee and breakfast and wake up,” says Juan Van “You two can go out.” “It’s pretty good.” A south swell hit last night. Wrack learns quickly. He realizes that an extremely south swell blocked out by Catalina Island focuses on the point here the point faces south southwest and picks up any swell with a south to it and the predominant westerly wind blows side shore. . GBG and wrack sit on the beach at the point in the morning and the water shimmers like glass and the fishing boats sail out at the pier and the waves crest at six to ten feet and breaking like turning cylinders and spitting in the shallow end of the sand bar. This is the Orange County pipeline and the wave looks better then Hawaii. Hawaii always is windy. The point today shows smooth as molten glass and green water waves break in perfect form and harmony onto shallow sand reefs. “Let’s go surfing,” says GB. “I can’t go backside so good,’ whine Wrack, “They will run me over.” “Just tell them you know Juan van,” says GB. “They will back off.” “I will go surf the right on the other side of the channel. It looks almost as good.” “Get a few waves and paddle over to left,” says GB. “It really is good.”
The paddle out at the point seems easy compared to the washing machine up north. Wrack waits outside and paddles into a twelve foot right peak, bottom turns and releases the inside edge of the pintail to ride the tube. A huge blond haired local takes off in front of Wrack and wrack holds the edge of the board in the vortex then reinserts the inside rail as the wave spits foam and blows by the huge blond haired muscleman. Inside the shore-break, the huge blond haired kook grabs the white pintail from wrack and says “If you take off on another of my waves I will kill you.” “Give me back my surfboard you huge idiot, I am a guest of Juan Van. The big blond surf God looks at wrack, looks at wrack looks at wrack, then grabs his own board and paddles away. “I had better stay clear of him.” Thinks wrack, Time to surf some lefts.” The channel at the point means an easy paddle out. Half way out, GB enters a ten foot pipeline peak. He goes straight off then turns hard and the board arcs up into the hook of the wave as the water forms a pipeline tube. As the wave tubes over him GB carves back down the face then turns again up into the hook and then goes by Wrack as he paddles out. Outside in the lineup BG returns. “How do like the pipeline.” Asks GB. “The waves are great but the locals burn aggressively,” says Wrack. “Just do not snake Juan Van,” says BG “Then you will be OK.” “Let’s surf till our arms drop off,” says GB. “This is as good as it gets.”
Juan Van lets BG and Wrack redress in his garage. His parents live upstairs in a two story house converted into a duplex. “I have someone I want you to meet,” says BG. “Let’s go meet the Brotherhood.”
We meet some friends in Irvine in an apartment in an upscale building with security and potted plants everywhere. BG tells wrack one of his friends is deaf and not to make fun of him. The deaf person is smaller, with brown hair, a deep chestnut tan in short pants and a Hawaiian shirt. Another person is larger, skinnier, with brown curly hair and a beard, dressed similarly and who laughs a lot. I grab a piece of paper and write on the paper what we are discussing so the deaf person can stay tuned. The deaf person does not talk, but smiles and reads the paper. Smoke passes around and the boys share surf stories and compare the lifestyle of Los Angeles with the Beach and Irvine. “Is he cools,” they each ask GB in turn. “He is cool,” says GB, and a friend of mine. After a while Juan Van shows up on queue and GB and Wrack decide the time is right to leave. Wrack waves good bye to the brotherhood and will never see them again. They provided hospitality and cordiality and all that can be expected of them in a place in time down south. BG and wrak accelerate on to the freeway and rocket toward Los Angeles. “Light me another smoke,” says GB. “I am driving.” The refinery and the large deep fence hiding the factory from the people appear then disappear. The surfers arrive on the ten and then the one and up Moonrise to Bacon way. Wrack pulls his board out of the hatchback and punkin jumps out from the fence and greets the pair. “Hi Punkin,” says BG. “See you later.” The green Chevrolet econocar accelerates quickly and smoothly because the car weighs very little. GB leaves as mysteriously and enigmatically as he arrives when the buoy indicators of big surf herald a new swell. Wrack goes back to the daily rigmarole of reality sometimes punctuated by excitement.
Wrack never rode the pipeline again. Occasionally, when wrack would surf the area, he would park illegally and watch the waves from an aperture on the street that meets the beach. Occasionally a skinny, tall, beach boy with a long head and blond hair would appear and menace him with a Ruger 10/22 varmint rifle. The tall beach boy shot him once when he was in his wetsuit but the bullet did not stick in. The pipeline is real. The pipeline tubes perfectly. The pipeline gives a great drop and acceleration. The pipeline is off limits to commoners. “The rich are different from you and me,” said the Great Gatsby. Wrack knows what he means. The brotherhood was formed by surfers with the object of supplying clean unadulterated controlled substances to friends; any profit was put back in the business. All street drugs are cut with toxic substances and adulterated. The brotherhood of eternal love was constructed to supply friends only. Life is not black or white but shades of grey and the Wracks was not asked to join the brotherhood because he didn’t have a car and they couldn’t use him. Life flows and goes and eventually the end is near but the waves and good times remain.