Wrack is sitting in Grandpa’s green recliner.  The chair grandfather would sit in before he died.  Wrack studies history in Summer school.  Taking classes at the local community college costs less than a University and the perquisites need to be fulfilled are cheaper. GB opens the front door and walks into the house and into the living room where Wrack sits on the green chair and reads a history book that weighs five pounds and looks like a phone book.  The history is American history from inception to 1945. “A southern hemisphere southwest swell is about to hit with ten to fifteen-foot waves on south-facing beaches,” exclaims BG as he waves his arms in earnest.  “I had a smoke at the lookout last night and the ocean seems flat as a board.”  Says Wrack.  “I have sources,” says GB. “What sources,” intones wrack.  “Good sources,” says GB.  “What good sources,” questions Wrak.  “Secret sources I cannot disclose.”  Insists BG.  “It is eight o’clock now.  Let’s go check the Bu.”  Get your stuff and bring some of your Dad’s cigarettes.  “History bores me anyway, “says Wrack. 

     Down the Marquee street, past the self-realization center with a swami dome stuck in secluded madness and on to the PCH goes Wrak and GB. This morning shows summer as the water looks green and the smell of sea weed and crustacean fill the air pushing into the green General Motors economy-car with a hatchback and Michelin high-speed tires.   Up past the Sealion and then Alice’s restaurant where you can get anything you want.  Drop right in around the back,  its only twenty miles from the railroad tracks.  Anyone can get anything they want at Alice’s restaurant and the mixed drinks taste good too.  The booths look directly into Malibu first and second point and when the sun sets, the restaurant lights up in color until nightfall.  Pulling into the parking lot BG and Wrak witness the current state of wave height and conditions.  A slight south wind makes the waves look weak and crumbly, kind of like broken cookies.  The waves appear a disjointed two to three feet at best.  “BG, you told me that a huge south swell is hitting now and the Bu breaks like weak mush in a porridge bowl.  “My sources are A1,” says BG. “Let’s go surf San Clemente.  I know the swell will be hitting there.”  “But the drive to San Clemente lasts about two hours,” says Wrak. “Even if the waves break big the coast will be blown out by twelve o’clock. “  “No it won’t, “say GB. “If you drive with me, this time you do not have to pay for the gas.”  “Why not, let’s go.” settles Wrack.   The green Chevrolet econocar revs up and BG patches out of the parking lot.  “Light me a cigarette.” orders BG, “I am driving.”

               After driving southward to San Diego a thousand times the route becomes monotonous and the sites breeze by at an incredible speed and time lapses until the destination looms upward in sight. From the one to the ten to the five and then off at Christianitos Ave. in San Clemente, the time flies by at seventy-five to eighty miles per hour.  “I still get twenty miles to the gallon flat out,” smiles GB.  A secret parking lot off the main street becomes the final resting spot for the two north county surfers looking for the perfect wave and the endless summer in a youth they both know will end soon.  “No one comes this way, “says BG. “They are too lazy to walk in.  The locals sneak into the south entrance and frequent Lowers never looking north to where the two true gems of the trestle lie.  “They hide in the brush with varmint rifles and sight on each other,” says BG.  The trail from the secret parking lot underneath the trestle and onto the first point reveals as a dusty path amongst scrub vegetation across a lagoon and onto a beach strewn with small pebbles of odd sizes smoothed by the constant action of waves on matter.  Now the two surfers are close enough to see the water and the waves are at least fifteen feet high.  When a wave gets big, the size of the swell becomes hard to estimate.  Surfers discuss wave height in terms of body length, one body length being six feet.  At the Cotton’s point the waves are at least three times overhead.  “I told you so,” screams Bg.  “It is three times overhead and churning.  Let’s go surf some rights first at Uppers.  Wrack hugs his yellow anti-meth model.  His friend John was drunk when he shaped the blank and put the meth model template on backwards.   The result becomes a seven foot seven mini-pin gun with square rails and a seven and one half inch fin in shark tasty yum yum neon yellow. Against all odds known to man the board rides beautifully and does not spin out in large surf. Wrack starts singing, “Every girl likes a sharp dressed man,” just like ZZ top.  Uppers roar huge with a peak and a huge throw-out inside section daring the intrepid to make or die and swim.  GB has a new gun. “I took it off the rack and Robbie shaped it,” smiles BG.  “Big Uppers, how delightful. “  Compared to the washing machine up at The Strand, the paddle out at Uppers remains a cake walk.  Both surfers time the sets and scratch out to the peak.  “Line up with the last trestle,” exclaims BG, “Then make the drop.”  A huge set of waves pops up on the Horizon.  BG likes to take the first wave of a set. He turns and paddles furiously and disappears with the hiss of a cresting huge wave.  Wrak scratches out and the second wave is three feet bigger and Wrak is too far out but exerts against the odds and is in to a giant and the run is on.  At large size, uppers yields a soft take off compared to Pipeline, but the wave then hits the cobblestone point and no time exists to turn back into the wave, only to turn at the bottom and go as fast as possible.   Wrack mistimes the huge inside section and chickens out. A huge lip starts to fall ten feet in front of the nose of his board.   He exits off the top and shoots his board upward so the wave cannot trap it.  Wrak is safe and scrambles to his board and starts the scratch to safety. Wrack paddles out to the lineup and finds the last trestle to align.  He sits on his board waiting for BG to return.  GB rode the first wave almost to the sand and now walks up the point to re-launch again at the impact zone. Something juts out of the water behind him and Wrak is scared.  A huge Great White comes up, opens its mouth, and licks Wrack. Wrack prays.  The huge twenty-foot Great White shark slides back into the water and is gone.  “GB, a huge monster just came up and kissed me,” screams Wrak. “Don’t get excited.” Drones BG.  “If it was hungry, it would have taken you. Lightning does not strike twice in the same place.”  “I hope it kisses you too,” whines Wrack.  For three hours the two are the only ones out in the water in triple overhead Uppers. The locals are lazy and wave after wave pours through the peak and into the cobblestone point.  “I cannot move my arms anymore.” Says Wrack.  “Let’s go in and surf the lefts at Cotton’s  point.” Says GB.  “Did you bring your canteen?”  “Yes, “says Wrack “But I saw someone walk over to it on the beach.  “What did they look like,” says BG “He looked small and with blond hair but that was all I could see, “says Wrak.  “I know who it is, “says BG.

               Ten minutes of walking north of Uppers is Cotton’s  Point.  The point reveals as a left jutting beach set out into the water.  There lie rocks on the beach just like uppers.   The wave at fabric point at large size shows as a huge triangle peak like Sunset Beach Hawaii.  The largest waves then hit the point and break in a tubing fashion all the way to the beach. For some reason, Uppers breaks bigger then Cottons but Uppers breaks right and Fabric breaks left and goofy foots love left breaking tubular waves.   “I am too tired,” says Wrak.  “I will watch you and be lifeguard.”  “How do you have so much energy,” asks Wrak.  “My arms ache from exertion.”  “Performance powder,” says BG. I use performance powder.  “He launches out from the rocks into the exploding surf.  BG caught three huge triangle peaks at Fabrics.  He descended straight off, bottom turned, arced off the top and then again and would kick out before the inside beach break and paddle furiously to get back to the takeoff point.  “Let’s go.” Says GB.  “I want to surf the glass off at the Bu.”  The pair jogs back up to the secret parking lot at Christianitos.   Youth and vitality are wasted on the young and the two gorge on brown bag food, pack the gear and head north at warp speed.  “Light me a smoke,” says GB.  “I need the nicotine.”  “I told you so, I told you so. Don’t forget I told you so.”  The econocar fills up with smoke and Wrak sips his red sugar coke and the machine rockets northward.

               “Are you sure we have time,” questions Wrak.  “I want to nab a few waves at the Bu just as the swell hits.”  Says GB “If we miss the traffic, we will be in Malibu by six thirty P.M.”  Sometimes the Northwest wind which flows through Malibu in the afternoon every day abates for the good and the faithful. At two P.M. in the summer every summer the Bu glasses.  At six thirty, Surf rider beach breaks six to ten feet high with a slight north wind which is offshore in direction.  The tide ran out and the rocky point shows like a huge bingo board and the waves break forest green tubes with misting lips flying down the point like a big machine.  Everyone and their mother are out in the water.  The waves break six to ten feet spitting low tide tubes and the sun sets as a yellow orange fusion orb set in a blue sky with wispy clouds and the island of Catalina illuminated in the distance.  If Poseidon himself came up to greet the world, he never would be noticed among the beauty, intensity and uniqueness of a glass off at the Bu in the summer, at low tide and spitting ten foot tubes. “I have my sources,” says BG as he turns his eyes up into his head. “I have my sources.”

      Out in the water Wrak sits by himself outside, like always, waiting for a big set wave.  For some reason, a terrifically tall left  peak looms up out of nowhere at the shift and Wrak surfs left at a right point.  “Just like Pipe, thinks Wrak, “Just like Pipe.”  The sun sets and the ocean drowns in  the orange red light with green-blue fullness.  “Let’s go now or you walk home.” Insists BG “I have to go to work.”  “Where do you work,” asks Wrak.  “In the city,” insists Bg, “In the city.”  Unloading the equipment at the house of Wrak again for the zillion times happens.  The boards are bounced on the ivy and suits thrown over the fence.  “Wash my wet suit in cold water,” commands GB “O.K. says Wrak.  “Thanks for the ride. “  BG takes the hose and gives himself a shower behind the fence near the trashcans and dresses quickly from a satchel bag, wave goodbye bye and is gone, again.  Wrak walks into his house and the little orange platinum terrier spins around and yelps.   “Hi Punkin,”  “I am home. Where is everyone.”  “Your mom and dad are out.” Says grandma.  “There is some chicken in the refrigerator.”  Wrak makes coffee and eats the chicken then takes a shower then falls unconscious in his bed. His last thoughts are: “triple overhead surf at Uppers all to myself.”  Wrack probably smiles as he sleeps because few are on the scene at the right place, at the right time, anytime during their life.  Wrack was there.  The swell peaked overnight and the Bu was not as good the next day.  Surfers know that when the waves beckon, they must entrain or the moment passes unfulfilled.  This reality stilts the life of wave riders who must decide whether to follow the tides or walk away forever.  Wrak sleeps in the grey house on Bacon way down from Enchanted way and close to the green house on the corner unknown until the present day.