It took letting go— and a lot of gnarly tumbles— for one man to learn to ride the waves of life and love. BY PETER HELLER PipelineILLUSTRATION BY YUTA ONODA

WAS THIS FUN? The 2-foot waves at Bolsa the other surfers was safe to sit, and I must DreamsChica State Beach were turning me into Play- have gotten it wrong because a dude col- Doh. On the fifth wave, I managed to crawl lided with me and asked me if I was born on up and stand and just as fast flew through Planet Kook. Kook means “beginner surfer,” the air like a catapulted cow. We didn’t stand but it is not a neutral term: It carries a slug of a chance. I didn’t know how far away from derision, a brand for the clueless, for those

98 | Spirit Spirit | 99 without hope, without grace. That really hurt Andy sipped his and studied me over his my feelings. cup, through round, gold-wire rims. “How do Once, in sheer frustration, I rode the you know?” he said, smiling. “Maybe tomor- board in on my belly, just to feel some speed. row we should try Seal Beach. It’ll probably I got off it in ankle-deep water, and turned be an easier wave.” and lifted the heavy longboard. I carried it That night, covered with bruises, aching back into the white foam in front of me and everywhere, I lay on Andy’s fold-out couch across my body and got slammed by the in the library. I revisited the last two days and next sweep of whitewater and the board lev- winced. I was such a kook. In surf slang kook eled me like a snowplow. I unpeeled myself doesn’t just mean beginner; it means outra- geous, awkward, clueless novice who cuts I was such a kook. In surf slang kook people off on waves, thrashes around speak- ing to other surfers like it’s a cocktail party, doesn’t just mean beginner; it means hollers rebel yells when he does manage to stand up for a split second, has no tact, no outrageous, awkward, clueless novice. respect for the finely tuned protocol of surf, and is dangerous to boot, because when he from the sand inch by inch the way Wile E. drops in on a wave without looking, boards Coyote detaches himself from the pavement and bodies collide. That was me. I had called after Road Runner drives over him with a my girlfriend Kim and she was sympathetic cement mixer. to a point. She was getting sick of me being At breakfast, at a surfer café called the away all the time. She did not demand that I Sugar Shack, Andy burst the yolk of his egg change, but she pointed out that it was hard over his single piece of butterless bread. to stay close. Ouch. It dawned on me that He’d always been afraid of dying of a heart kook also perfectly described my aptitude attack. We were both in our mid-40s, and with women. he’d been one of my best friends since col- I was unwilling to turn out the light and lege. Recently transferred here to Hunting- let sleep claim me before I had salvaged ton Beach with his family, Andy had asked if something of the day. Andy’s old shepherd I wanted to come out from Denver and learn Cody lay on my legs and watched me with to surf. Perfect timing. I’d just finished my a concerned expression. I had known him third book, about an extreme expedition; I for years. Now he seemed to sense that I was was dating a wonderful woman named Kim, wrestling with powerful forces: vanity, pride, but, ultimately, was single and free because surf. of a congenital inability to commit; and I I rubbed his forehead with my fist and had no idea what to do with the rest of my slid a notebook off the side table. I glanced life. Maybe getting schooled by the sea was up at the bookcase that occupied the entire the ticket. wall opposite. A thousand spines, a thou- I drained my coffee. “I love surfing,” I con- sand reverberating names, the best efforts fided. of the truest minds. I scanned across the

100 | Spirit ner and family man for many years and he was almost bald, so naturally I thought of him as a big brother. Also he had those wire- rimmed glasses, which made him seem at least twice as smart. “Are we having a mid-life crisis?” I said. “Definitely.” “Is this what we are supposed to do?” “That’s not clear to me.” “It’s cheaper than a Ferrari or a divorce, My charm and wit would slowly right?” “You’re not married.” become evident, sort of surprising, like “I’m just saying.” “Well, a lot of guys just build a shack in the a sprouting potato in the fridge. backyard and then write a book about it. It’s a genre of its own. I don’t know exactly how modern cannon and their antecedents. Eliot, much that would cost.” Coleridge, Proust, Stein, Dickinson, Brecht, “Hmm.” W C Williams, Plato, Faulkner, Homer, Rilke, We watched a pair of lanky teen boys Cervantes. Waves of their own, waves that head for the water with shortboards tucked broke over reefs of readers and worked their under their arms. Heading for a before- own geologic power. I felt small. What the school session. They were loose-jointed and hell was I doing here? I should be writing a carried the boards with the ease of Masai book of my own. with their spears. I felt a twinge of envy. What The last title that popped out made me if I had begun surfing when I was just a boy? laugh. When I did, Cody lifted and cocked Instead of the poker games and stoopball his head. of my childhood in Brooklyn. I certainly “It’s nothing,” I said. “Don Quixote. I’d read wouldn’t have had to wait until my 17th birth- it to you, but it would drive a dog like you day to get laid. nuts.” Never too late, right? Wrong. You can’t I opened the notebook and wrote at the redo your first anything. Was this surfing top of a page: su r f i n g, then What I Learned thing about going backward or forward? Today. Forward=brave, backward=pathetic. Do not get the surfboard between you and No, this surfing project would need to be the wave. Keep it beside or down-wave from about growth, about connecting with the you. earth and growing older with grace. I was Set waves are not alone. They come in… thinking all this as I was trying to get my foot sets. Doh! through the leg of the wetsuit and hopping Now we were getting somewhere. I folded along the side of the car and feeling every the journal and went to sleep. sore muscle.

QUAINT LITTLE SEAL BEACH. Palm trees What We Think About When and bungalows. A tall pier, a curve of white We Think About Surf beach. Away off to the northwest was the Did you see Beach Blanket Bingo? port of Long Beach, derricks and buildings. The Endless Summer? Step into Liquid? Rid- We pulled into the parking lot with a shirr ing Giants? Point Break? Baywatch? of tires over sand, cut the engine, and while When we imagine surfing we probably it ticked and the offshore breeze rattled see images from these classics. Maybe in the palms behind us, we drank our coffee, another dream there are old Woodie sta- looked through the windshield at the beach, tion wagons pulled up to the beach and and tried to get stoked. some guys playing ukuleles. Maybe there’s I was 45. Andy was a year younger, but he a leaned-over surf shack covered in bou- had been a responsible corporate breadwin- gainvillea and an empty curve of Mexican

102 | Spirit beach with perfect combers break- all together on one wave. Or maybe by the wild nature of the sea. of neophytes join the ranks of poetic as you wax, as thick as you hooked. When I got back to Denver, ing white along the bay. A bucket we are the rare dreamer and we see 2. Beautiful chicks, bikinis, the new American surfers every year. lay it on, as much as you magnify, I found myself thinking about the of sweating Corona. Maybe there one giant mountain of water, some promise of sex in the air like the Worldwide, including surfwear and you can never, ever encompass or sea all the time. Not just the waves are three happy-go-lucky Endless Jaws rogue wave, and there’s a lone smell of hibiscus—hibiscuses— fashion, surfing is a billion-dollar describe the greatness of the wave. or the whales or the fish, but the Summer kids trading waves and figure, small as a swallow, arcing hibisci– industry. The cachet, the attrac- The wave that can be named is not whole heaving expanse. As if she you can hear their whoops on the down its face. 3. Aloha spirit—a generous, tion, seems to be all about youth, the real Wave. were a being, alive and entire. I wind. Maybe there are lifeguard tow- Either way, scientists and anthro- blessed-out bonhomie, on the strength, and that generous aloha longed to be rocked by the swell. To ers every quarter mile and Pamela pologists agree that for 95 percent waves and off. spirit. The idea is that surfers have The week with Andy had become surf, to be buoyed and surrounded Anderson is driving a pickup, and of us, our fantasy will involve eight 4. Hair-raising prowess on the an easy going, hang-loose relation- fun. We got the bright idea of join- and engulfed. maybe the beach is Malibu and standard components: wave—muscled and graceful. ship with violent hydraulic power ing a surfing school and actually I got this idea that maybe, with there are five surfers hanging ten 1. A beautiful setting, invigorated 5. Machismo: The only possible and other people. Nothing much learned to ride waves. I was totally total devotion, I could go from kook result when combining numbers ruffles the laid-back surfer. two and four. The problem is that the aloha 6. A party, lots of booze, and pot. spirit is generally a myth—surfers 7. Happy, danceable music in the have always been aggressive, background. driven, and territorial. You have to 8. The wave itself. The lead char- be, temperamentally, to deal with acter. However you conceive it. Like waves of any size and to jostle for God. position with others. All the eager What we have just concocted new surfers crowding the waves are without realizing it is the Garden exacerbating tensions and shorten- before the Fall. Maybe surfing was ing fuses. Some California counties like this once. Maybe, after the red have actually enacted anti-surf-rage heifer and the anti-Christ and a ordinances that ban aggressors Great Fire, it will be so again. from their local waves as part of the But for now, let’s review and cor- punishment for surf-related assaults. rect. 4. The prowess and grace are real. 1. The raw power of the sea is I wanted some of that. beautiful. Even at Orange County 5. The machismo is real, too. As river mouths where you are sitting you shall see. on your board and look down and 6. Party—well, yeah. Not like see what can only be undissolved beach blankets and campfires and toilet paper floating by your vulner- volleyball, though that happens able toes. Even off of beaches where in rare fits of collective nostalgia, there used to be mackerel and especially at big competitions. Espe- tuna runs and now there are none cially in Mexico. Usually, though, it’s because they have all been fished a quick joint in the front seat of the out. Even then, the ocean heaves car before bailing out into the dawn with her inexorable breath and you chill. feel humbled and renewed. 7. Happy music—of course. 2. Sometimes there are foxy Sometimes it’s just in your head. chicks. They sit on a towel with a One of the things I love most about camera with a huge honking lens surfing is all the time you have to and take pictures of their semi-pro yourself—long paddle-outs with man who has been snaking your the schooling fish and birds and waves all morning—because he breaking sets; sitting your board can. Lucky if they even nod as you away from the others with the whole walk by. ocean in front of you, looking for 3. Which brings us to aloha spirit, your own peak; catching that one the greatest draw and the greatest long ride, when the music is accel- misconception about surfing. eration, speed, thunder, and glide. Surfing is one of the fastest grow- 8. The wave itself. It is the one ing sports in the world. Thousands thing that no one can exaggerate. As to riding a big, hollow wave in six parents who spoke only Cantonese. was mid-winter and I swore I would then that more than anything in the months. I sensed intuitively that learn- Learned English from television, never date again, and I almost guar- world I wanted to take this woman ing to surf could make me a better hence says “purchase” instead of anteed it with my lumpy scalp. When on a date. person. I thought that if I could take a “buy.” summer came, I felt a little more like I am not smooth. I have never solid chunk of time on the coast, head One of my friends calls her the myself and began to write in the local been able to pick up a girl. My down the length of Mexico where Goddess of Stillness because she is café. One August Sunday morning I girlfriends always got to know me there would be fewer crowds than slow and patient, very hard to ruffle. was there early working on a maga- because they were forced to be in in California, I’d have a real chance Wholesome in that she is cheerful, zine story. I was unshaven, in an old close proximity over long periods, of learning, of making surfing a true expects the best of people, and does T-shirt, had a cap pulled down over like in college seminars or extended path. Was it too late to learn some- not waste a lot of time in the past or my eyes, and was not paying atten- field trips when my great charm and thing this hard? It felt like the only the future. Stolidly present, she fears tion to anything but the screen on my wit would slowly become evident, thing to do. Just in case, I answered little on Earth except mosquitoes. laptop. I was at a small table facing sort of surprising like the sprouting an ad in the Denver Post and bought I really didn’t want to mess this one the front door with my back tucked of potatoes in the fridge. an ’85 VW Vanagon camper I quickly up. I figured that the surf trip would against the counter where people Now, after nine months of not named The Beast. bring us closer, help us to get to know lined up to get their drinks. In my rev- even talking to a woman, I knew And then I invited Kim. It was time each other or—I couldn’t think about erie I heard the little bell on the front that I was way beyond Not Smooth. I to really give this woman a shot. what else might happen. door jingle and the hinges yaw, and I knew that if I walked up to her table I had met her in a coffee shop near glanced up. and tried to introduce myself in Love Medicine my house in Denver. I had just been She was standing tall, just inside some suave way I would twitch, look Meet Kim. through a terrible breakup. When I the café, looking over the tables to at my feet, say some gratuitously stu- Tall, long of limb, Chinese Ameri- finally got up off the floor, I borrowed find her friend. It was as if there were pid thing, and go home and weep. can, eyes of jet, and rosebud lips. my buddy Sascha’s electric clippers, lights playing around her. She had I thought, Get it together, Pedro. Thirty-something years old and popped on an eighth-inch jig, and this energy, sort of wholesome and Do what you do best. pretty. Strong, too. Broad shouldered. shaved my head. pure. Happy. Clear. I felt a stab of I pulled the clean napkin from Trained as a ninja. Pretty good with Some guys look fine bald. Not me. desire. More than that, I felt a sudden under my cup, dug a pen out of my twin short swords. Born in Denver to I’ve hit my head too many times. It kinship, I’m not sure why. I knew right pocket, and wrote,

Hi, I’m an adventure writer. I write for a lot of top magazines. I have a lot of great stories, but I’m kind of shy, though. I would love to take you to dinner. If you think that’s a good idea, you can just give me a thumbs up. Peter It’s true, I wrote that. I folded up the napkin and when she got up and passed me on the way to the coun- ter to order her coffee, I said in what was barely a whisper, “Excuse me, I have a note for you.” She paused, cocked her lovely oval face, looked down at me, smiled. “Oh, my very own note.” She got her coffee and returned to her table and opened the napkin. She leaned over it. Then I saw a fur- row form in her brow. She frowned. She passed the note to her friend who read it, glanced at me, read it again with an equally puzzled look, and passed it back. Oh, man. My heart hammered. Asian motif. For once in my life I did of her. The two women, startled In a flash I realized that they not ponder. I wrote: now, watched me as if it were some couldn’t read the thing! I write like a kind of weird pageant. I went back e x t e n d e d h a i k u doctor, in a fast careless scrawl, and to my table and sat down, tall and Sudden Sunday invitation they couldn’t read it. straight. She picked it up in her long, How should I answer? There was still a chance. Don’t tapered fingers and read, and then Beauty caught breathless blow this. Crisis made me bold. turned to me and smiled and gave like a blossom blown off a limb. There was another square napkin me a thumbs up. on my table. I slid it to me. I looked I wrote it in all caps, the kind archi- at her again. So beautiful. Clearly tects use, and I stood and brought it The Seal Beach Lineup Asian. Okay, okay. Asian genre, to her table and set it down in front Kim and I drove from Denver to Southern California in late July and took classes from the M&M Surfing School at Seal Beach, just north of Huntington. There’s a time in every beginner surfer’s career when he has to paddle out and join the real lineup. In my second week I swal- lowed hard and headed for the group. At Seal Beach, this is how they were strung out from the pier: Jack Hill. Something like 6’2”, 190, square-jawed, hair almost to his shoulders. Ex-con, but the kind with a golden heart—jailed for something like beating the pulp out of a guy who offended his girlfriend. Nice to me for some reason when I paddle up. Borrowed my longboard, said, “Just a sec,” caught the next wave and rode it in on his head. Circus Man. Looked exactly like the strong man in a freak show. Sinewy legs, brick s–––house torso, handlebar moustache. Wore a Spee- do. All tatted up, naked ladies and mermaids. Whizzed down a long wave with a cryptic half smile, Mona Lisa meets Ajax. Never said a word. Eva. Supermodel. Swedish. So thin even her size zero wetsuit hung off her butt. Surfed between photo shoots to Italy and Brazil. Painfully shy. Whenever we chatted, I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to make love to her—like hug- ging a fragile sculpture of sticks and leaves. Surprisingly strong, though—paddling out, she left me in the dust. The Seal Beach Sistas. Actually a young mothers’ club, very upscale, lot of pearl earrings and perfect With one sentence, and one sweeping glance me in a way I would later learn to coifs, even when wet. They surfed recognize—it meant: “F–––ing after dropping the kids off at school. over the lineup, he made a proclamation to Kook. Not gonna let him get a single This was not family at the beach wave. If he gets in my way, gonna time; this was sitting out on their the tribe: Back off, new kid gets the wave. f––– him up. End of conversation.” longboards, rising and falling eas- Big Jack called out, “Hey, Pete! ily on the swell, away from every Bill Cartwright. Former CEO. Ran who surfs. Became, like me, dazzled Come over here. Cool. You surf here tentacle of obligation, and talking three multi-billion dollar health-care by the sea. Quit his job, found God, before? OK, this is a left, this is your trash. Desperate Housewives stuff. companies. Made the mistake of surfed every day. wave.” The rest of the surfers had And laughing. And peeling off mid- taking a weeklong surf class so he Rogue’s Gallery. Assorted young been waiting for their own wave, sentence to catch a wave. could be closer to his troubled son hot heads on shortboards, who many for a quarter of an hour. With should have been over at Hunting- one sentence, barely above speak- ton pier and not terrorizing me. Why ing voice, and one sweeping glance didn’t they answer when I said, “Hi! over the lineup, he had made a How’s it going?!” One of them was proclamation to the tribe: Back Off, French. He had a heavy accent, and new kid gets the wave. long, vain, curly locks. He hogged “Thanks,” I murmured, catching the waves. What was he doing here a quick glimpse of 10 stony faces. anyway? Go back to France. “Hi guys.” I actually waved like a Tykester. Tiny 8-year-old on the Miss America contestant. And then smallest shortboard on Earth. I prayed. Pete, you better not, no Looked like a frigging skateboard. way, kook out and miss this frigging But the kid could rip. He was all wave. Or wipe out once you catch freckles and confidence. On my sec- it. I must have been living right. God ond day in the lineup he was sitting granted me a reprieve from total inside of me by 10 feet. I was just at Kookiness. I paddled as hard as I the peak, and as the swell came in could, angled left, and caught the he turned to me and said earnestly, wave. I stood up and rode it left. confiding, as if I’d be crazy to doubt I rode it as far as I could. I almost him: “I got it.” And then he took off. fell to my knees in the foam and On my wave. I blinked at his diminu- thanked heaven. tive retreating figure. “OK,” I said to the back of the wave. Gale Forces It was a typical California crowd. After a month in Orange County, Every segment of society now Kim and I climbed into the Beast surfed. The culture used to be edgy and drove down into Baja. The plan and rebellious, and still thrived was to stop at every surf break and on that myth. Plenty of surfers still apprentice with the local hotshots. lived for almost nothing else, and The rough, remote country, the wild they tended to be a breed apart. But characters, the dangerous currents, most had families and a boss and all challenged our relationship to drew a paycheck. the limit. When things got really I had been talking to Jack Hill, hairy, Kim would remind me that I the ex-con, on the beach. He oper- was carrying precious cargo: Her. ated heavy equipment when he But we got stronger, and our surfing wasn’t surfing or shaping boards or skills improved. We found that the seeing his parole officer. He liked farther south we got into Mexico, the the idea of our project of trying stranger, the more surreal our expe- to go from kook to big wave in six rience became. It was almost as if months, and he sold me a short we had to give up any expectation spring wetsuit very cheap. When of normalcy to really learn to surf. I paddled up to the dozen surfers And then we took a jarring 35-mile at the pier, they slid their eyes over dirt road out to a famous break called Scorpion Bay. We hadn’t “Yeah, but is it gonna rain, bro?” been there more than a day when said the boy, tenacious. He was a we heard rumors about a hurricane surfer. If you don’t keep paddling for tracking right for our camp. … the peak of a wave you’ve ceded it to That night, the open-air restaurant another guy. “I mean, are we gonna was crowded. Most of the surfers be able to get outta here, cross the congregated there in the evenings to rivers and s–––?” drink Coronas and eat overstuffed Her long fingers came to rest light- burritos. And check e-mails; the ly on the keys like a pianist’s at the house had two laptops they kept on end of a piece. She studied the boys the bar and rented out, two bucks for a moment, raised one mordant for 15 minutes of wireless time. eyebrow, unconsciously touched Tonight, a group crowded around a her glasses back to position as she tall, dark girl who expertly worked wrinkled her nose, turned back to the keyboard and brought up screen the screen. Silence. Everybody wait- after screen of satellite images. She ed. She spoke to the local fisherman sat on the stool in a bikini with an behind the bar in rapid, colloquial Indian Sari wrapped diagonally Spanish and he nodded, smiled, slid across her torso. She wore black open the ice chest and brought out rectangular glasses. She sat very tall, a dripping Pacifico. not pretty in the sum of her parts, She twisted her head, stretching but she gave off an air of insupport- her slender neck, and let it settle in able languor, in the way of very perfect balance on at the top of her successful models. She traced her spine. “This is currently a Category finger on the map. Kim and I got a Three storm,” she said softly, mak- table, ordered Sprites, and I wan- ing everybody lean forward. “Rains dered over. I could hear flies hitting could be on the order of 10 inches the blue zapper behind the bar. in 24 hours. That would be enough “How close, bro?” said a boy in to cut the roads, yes. If the projected nothing but board shorts and a Dos track proves out. The storm could Equis. deteriorate or shift direction.” “Yeah,” said his buddy. “Ground “No s–––?” The two boys raised Zero or what?” They held their beers and clacked their bottles. “Sick! to their stomachs and craned over We better get the f––– out of here the group. tomorrow!” She turned her head slowly, chin On the way back to our table I high and looked at the guys like bumped into a young Australian they were two bugs who were inter- surfer musician I’d talked to the rupting her lecture and should sit night before. His name was Colin in the back of the class. That was and he had a band called Beer- all. She didn’t deign to answer. She fridge, in Margaretville, wherever actually cleared her throat. “As I that was. “Who is that chick?” I said. was saying, the path projected here “What? The Profesora? She’s been is simply an aggregate of wind- holding court right there all after- speed probabilities for any quad- noon, mate. She knows words that rant at predetermined distances are only legal at University.” from the center of the storm’s cur- “Yeah, but who is she?” rent position. That’s what these dif- “Some biologist. Been coming ferent colors represent. Right now here for a couple of years. Doing a we have a 45 percent probability of study on manta rays or something hurricane force winds early on the out at some island. She knows all day after tomorrow. That is, 75 to 95 the fishermen. They don’t charge miles per hour.” her for Internet either. That charac- ter in the corner is her squeeze.” He pointed with his beer. Sitting there with the hooded watchfulness of a bouncer, was a muscle-bound Latino with black braids down over his shoulders, earrings, eyebrow studs, skull rings, black tank top, and nonstop tattoos. He looked like an outlaw biker gang enforcer, like my youngest sister’s high school boyfriend Claudio. “That guy surfs?” I asked, incredu- lously.

THAT NIGHT, camped in the Beast on the edge of the cliffs above Scor- pion Bay, an errant wind slapped the canvas of our pop-top. The gusts were the outriders of the storm, still two days away. We lay in the dark and talked about getting out ahead of the hurricane. I argued for staying put. The waves were too good, we were learning too much. Plus, we could just as easily get pummeled on the way back south. “What’s the worst that can hap- pen?” Kim said. “The hurricane could flip over the Beast, maybe carry it over the edge.” “C’mon. Do you think it’s danger- ous?” “Yeah, maybe. Tomorrow after surfing we could look for a room in a house.” She digested that. “Good idea. Remember: Precious cargo.” We didn’t find a room, but we stayed—perched in that precari- ous place between fear and faith. And the next morning at dawn, on a wave that ripped as evenly as the tear tab on a Fed Ex pack, I caught my first perfect ride.

Copyright © 2010 by Peter Heller. From the book Kook: What Surfing Taught Me About Love, Life, and Catch- ing the Perfect Wave by Peter Heller published in July by Free Press, a division of Simon and Schuster, Inc. Print- ed by permission.