man, this is an old one.... I wrote this back during a simpler time
THE GIFT PT. I
During my senior year Ron, Gordon and I worked at Gaviota Chevron, which was twenty miles up the coast and far enough away to keep anyone but friends from dropping by. It was a time in our lives for laughs, loud music and not dwelling on the future. The number one important thing in our collective lives was surfing because it was our time to be young and charge hard. Working at Gaviota Chevron was perfect. It was the graveyard shift and it was working with friends.
It was on the main coastal highway that connected Los Angeles to San Francisco. It never got that busy; it seems that people respected the velvet embrace of night then.
One of the few "regular faces" we saw was Kemp Aaberg. He and his brother Dewey were beach royalty back in the day. It was a time when people surfed the love of it. Within them dwelled pure stoke. Surfing wasn't the money machine yet, the Beach Boys had barely written songs about it.
Time had progressed and had left Kemp outside looking in. The Aaberg brothers were indelibly connected with some fabled surfing spots throughout Central and Southern California coastline. They rode these breaks and helped put them on the map.
Occasionally, when the wind would howl down the mesquite covered canyons to the sea, Kemp would appear out of nowhere, looking like hell. He lived in a abandoned shepard's shack that no one seemed to care much about. Kemp would show up to talk to us "grems" because he felt bad for us because we would never experience the old days of uncrowded surf and camaraderie.
He seemed part of the scenery of the place. hardly a week would go by without Kemp making an appearance. Ron, Gordy and I started bringing him cans of soup from our mothers' pantries and asking if any old blankets or clothing could be spared. Mostly our moms would say absent mindedly, "that's nice", or warn us sternly to be careful.
Kemp came to trust us not to ask him why he lived apart from mainstream society, and we feigned disinterest. Kemp was a treasure trove of stories that beat the hell out of listening to the same song for the fourth time ion two hours. Kemp was a look back into what made us the people we were then. One hundred percent dedication to surfing and a celebration of being in the right spot at the right time! Kemp was the ultimate rarity: the surfer who well into his 40's , who hadn't moved inland and stopped surfing. He was what Ron, Gordy and I would never be.
Blank Canvas
High in the middle
Time to wail
About Me
- bigd Flanagan
- Bigd is a late achiever but once he gets going he is all good. He loves RL and SL. From surfboard maker to classroom teacher, his RL has had a varied past. All this brings him a rich collection of mad marketing, business and people skills. He is co-conspirator with Kimala in the efforts with Bistro Olive.
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THE GIFT PT. II
Early in the foggy mornings of winter, he would say that he knew of places that were still secret, places off the beaten path that those "bastards from LA" hadn't overrun and trashed. But somehow he would not follow through and clue us in on location, best tide, best swell window, etc. We thought that his connection with the past would be compromised by a foray into the present.
Eventually, we got accustomed to kemp's tantalizing tales and relegated them to mythic status. We found comfort in the mere idea that there were places that belonged to the coastline and not the inhabitants.
One nightat the station had been particulary tedious. I think Ron and Gordy were pissed off at each other for some hormonal fueled spate of teen angst. All of our required nightly choreshad been done, and we sat watching the clock drip the time away like some Dali painting. I glanced up at the darkened canyon and spotted the familiar V-dub with the missing headlight winding its way down the twisting and turning dirt road. I mentioned, "Kemp is heading down" to no one in particular. Both Ron and Gordy nodded in affirmation.
I went to the back of the station to empty the mop bucket. gordy came running up and told me to get my ass out to the pumps. I must have given an exasperated look because his tome softened and he smiled to me as he said, "You gotta see this Dave."
Sticking out of that beat up VW's broken back window was a pristine Yater pocket-rocket circa 1962 or '63. Easily 9 feet in length, the board had weathered the years far better than Kemp.
We walked out and made awkward, painful small talk. Finally, after what seemed a very long time, I said what was on everyone's mind, "Are you gonna go surf Kemp?"
He smiled at us and took a deep breath of the offshore wind that came over the coastal range. He then ran his weathered hand along the rails of the pocket-rocket and said in a soft voice, "I was thinking we all should go."
It was as if the air had been collectively pushed from our lungs. We were speechless! The unimagined was going to be reality. WE "young guys" started brainstorming places to go once we had regained our senses.
Kemp, of course, promptly dismissed our suggestiuons as they were offered: "Swells not right, winds wrong, tide is wrong" and of course "too crowded." We were beginning to sense that this was some manifestation of Kemp's unique sense of humor until he casually mentioned that he had a spot in mind.
We took two cars. Slowly we pulled off a service road that was used by the Navy during WWII. It led to an old deserted oil transfer station. Ahead of us in the breaking dawn was a formidable hike along the cliffside with no established trail. kemp blazed the path. It was tricky. After awhile we stopped traveling the cliff line and started dropping into a canyon I'd never seen. The ground was slippery as hell. Eventually we reached a creek bed that offered better footing. On either side of the creeek bed the foilage was thick with poison oak.
After about 45 minutes of additional slips, curses and deep sighs over increasing poison oak paranoia, we stopped. "Isn't it beautiful?" Kemp said softly. through the dissipating fog, we all saw what Kemp had talked to us about for so long. It was a rarity, a surf spot that didn't even have a name.
It was a submerged point break that was offering perfect, unridden waves. Each one was identical to its successor. The water was a lovely, mouth wash blue hue that reflected the sunlight like a million diamonds. The breeze was blowing directly down the canyon. It had the smell of rich earth and the mesquite groves up the canyon walls. The sun was gently and invitingly warm. It was perfection. There was no one else around. We had somehow, some way, managed to be in the good old days.
We all had a good surf. Wave after wave was ridden and shared. sometimes none of us would take off and let a vision of perfection slip by, its beauty only matched by its solitude.
Kemp was the master as befits one with much experience and rapport with the ocean. He did deserve the status of nobility bestowed upon his brother and himself. fluid, graceful, every movement a study in cooperation not confrontation. It was exhilirating!
When are faces were burnt and our arms felt like cooked spaghetti we rode a last wave in. We just sat there as the sun began to dip into the western horizon. We didn't talk we sat and became part of a larger whole.
I left that fall for college up in Northern california. My life was starting its first major transformation. Eventually, as happens, I lost contact with Ron and Gordy. I saw Kemp only one more time. He was oddly mainstream and cleaned up. He had been caught in the wave of surf nostalgia and his sacrifices to the ocean had been legitimatized by society. We chatted along State Street when I was home for the holidays and out with friends. It was a superficial "what's up?" conversation.
As I look back on this life. I remained highly stoked. Not about waves but about my good fortune in general. The good fortune that continues to unfold each and every day. I just want to say: Kemp, wherever you are in this world, or the next....thanks for looking and sharing with the young guys. I hope I can do the same.
EPILOGUE
Ron, like me, moved inland. He married a college art professor and lives in Arkansas. He has become a business entreprenuer witha string of successful ice cream parlors.
Gordy, kept the faith, he continues to surf the rugged coastline of San Luis Obispo County. The only drive bys he deals with are the spots he surfs with Great White drive bys. He works as a librarian for the County. When I last called him on the phone he asked his daughter who it was, she said said some dude named Dave that you used to surf with... No hello, no laughter just....YOU FUCKER!!! Then a lot of laughter!!
As for myself, I moved inland. All the waves I've ridden in my life were surpassed by a smile and the deepest blue eyes and voice that said, "If you need any help just let me know." I needed so much help I married her. The good fortune hasn't stopped.
When my oldest child was still a toddler I took him to the spot I wrote of. The land had changed greatly, access had been generated and a gentle trail led to the oceans edge. I sat there with him as he played with the sand and stcks deposited by the high tide. Evetually after a bottle he fell asleep in my arms.
I held him close to my chest and imagined I could transfer all of the feelings that this place held for me into his heart. The feeling of love and respect and living in the moment. I then smiled to myself in the knowledge that he too would have his places and his inner truisms. I then kissed him on the cheek and carried him back to the car and his time.
breathes in deeply... you did Mary Soujourner proud hun! dig up her email. I am speechless! :) 91225
Methinks someone needs to be writing more. Great story and extremely well told.....great writing, Sir!!
Wow about covers it.....
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