I was so fixated on the board and the waves that I didn’t notice the exact moment George spotted me in the water. When he did, though, he abandoned the lab pup and swam for me like his life depended on it. Before I knew it, he was chugging alongside me. “Hey, George,” I said. “I’m fine. Go back to the beach and have fun.” But he was having none of it. As we approached the end of the white water, he was still right beside me. “Come on, George. Go back,” I said. “Turn around.” Not a chance. He continued swimming with great determination parallel to my board.
The break at Huntington was farther out than at Hermosa, so we were about fifty yards from shore when the first clean waves hit us. You can’t duck-dive under waves on a long board because the board is too big and too buoyant, so when the first wave hit us, I bounced up and over the top of it with George paddling furiously beside me. I knew enough by then not to doubt his swimming abilities, but still, I was concerned about him in the waves.
We blasted up and over, rushing down the opposite side. When we were in the trough with the next wave a couple dozen feet away, I looked at George. “You okay?” I asked. His head was high and he was swimming confidently through the surf. In fact, he looked less tired than I was. He gazed straight ahead, focused on the next wave, but when he noticed me watching him, he adjusted course slightly, bumping his shoulder into the board and rising up out of the water to lick my face. I laughed as he planted kisses on my cheek. I was still laughing and he was still trying to lick me when the next wave hit us.
Distracted by George’s show of affection, I had let the board drift, so that instead of being aimed directly up the face of the wave, it was pointed at an angle. When the rush of water lifted us again, the board tilted and I started to slide off its side, which flipped the board skyward and on top of me. I went under and George, also caught off guard, went under with me. I kicked back to the surface, and when I emerged, George was already back up and scanning the water. He spotted me and swam over. He instinctively tried to grab my arm and pull me back to shore the second he was close enough. “I guess you’re okay,” I said, as I pulled my arm away from him and hoisted myself back on the surfboard. “You’re a crazy dog,” I added. Before I could paddle out to the lineup, and just as he had with the surfer at Hermosa Beach, George threw his front paws on my board, trying to pull himself onto it.
“Seriously, George?”
He slipped his paws off the right side of the board, briefly went under and then swam around the nose to climb up on my left. He got his head, chest and front paws on the board. Watching him kick at the water and scramble for grip, I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed his rear end and helped him onto the board. So there we were: me on the back and George, thrilled to be on the board, wagging his wet tail on the front. I couldn’t surf with him on, but I could paddle him back to shore.
“Okay, George. I’ll give you a ride back in,” I said. “But I’m leaving you there so I can come back out and surf. By myself. Got it?” George wagged his tail in response.
I lay back down on my belly and started stroking through the water with my arms. I thought there was a chance George would jump off when the board began moving, but instead he plopped his rear end down and got comfortable, the water from his wet fur blowing into my face.
“Sit tight, buddy,” I said. Even with the two of us on it, the big, floaty board cut through the water efficiently. It wasn’t surfing, but I had to admit that paddling George into shore was pretty fun.
A few seconds later I felt a change in the water as it started to draw back toward the open ocean. A wave was closing in at our backs. I thought about shimmying my legs off the back of the board and dragging them behind us as the wave passed but changed my mind when I glanced over my shoulder and saw we were in a perfect position to ride a small, but decently shaped wave. “George!” I said. “Hang on!”
I paddled frantically to match the speed of the wave, and just like that, we were picked up by it. I pulled my arms in, shifting my weight to steer us, and sidled up the back of the board behind George. Even as we gained speed, George didn’t move at all. He just sat still, with his chest puffed out and his floppy ears dancing in the wind. And that was it: we were surfing. Sort of. The two of us were moving forward from the energy of the wave!
I started to laugh. “That-a-boy, George!”
I leaned right and we cut back into the wave, parallel to its line, before the wave broke beneath us. We slowed but didn’t stop, the white water swirling in all directions. I dipped my arms in the final fifteen feet and paddled to give us one last surge. The nose of the board caught some backwash, causing George to jolt forward. He turned to glance over his shoulder at me as if to say, “Easy, dude.” It looked very much like he was grinning.
We arrived in the shallow water. “This is where you get off, buddy,” I said, slipping from the board and a bit out of breath. George eyed me curiously and then hopped into the water as though what we’d just done was no different from climbing a set of stairs. He then waded to shore. When he reached dry sand, he pivoted to me as I dragged the big board up to the beach to meet him. He was wagging his tail so hard his whole back end swung left and right along with it.
“Was that fun?” I asked, as I put the surfboard down.
His wagging massive tail, his panting and his hopping on his two front legs, was as clear an answer as any. He threw his head back and let out a big, deep “Woof.”
When I picked up the board and flipped it around so that it pointed back out at the ocean, George ran around me in a circle. And when I walked out and set it down in the water, he immediately jumped back on the front.
Obviously I would not be surfing alone. “All right, George, let’s try that again.” He thumped his tail.
We went out a second time. George swam beside me until we cleared the break, and then I swung the board around and helped him up, and the two of us caught another wave together and rode it all the way back to shore. Then he hopped off and bounced excitedly up and down, wagging his tail anew, eager to go out again. I, on the other hand, was tired. The two of us were heavy, and paddling with George on board was hard work.
After a short rest we took a third trip out. I noticed some of the local surfers were now watching our runs.
“Dude, your dog is rad!” I heard someone say, and “Man, nice surf buddy you got there!”
Just before noon, when George and I were both tired, we spent some time under the umbrella. One of the surfers approached.
“How’d you train your dog to do that?” he asked.
“I didn’t,” I told him. “He just jumped on by himself. Today was his first time.”
“Whoa! That’s so cool! You should put him in the contest.”
I looked at him quizzically.
“You don’t know about the contest?”
“We just moved here a while back.”
“They hold a dog-surfing contest here at the end of September.”
“A what?”
“A surfing competition for dogs,” he said. “They get a bunch of people out and there are prizes and stuff, and they raise all this money for shelters—like, for rescue dogs.”
“He was a rescue,” I said, nodding at George. The surfer lit up.
“Me and some buds came last year and had a blast. I mean, mostly it’s just funny, but your dog—he’s got mad skills. You guys could actually win.”
“That sounds kind of crazy, but I’ll keep it in mind,” I said. “Thanks.”
“Seriously. I hope you put him in the contest. It would be awesome.”
He waved goodbye and went back to where his friends were waiting for him on the sand. I turned to George. “Hear that, George? He thinks you could win a surfing contest.”
George was lying on the blanket under our umbrella. He was covered in sand and soaking wet. His response: snores.
SEVENTEEN
Over the next few months I rented boards from Bruce Jones’s almost every weekend. Each time I thought, This is
great! I’m going to go surfing on my own today! And each time I found myself out in the water on my board, lying flat on my belly with a giant, wet dog riding high in front of me, looking very much like the figurehead on an ancient tall ship (but with a lot more fur).
I can’t say that I wasn’t happy with this turn of events, because I was. George and I had found an activity we could do together, one that was “ours” and set us apart from the rest of the world. And that in itself felt great. Plus George got me out of the house, and for the duration that we were in the water, I didn’t think about anything at all except the joy of surfing with George. At a time when happiness for me was hard to come by, our weekend excursions were a much-needed source of energy and light.
I’d work all week and be focused and fine at the office, but something in me still felt not quite right. It was like I was going through the motions of life but not really living it. And I was still finding it difficult to establish a social life in L.A. Not that there weren’t opportunities; I just didn’t know how to manage them. The hurt of my past still lingered, and I found myself making mistakes when trying to connect with new people. It was a struggle that I kept secret.
My real solace came on weekends when George and I would head to the beach in the morning. “Ready to go?” I’d ask as I took the board down from the SUV.
Wag, wag, wag.
George followed right by my side as we made our way to the shoreline, which was full of dogs and their owners playing in the sand and surf. Instead of joining their antics the way he had before we’d discovered our sport, George focused on me and our banged-up rental surfboard. He’d look me in the eye as if to say, “Time to do our thing.”
Out we’d go through the white water, navigating the difficult break and finally reaching the right spot to pick up the waves. We both fell off the board a lot, but even that was fun. We kept to smaller waves at first and eventually, with practice, we began to get better at riding. George started to figure out when to swim close, when to hop on the board, how to balance his weight and leave me room enough to steer us back to shore.
No matter how many times we went out, the excitement of the ride never wore off. Seeing all 140 pounds of Newf sitting regally in front of me, as we glided across the surface of the water, never failed to make me smile. Occasionally George would turn his head, trying to look back at me. I’d catch his face in profile, and he had that expression of serenity you see when a dog hangs its head out a car window. I had to laugh.
At the shore after every single wave, he would find me and lick my face. Every—single—time. Surfing wasn’t some novelty act for George. He got on the board because he loved it. He was truly having the time of his life.
Most afternoons after we’d been out for a while, George would nap under the umbrella to escape the worst of the sun. When he did, I’d creep off as quietly as I could to surf on my own. All dogs pick up on cues—some subtle, some surfboard sized—George appeared to have a tracking device on me. Before I’d made it ten feet into the water, he’d be awake and bounding to the shoreline, right there beside me. Never once did I manage to get a ride in on my own. But the truth is that I didn’t really care. I loved to surf with George.
One day, determined to surf by myself, I left him at home when I went to the beach. I rented a smaller board and had an amazing time catching waves, but the whole time I felt guilty. I kept replaying the sad look on his face as he stood by the door when I left my house. It actually seemed wrong that he wasn’t with me. This was the first and only time I left him behind.
Over those months at the beach people regularly approached us after we’d been out in the waves. “You guys are amazing!” they’d say. “I’ve never seen a dog who loves to surf the way yours does. How did you train him?”
“I didn’t,” I’d respond with a shrug. “He just knows how to do it.”
Occasionally I would hear about that dog-surfing competition at Huntington and what a great fund-raiser the event was for shelter dogs.
“Will we see you and George there this year?”
“I’m not sure.”
The more I heard about the event, the more unsure I became—big crowds, lots of attention, TV cameras and everyone watching as dogs and their owners took to surfboards to compete against each other. Outside of work events, I wasn’t comfortable in crowds and I wasn’t sure I wanted to subject George to a competition where there’d be pressure to win. Over the years I’d been ultra-competitive at hockey. I wanted to win every time I stepped on the ice. I didn’t feel that way about surfing, which I considered a spiritual or lifestyle activity rather than a competitive sport. I especially didn’t feel competitive with George; I just liked doing things with him quietly and alone. It’s how we connected.
Also, after almost three months of living in California I’d finally figured out how to get around, but I still hadn’t shaken the core feeling of insecurity. I carried it around with me everywhere. I could focus on new things and new people at work; however, on the weekends I really valued quiet time by myself and with George. A dog-surfing contest certainly didn’t qualify as quiet time, and though this didn’t quite surface as a conscious thought, it made me uneasy.
But then I was online one day, and I came across a link from the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. I read about the prevalence of “high kill” shelters throughout L.A. and Orange Counties. Hundreds of dogs were being put to death each week simply because the shelters had no room for them or no funds to find them homes. I felt sick as I looked at the photos of these animals, who through no fault of their own were going to die. This could easily have happened to George.
George had started to enjoy life and was giving back, so I thought, Why not? This is a chance for each of us to give back together, to help other dogs in need. I went back to the Surf City Surf Dog website, submitted my credit card number and registered George for the event. It was a great cause and we’d have fun. We would need to be in Huntington Beach at 8:00 a.m. on a Sunday to check in to the event. That was early, but I would deal with that then.
When that Sunday arrived, I groggily fumbled for the alarm clock to kill the annoying sound. As I struggled to open my eyes and regain consciousness, I felt a wet, sloppy tongue rub over my face like a big brush at a car wash. The dog-surfing competition had seemed like a great idea when I’d registered weeks earlier, but at this sleep-deprived moment, it seemed like a horrible idea.
“Lie down, George,” I muttered into my pillow. “We’re going back to sleep.”
Lick. Slobber. Wag.
I was determined to let sleep wash back over me, but George would have none of it. He made his intent known by sprawling across my back. Then, in case I hadn’t noticed that, he gently nibbled on my ear, inhaling and exhaling right into my eardrum. I felt like I was in a wind tunnel. A loud, wet wind tunnel.
“George, seriously. Go lie down.”
It was no use. As I lay there, I thought back to my grandfather’s enthusiasm each morning at his cottage as he’d tell my brother and me about all the important things we had to do—swimming and building sand castles and flying kites—things worth getting out of bed for.
“Yeah, okay,” I decided. “Let’s go surfing. Let’s do this, George.” As soon as he saw me moving, his tail began to swish and his enthusiasm became contagious.
I got out of bed, threw on some board shorts and grabbed a hoodie and my flip-flops. I gathered our usual beach stuff in a bag, took George for a quick walk, fed him, then hooked him up to his leash and loaded him, our board and myself into the SUV. A quick stop at the Coffee Bean for the requisite early-morning latte and we hit the road, bound for Huntington Beach and our first encounter with the sport of dog surfing.
What am I doing? I thought as I sipped my coffee and headed down the highway with George in the back. Competitive dog surfing? I must be nuts.
By California standards it wasn’t the nicest day. It was foggy and gray along the coast, and the waves, visi
ble out the passenger window, were bigger than usual. These waves would be tough even for experienced surfers. How in the world were dogs to stay on surfboards today?
I looked through the rearview mirror at George. He was sniffing excitedly at the open crack of the window, gulping in the moist ocean air. “This is going to be crazy, buddy. I need you to listen to me today. We’re going to do something new.” Like all the times I’ve ever spoken to George, I was saying things mostly for my own benefit, and wondered how much he understood, and yet I was always certain that he was listening.
We made it to Huntington Beach by 7:45, in time for the 8:00 a.m. check-in. I found a spot to park, opened the back door and let my big, galumphing dog jump out of the vehicle. Before walking down to the beach, we watched from afar and took in the crazy scene before us.
Huntington that Sunday was not the dog beach it normally was. Not in the least. It looked more like a carnival site and was filled with tents and exhibits, banners, foam surfboards, and hundreds of people and dogs of all shapes and sizes. Dogs were running around freely, playing and barking, while others were on leashes and stayed close by their owners’ sides. The waves crashed on the beach, but the crackling walkie-talkies, the announcements from loudspeakers, the music playing in the background, the constantly chattering crowd and barking dogs matched the thunderous noise of the surf.
“Wow, this looks pretty crazy, George.” We made our way down to the beach and were swallowed up in the circus atmosphere. There were bulldogs, pugs, retrievers and poodles. There was even a collie mix in a Superman costume, and a friendly pit bull with a plastic shark fin attached to his back. I couldn’t get over the gear some of the dogs and owners had: surfboards emblazoned with dogs’ names, and matching life jackets and custom-made T-shirts.
Free Days with George Page 15