Kook

by Peter Heller

  ALSO BY PETER HELLER

  The Whale Warriors: The Battle at the Bottom of the World to Save the Planet’s Largest Mammals

  Hell or High Water: Surviving Tibet’s Tsangpo River

  Set Free in China: Sojourns on the Edge

  Free Press

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  Copyright © 2010 by Peter Heller

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  First Free Press trade paperback edition July 2010

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  Designed by Carla Jayne Jones

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Heller, Peter

  Kook: what surfing taught me about love, life, and catching the perfect wave / Peter Heller.

  p. cm.

  1. Surfing. 2. Heller, Peter 3. Surfers—Anecdotes. I. Title.

  GV840.S8H44 2010

  797.3'2092—dc22

  [B] 2009045508

  ISBN 978-0-7432-9420-1

  ISBN 978-1-4391-7181-3 (ebook)

  TO KIM

  For He hath founded it upon the seas, and established it upon the floods.

  Genesis

  “Somebody help the chicken!”

  Surf’s Up

  The story in these pages actually happened. Some of the geography, however, you will never find on any map. I have changed the names of some people and places for everyone’s protection, especially my own.

  WITNESS

  I had watched the seal catch two waves. Now his head popped up beside me where I sat on my board. I almost fell off in surprise. “Hi,” I stammered. He blinked, unafraid and curious. Oh, man, I thought, he wants to be my friend. “Right?” I proffered. The seal didn’t seem to be into conversation. He turned his head toward the open ocean, just like a surfer looking for a set. Wow. These are the kind of moments we dream about. He had position on me. I mean that, technically, he was closer to the peak where the waves broke and so the next wave belonged to him. But no rule of surf etiquette said I had to yield to a pinniped. I’m going, I thought. Next good wave is mine. You can catch waves all day long.

  He turned his sleek head and looked at me with such frank and kindly condescension that I winced. What on earth are you doing in my house? he seemed to say. You are such a kook.

  Kook means “beginner surfer.” It is not a neutral term; it carries a slug of derision, a brand for the clueless, for those without hope, without grace, without rhythm. To be a kook is to be consigned to a kind of beginner’s hell. The seal disappeared in a swirl of green water. Good. I always messed up when someone was watching. I needed a little alone time.

  I sat on the board and focused on the horizon. My ocean-sharpened eyes were hunting set waves—the distinctly bigger, more powerful swells that came like big fat birthday presents out of the Pacific. One was bound to have my name on it.

  Was that one? Way, way out? Yes! I turned the board and lay down. Ready!

  Surfers, people who actually knew how to surf, spun their boards just under the wave and took off. Not me. I needed a lot of lead time. I started paddling. My wave might not get here for a while, but I’d have some momentum.

  The seal’s head popped up, not ten feet away. Now he was about to burst with glee. Evidently he thought I was hilarious. He kept his head half turned, eyes unblinking and locked on mine as he effortlessly cruised beside me on my right. Go ahead, laugh! I thought. You won’t be the first, but I’m getting this wave. I already suspected he could read my mind, so I added, Big shot.

  I looked once over my shoulder. Oh, man, there it was, the building wall, barreling in just behind, steepening, lifting. This was it. The wave picked up my tail and shot me forward. Yes! Okay, okay, pop up!

  In the split second it took to attempt the most crucial move in surfing—from passenger-prone to standing and in control—two thoughts flashed: Anything is possible. And: What the hell am I doing here?

  THE CALL

  I was in the middle of my life. I had just finished a book on a dangerous expedition through Tibet’s deepest gorge, a chasm with tigers in the bottom and raging twenty-five-thousand-foot peaks on top. I had clung to the side of the canyon, struggled over high passes in the middle of the Himalayan winter. The two-month expedition was so strenuous that when I got home I slept for two weeks. Now, after completing a book about it, I was exhausted in a different way. I sat on my porch in Denver and watched spring snows sweep over the mountains to the west. I drank coffee and listened to the crows argue in the big maple across the street. Sometimes a solitary corvid would cry a single rising note that hung in the air, and it sounded to me like a question thrown against the sky.

  How does one make a life?

  I had done a Big Thing. Now what was I supposed to do? Was I supposed to do another Big Thing? Or could I do some small things for a while? Was it enough to string together things of any size until I died? Did it matter, as long as I had friends, family, a community?

  I had always sought solace and meaning in wild places. I loved exploring rivers in a kayak, which is a very versatile little craft, and I had found a way to write about these trips and make a living and keep going back. But more and more, wherever I traveled, I could see that we were degrading these places as fast as we could. It drove me crazy. Sometimes I imagined God blowing His whistle and saying to all of us, Everybody out of the pool! I entrusted you with this paradise and look what you’ve done.

  And what about love? I mean romantic love. Wasn’t that supposed to help define everything? I hadn’t done so well in that category. I had loved several women deeply, but I was always traveling and when I came back I was on deadline and I never could fully commit. I was a moving target. I pushed the patience of my lovers to the breaking point and then I was heartbroken when they left. I was a fool. Now I was with a truly lovely woman named Kim, but the Tibet trip and my inability to promise anything had strained us, and everything seemed up in the air.

  I had this idea that maybe my job here was just to pay attention. I liked that. Very simple. But then I wasn’t sure what to pay attention to. Is it enough to listen to other people who are as lost as I am? Or to the wind, which pours through the trees in a language I cannot decipher? Or these crows, who seem talkative but restless?

  At this point in his life, Dante met Virgil and went on a long vacation to hell. It was the mother of all midlife crises. I got a call from Huntington Beach, Surf City USA.

  BOYS

  The call came from a friend’s wife. Andy had been one of my closest buddies since college. He had grown up on the wrong side of the tracks in Camden, South Carolina. His father died very young and his mother did all the mechanic work on their old station wagon. In college, he took law school entrance exams and scored so high that he ended up with a full scholarship to Columbia. He didn’t really want to be a lawyer, but the offer was too good to refuse, so off he went. He aced school, despite not studying much, and went through a series of jobs at private law firms where he didn�
�t fit in. Finally he landed at the legal department of a giant manufacturing company, where he began to thrive. He moved with his family into an old house on a tree-lined street in a midwestern city, got as comfortable as he’d ever been, and promptly got transferred to Orange County, California.

  When his wife called me, she sounded desperate. She said that Andy was having a tough year. He’d been brought in to clean up the legal department of a subsidiary, and he was emphatically not a disciplinarian. When he had to call some cowboy lawyer on the carpet, his natural inclination was to tell him a long parable about bass fishing. He hated the constant conflict of the job and he wasn’t sleeping. He had a vacation coming up, he had wanted to learn to surf, would I come out and learn with him?

  Definitely, yes. I’d seen the Gidget movies and The Endless Summer. I booked a ticket and in early April I flew into John Wayne Airport, Orange County, California.

  Andy picked me up wearing a Hawaiian shirt with surfboards all over it. We drove with the windows down. I was excited, he was excited. We were going to be boys, have an adventure. The first thing we needed to do was get me a board.

  My first surfboard was an egg; that’s the name of a classic design. They are ideal for beginners because they are usually forgiving. This one was not prepossessing. Neither longboard nor shortboard, it was eight feet long and as oval as a platter. It did not edge a straight line or turn particularly fast. It was not nimble and not stable. The shaper who made it must have been a genius, as it is almost impossible to make a surfboard that is not every desirable quality. It didn’t do anything well, really, except hatch my career as a surfer.

  It was an old board, pre-owned, covered in tiny vines—a hand-painted tangle of no plant that ever lived on earth. Most graphics on surfboards are laid down under the fiberglass so that the board is smooth to the touch: no matter how exuberant or violent the picture or color, close your eyes and your hand passes over the deck of the board like it was polished bone. Not the Egg. This was paint dabbed atop the gel coat—the first owner paying tribute to her most modest egg, or maybe an attempt to gussy it up after it surfed like a brick.

  I guess Skip at Board ’n Bean would have felt bad charging me for a week with the board. He ran the last true surf shack in Huntington Beach, part board shop, part café, part betting parlor (I think), part other stuff. It sat on the Pacific Coast Highway beside a cluster of trashy palms, and it caught my eye as Andy and I drove past. There was a rack of brightly colored old boards out front with a sign that said big sale.

  “Nah, just take it,” Skip said, handing me the egg. “Put me in an article. Hey, what size are you? You’re gonna need this.” He threw me an orange full-length wetsuit. He was wearing a sleeveless T and his arms were like anvils.

  “Got a leash?”

  I shook my head. There was a muffled roar from the two TVs in the shop. Skip glanced up at the one mounted above the doorway to his new board room. “Fucking Dodgers. If I wanted to watch The Simpsons—know what I mean, Domino?”

  Domino? No one had ever called me that. I liked it.

  “Here.” He unhooked a leash from a peg. I took it. Something in the way I looked at it as he handed it to me made him laugh and wince up his bloodshot blue eyes. He lifted his trucker’s cap and his bleached blond hair spilled to his shoulders. The cap had a pair of the naked mud-flap girls on the brim.

  “You don’t know how to put it on, do you? Dude, you are a kook. Here.”

  He shook out the eight feet of plastic cable, ripped apart the Velcro tab, and attached it to the little loop of cord at the tail of the board.

  “Hey, you need some wax. Got wax?” He tossed me two little bricks.

  “Use the board for a week. When you decide you want to get your own, I’ve got one for you. No plastic, though, Domino, cash only. Cool?” He was hoping I would; there were some Lakers games later in the week he wanted to cover.

  There’s a feeling I will always remember: walking out of the shop with my first surfboard under my arm. This was cool. I bet the people in the cars passing on the Pacific Coast Highway thought I was a real surfer. I felt like a real surfer. I had a board, wax, a wetsuit. The whole Pacific Ocean in front of me.

  A NOTE ON WAX

  A standard modern surfboard is made of lightweight, rigid, porous foam shaped as need and art require, then skinned with layers of fiberglass. The result is a platform that’s smooth as bone, slippery when wet. The early surfers in the U.S. and Australia dripped paraffin on their boards for traction. When push came to shove, the droplets of hardened wax didn’t stay on very well. Various companies in both countries experimented with softening the wax and marketing it for surfers, but it was two outfits in 1972 that swept the surfing world: Mr. Zog’s Sex Wax and Wax Research. Sex Wax came in round bricks a little bigger than a hockey puck. An old surfer told me that this was because the first production runs were poured into tuna tins—lucky they added perfume. Before a session a surfer rubbed the bar over the deck of his board, everywhere his feet might land. Sometimes he waxed the rails up front, a hand’s-width patch where, when paddling out and confronted with a wave breaking in front of him, he would grab the board for a duck-dive.

  Genius name, Sex Wax. Cool, edgy, adolescent, which strikes to the heart of surf culture. The ritual: squatting, shortboard over knee, waxing the tapered weapon. Or the pro pose, in transit to the water: little board cocked on hip, flexing the knee up for support, reaching across, and waxing quickly with the free hand. Leftover crumb of wax stuffed back in pocket. Or a longboard: laying it on the ground, moving along its length, addressing it with the wax, rubbing and rubbing, tip to tail. Is there anything more sexy except sex? It’s preparing the rigid phallus for the act, or it is the act, I haven’t decided.

  In ’92, Wax Research introduced Sticky Bumps, which sounds more like the yucky disease you might get if you didn’t properly protect while using Sex Wax. But wildly popular to this day because it works. It comes in little square bricks with a deep groove down the middle so you can break it in two and shove one half in the pocket of your board shorts. Rub it on lightly and small deckles adhere; rub more, careful not to be too firm, and voilà!, little bumps. That are pretty sticky. You may pop up, miss your timing and get clobbered, driven to the rock reef, knocked in the teeth by your tumbling board, but it won’t be because your feet slipped.

  Wax sometimes, especially in the Third World, is hard to get. Or you left it back in the car, or the $1.25 a brick is more than you can afford because you have no job and you are crashing on your cousin’s couch in Huntington and you’d rather spend that money on beer. Or the guy at Dukes on the Pier hasn’t called you back about the busboy job, and you are living on peanut butter sandwiches and surfing your brains, what’s left of them, out every morning north of the pier, and the guy in the parking lot cut you dead when you said, “Hey, bro, could I get a hit of wax?,” just turned away, and you have, really, about a year’s-worth of wax on your board already, but it gets flattened and smooth and greasy with time, then what do you do?

  You use a wax comb.

  My first pair of board shorts came with one looped into the pocket. Here’s the funny thing about buying board shorts in Huntington Beach. You mostly can’t wear them surfing. The water, for all but a couple of months of the year, is too cold to wear anything but a wetsuit. Thick, long-sleeve, and long-leg neoprene suits in the winter, short and light in the spring and summer. So unless you’re one of the kids who take pride in trunking it, in being that tough, you’re gonna be surfing in a wetsuit all year. So why buy board shorts? The shorts that tie at the waist and hang down past my knee and make me look like an elf?

  Because they’re cool. Period. What’s wrong with you?

  The wax comb is slick because it is another tool, multiuse, you can use to tune up your board. Just what it says: a two- or three-inch-wide plastic comb you rub hitch-hatch over the wax on your board to give it new grip. The back side of the comb is usually plastic-knife sharp, usually straigh
t, for scraping off old wax. If it’s really sophisticated, one side of the scraper is curved inward for running the wax off the rounded rails. My first pair of board shorts were tan and blue Quicksilver with the sturdiness of canvas, but a soft nap almost like suede. It had a surprise wax comb tied into the pocket on a loop of elastic cord, like a toy in a Cracker Jack box. Inspection revealed not only the translucent, heavy-duty comb, but also a fin key that slotted into it. A fin key is a very small Allen wrench that turns the screws that hold the removable fins in the tail of your board into their slots. How cool was this? Not only did you get hip shorts, you got a comb, a scraper, a fin key. With your board and a wave, you had all you needed.

  FIRST BLOOD

  From Board ’n Bean, Andy and I drove south a few blocks to the parking lot of the Huntington Beach Pier. This pier, according to my contact Nathan Myers at Surfing magazine, had made and broken more surfing careers than anyplace on earth. It was tall; the heavy pilings lifted the deck some twenty feet off the water. The waves thundered white through the posts like an avalanche. Out over deep water beyond the break, a line of fishermen dropped their lines over the rails. On the sand a few towels, a few sunbathers, not many. It was a Monday in April.

  We teetered the boards off the rack of Andy’s minivan. Stretched on our wetsuits, helped each other zip up the backs, lay our boards on the pavement of the parking lot, and waxed them, didn’t know how, just rubbed hard and caked it on. This was already fun. Neither of us had ever used a surfboard before. The smart thing would have been to take a lesson, but we had both taught ourselves to kayak in college, picking up tips haphazardly from friends, and we figured surfing was a lot less complicated. I mean, there were no hydraulics, eddies, eddy lines, strainers, ledges, haystacks, horizon lines, or box canyons. There were just waves. We blinked at the bright water and surveyed them. They were about as tall as charging water buffalo. Over by the pilings was a bunch of surfers.