“Fortunately, they make for good entertainment,” Dana declared.
Lee and Larry seethed as the kook began a clumsy attempt at cross-stepping across the board toward its nose. It was so sloppy and amateurish, Dana told his cinematographer, “Turn the camera on this clown!”
When the camera turned on him, the kook fell off his board almost on cue. His leash-less surfboard washed toward North Point’s rocky shoreline. When the board began crashing against the protruding rocks near shore, the kook swam toward it, refusing to ask anyone for help.
“He probably doesn’t want this on film,” Lee said to Dana.
When a young surfer shouted, “His board is going to be ruined. I’m going to go get it,” Larry grabbed the teenager by the shirt.
“Listen, kid,” Larry said. “If he wants to showboat like that for the camera—surfing without a wetsuit and leash, trying to pull off every move in the book—you leave him be. That’s the surfer’s code when dealing with a kook.”
The kid looked at Larry and smiled. “Yup, you’re right.”
As the board continued banging around the rocks, spectators stood watching with their arms folded. When the kook retrieved it and approached the shore, he began grunting loudly in hopes somebody would notice him, but the crowd didn’t budge. That’s when Larry turned back toward the kid and said, “The idiot could’ve asked for help, but knowing him, he would’ve thought that was some sort of compromise on his dignity.” As the kook stood alone with his broken board, Larry said, “That’s a wellearned comeuppance when you’re a knucklehead surfer.”
When the sun set on the first day of the 2000 Dairyland Surf Classic, the party moved from the sand to the local bars. The party lasted into the early morning. When Dana stumbled out of a tavern at three in the morning, he said to Larry, “Five o’clock tomorrow morning at North Point. See you there.”
After an hour and a half of sleep, Lee and Larry met Dana and his crew next to the South Pier lighthouse. As soon as the sun peeked out over the horizon, Dana began the interview with Larry, but he wasn’t happy with how things looked. “Please face the sun,” he told Larry. “And take off your sunglasses. We want to see your eyes.”
When the sun’s rays pierced his bloodshot eyes, Larry looked like Popeye—squinting eyes and puffy face from a heavy night of drinking.
When asked a question, he was only able to answer in a scratchy mumble.
“I’ll be surprised if anybody recognizes me in this,” he joked.
As soon as Larry regained his voice, Dana focused his interview on how Wisconsin surfers didn’t resemble the dudes who “hang ten” in California or Hawaii. To further emphasize his point, he wanted the quintessential image that would combine the worlds of Wisconsin and surfing. “Do you know any farmers around here?” Dana asked.
“Not really,” Larry replied.
“How can you not know any farmers?” Dana asked. “This is Wisconsin and you’ve lived here all your life.”
“We live in town,” Lee snapped.
“Let’s say we drive ten miles outside of town,” Larry said. “We should be able to find a farmer willing to cooperate.”
The brothers headed out in Lee’s car in search of a farm while the film crew followed in their production van. Driving through the lush topography of rolling green hills, the caravan passed by Kohler’s renowned Whistling Straits Golf Course, where the cinematographer decided to hang the camera out the window to capture Lee’s little red Honda Civic driving along the countryside with the surfboard strapped to the roof. It was the shot Dana hoped for and would open the Sheboygan segment of Step into Liquid.
When Dana found a farm with a view of Lake Michigan, he asked the Williams brothers if they could get permission to shoot in the field.
“Most farmers are friendly, but they don’t like being hassled in the morning,” Lee said. “They’re too busy milking cows.”
“I’ve got confidence you boys can convince him,” Dana replied. “You’re both naturally charming.”
When Lee and Larry walked into the milk shed in search of the farmer, they were overcome by the stench of manure and spoiled milk. They passed nearly two hundred head of dairy cows aligned in milking stalls before finding a farmhand who told them the boss was out back. Following the sound of a constant stream of cussing, Lee and Larry found the farm’s owner tending to a cow hooked up to a broken milker.
“Hi,” Larry greeted the frustrated farmer. “We’re making a movie and were hoping you wouldn’t mind if we walk out into your pasture and—”
“Yeah, no problem,” the farmer said without looking up. He didn’t want to know anything about the film, what the crew wanted to do on his property, or if he could be in it. He was preoccupied with trying to milk his cow. “Wisconsin hospitality,” Dana exclaimed. As the crew stood at the edge of the pasture, a trio of cows, each chewing on a cud, looked at them from behind a round hay bale.
“We can’t film those round hay bales,” Lee told Dana. “They’ve been outlawed.”
“Really, why’s that?” Dana played along.
“Because the cows weren’t getting a square meal!” Lee laughed as the film crew offered a courtesy chuckle.
Dana, being the good sport, smiled and turned to the Williams brothers. “Okay, you two. Take off your shoes and walk toward the cows. And take your surfboards along.”
Reluctantly trudging through the field dotted with fresh cow pies, they were approached by a couple of inquisitive cows. Even though Sheboygan is no sprawling metropolis, Lee and Larry were very much city kids and weren’t quite sure what to make of their curious onlookers. When a cow started licking Lee’s face, he needed reassurance. “Are you sure they’re vegetarians?”
Soon, more cows approached, attracted by the surfboard. As a dozen cows crowded around Lee and Larry, Dana said, “In your lifetime, did you ever imagine you’d be with the guys from The Endless Summer standing in manure as cows lick you?”
“It doesn’t get more surreal than this,” Larry said, realizing the entire group was experiencing one of those moments in life that would never be forgotten.
By that afternoon, the skies grew overcast and the temperatures cooled as tea-colored waves rolled onto shore. Dropping their clipboards and Dairyland Surf Classic responsibilities in the process, Lee and Larry jumped on their boards so Dana could get some good footage of them surfing. With his board in the soup, Larry had the churning white water snapping at his ankles while turning out of waves just as they broke up. Lee was able to slide along the foaming edge of the cresting waves, twisting and arching his body to compensate for the radical changes in wave speed as he approached the shoreline. Despite a handful of good runs, Lee and Larry could sense Dana’s disappointment in not being able to film better surfing conditions. With no storm systems due overnight, Dana feared his Labor Day shoot would be a bust. “What if there are no waves tomorrow?” he asked. “What happens then?”
“Are you kidding?” Lee reassured him. “Like my brother always says, who doesn’t love spending a day at the beach?”
“The Dairyland isn’t about the surf,” Larry added. “It’s about good times with good friends.”
Following the annual potluck dinner, a musical act took the stage. Dana and his crew reveled in the camaraderie. Beer flowed out of kegs while the dance floor filled with raucous partiers. Hands waved in the air as swaying beer washed over the rims of plastic cups, refreshing the crowd below. Just as someone broke a table in half and another started crushing beer cans in his biceps, Dana walked up to Lee and Larry, who were enjoying the scene from outside the mosh pit.
“This is a ripper party,” Dana said. “Now I understand why everyone is so dedicated to the surf scene here. This is outrageous!”
“Wait until the second band gets on stage,” Larry baited.
With two bands taking turns rocking out on stage, the crowd overflowed into the bar’s sand volleyball court, quickly turning the Dairyland Surf Classic into a Sheboygan block
party. The surrounding sandpit, sidewalk, and parking lot looked as if a tornado had blown through as broken bottles, glasses, paper plates, underwear, shirts, pants, shoes, and beer cans were strewn in every direction. Leaning against the bar, Lee and Larry could only smile as their party engrossed even the most pessimistic of the crew members.
“How are you guys going to top this?” Dana asked.
“Next year we’re reuniting the Beatles to cover Beach Boys tunes,” Lee said.
By Sunday morning, even after polishing off a jumbo-size bottle of aspirin, Larry was still hung over and burnt out. When he didn’t show up for the first shot at five o’clock, the crew sent a production assistant to his house to get him.
“Tell them you couldn’t find me,” Larry told the kid.
The kid obliged. Larry was crashed out on the couch with a cold compress melting on his forehead. An hour later, the production assistant returned, cautiously knocking on the door. “Mr. Williams,” he called. “Mr. Williams, they need you down at the beach.”
Rousing himself from his fermented haze, Larry cracked the front door with a frown on his face. The kid looked at him with a nervous smile. “They won’t let me return without you.”
“Listen, sport,” Larry grunted. “Five straight days of drinking, screaming, yelling, and getting only three hours of sleep has finally caught up with me. Just tell them I wasn’t home.”
Back on the beach, the waves were cooperative but not awe-inspiring. Lee and a handful of friends, all dressed in their trademark black wetsuits, settled into a surfing cycle, taking turns getting atop waves and not talking much while paddling out. The huge Sheboygan waves Dana sought to capture on film would not arrive during his visit, forcing him to settle for several sets of reasonably clean four-footers. As the mid-afternoon sun ducked behind the clouds, all of the surfers were exhausted. Waiting for his last ride, Lee noticed a shimmering, silver-smooth wave approaching. He hoisted onto his board and drifted with a warm breeze across the water’s surface, soaring across the water for a hundred yards on a five-foot wall he could barely see in his peripheral vision. Pulling onto shore, Lee tucked his surfboard under his arm, walked up to Dana, and said, “Sheboygan is a pretty great place with decent surf. I’m thinking of moving here.”
About an hour later, a ringing phone roused Larry from sleep. Lee told him, “We’re done filming, so you can come out of your social coma now.”
After driving to the American Club’s Horse & Plow in Kohler for the crew’s wrap dinner, Larry found himself sitting next to his brother, absorbing the last few surreal moments of his weekend with Dana Brown. With everyone worn out from five days of shooting, the dinner was subdued but pleasant. When it was time to go, the director and his crew loaded into their minivan, barely wedging themselves into the spaces not occupied by gear and suitcases packed to the ceiling. As they drove away, Larry told Lee, “We’ve done a lot together, including being born, but this has to be pretty high on our list of highlights.”
“Yeah,” Lee said. “But it would’ve been better if our wave machine hadn’t been in the repair shop.”
That winter, Lee and Larry surfed whenever the weather cooperated with their busy schedules. Early mornings worked best. Their jobs allowed them to continue surfing on their hometown beach as they approached age fifty. When accused by co-workers of having Peter Pan complexes, they would explain how their interest in surfing was no different from jogging, restoring antique cars, or re-enacting Civil War battles.
Surfing that winter also served as Lee’s escape from Mitch’s growing discomfort in her back. Her pain had grown so severe she could barely function without extensive medication. Sitting in a car, walking to the mailbox, and pushing a shopping cart became torturous. After six months of adhering to the doctor’s prescriptions, physical therapy, and regular visits to the chiropractor, she felt her symptoms were only worsening. By the spring of 2001, she insisted on getting a fresh diagnosis.
While she waited to receive the results of her CT scan at Sheboygan’s Memorial Hospital, Lee and Trevor sat with her. When they ventured down the hallway to buy her a soda, they overheard a couple of doctors discussing her condition. At first, they refused to believe what they were hearing, but when they both saw the X-ray the doctors held up to the light, their fears were confirmed. But by the time they returned to her room, Mitch had already received the news from the doctors—she had cancer, a malignant tumor on her spinal column.
Chapter Nine
All Mitch could do was sob. As she lay in the hospital bed, Lee approached her and rested his head in her lap. “How could they have missed it all this time?” he said, forcing back tears. “I just don’t understand.”
“That’s not important,” she said, wiping away her tears. “We need to focus on the now.” Lee and Trevor stood next to her, admiring her strength. “They’re admitting me to St. Luke’s Hospital in Milwaukee for immediate treatment.”
That evening, Larry drove straight to the hospital after work. Although the message Lee had left for him didn’t sound urgent, it was obvious their plans of spending another night downing a few beers, sharing some laughs, and watching one of their favorite surfers, Gerry Lopez, in their favorite movie, Big Wednesday, would be postponed. When Larry stepped into Mitch’s hospital room, he realized something wasn’t right. The bed was empty, and Lee was sitting on a small chair in the corner. Larry cautiously approached. He said, “Hey, bro.”
Lee kept his head down, focusing on a hospitalmonogrammed folder filled with numerous cancer treatment pamphlets. “What’s up?” Larry asked.
Between a handful of sniffles and sobs, Lee blurted out, “Mitch has a golf ball-sized tumor next to her spinal column. It’s inoperable. They’re transporting her to Milwaukee right now for further treatment.”
“I’m so sorry,” Larry replied.
Lee nodded.
Larry said, “This is terrible.”
“Well, don’t you have something spiteful to say?” Lee said.
“No. She’s family and that’s what’s important,” Larry replied. “What can I do to help?”
“Nothing. I don’t need anything,” Lee said, covering his face with his hands. Knowing his brother was too proud to ask for anything—especially in a moment of need—Larry hugged him, refusing to loosen his grasp even slightly.
“Let’s get you washed up,” Larry said. “Then I’ll drive you down to Milwaukee.”
Upon her admittance into the Vince Lombardi Cancer Center, Mitch received a battery of tests to evaluate her health and determine if she was fit enough for the rigorous radiation therapy and chemotherapy that would fight the cancer. As she endured more aggressive courses of treatment, she often found herself coping with high fevers and vomiting. Throughout the long and challenging months, Mitch stayed motivated by focusing on her goal of one day getting back to the beach to see her husband ride the waves.
“I should’ve spent more time watching you surf,” she’d tell Lee. “Your gracefulness on a wave will always be one of my favorite mental images.”
Although she was at one of the most prestigious cancer treatment centers in the country, Mitch never felt comfortable around the sterile white walls and tile floors. She insisted that Lee be at her side around the clock, which forced him to abandon all of his other interests and responsibilities.
“I don’t care if I lose my house, my job, and everything I own,” he said many times. “I will never leave her side.”
For the next two months, Lee sat at his wife’s bedside, hoping doctors would find a way to operate on the tumor or that the cancer would miraculously disappear. When it was clear to her that the chemotherapy was not helping, Mitch decided she had had enough. “I could go through all the treatment again,” she said, “but I can tell from the doctors’ faces that there’s very little chance of it working and more chance that it will kill me.”
She looked at Lee with her emerald eyes bloodshot from the days, weeks, and months of crying. In a soft voice,
she said, “I want to go home.”
“But you have the best care here,” Lee told her.
“I want to be with the people who I love and who love me. This hospital will never be home.”
That next morning, Mitch was discharged from the Vince Lombardi Cancer Center. With Lee behind the wheel, they took the scenic route north back to Sheboygan. Driving along the Lake Michigan shoreline, the glistening waves were never out of her sight as the wind off the lake whipped across her face. “This is the freshest air I’ve ever breathed,” she told him.
Arriving home, Mitch found her makeshift hospital room already incorporated into the living room. The sterile white bed linens, stainless steel bed frame, and handful of medical instruments contrasted the otherwise warm living space she had enjoyed for so many years. But all Mitch cared about was eating food out of her refrigerator, looking out her front window, and sleeping under her own roof.
Although able to enjoy the comforts of home, she still required constant care when not receiving chemotherapy at the hospital. When her tumor grew so large it paralyzed her from the waist down, Lee never left her side, continuing to miss extensive amounts of work, refusing invitations to hang out with friends, and only leaving the house for groceries or medicine. Since Trevor was away at college, whenever Lee had to leave for a mandatory meeting under the threat of losing his job, Larry would come to the house and stay with Mitch.
Even in her deteriorating state, their relationship was chilly at best, but that didn’t mean he didn’t care about her. Often sitting on his brother’s front porch with a monitor in his hand, Larry would listen and wait to help whenever Mitch called for assistance. While watching people around the neighborhood mow their lawns, walk their dogs, and play baseball in the street, he was beside himself. “Does anybody realize what’s going on in this house? There’s someone dying in here. Isn’t the world supposed to stop?”
As weeks transformed into months, Larry continued to support them any way he could, knowing how much Mitch meant to the Williams family. Since he was the only person Lee felt comfortable talking with, he would grab a twelve-pack of beer and a handful of surf movies before coming to the house, allowing his brother an opportunity to catch up on life and escape, if only for a few hours, from the nightmare that consumed him. On the nights Lee struggled to fall asleep, Larry would sit next to him on the couch. When Lee finally did sleep, Larry listened to the monitor in case Mitch woke up.
Some Like It Cold Page 18