Dawn Patrol

              I'm in the back seat of Kelly Van Artsdale's Nissan trying to get her bra off when I hear the sound of my alarm clock buzzing in the distance. I reach over, fumbling for the snooze button, praying the most lusted after barmaid in San Clemente hasn't given up on me yet.  Rolling over, I try to get back to the far end of the lighthouse parking lot.

            For a moment, I'm back inside the car by ocean with fogged windows, trembling. As we shiver in the car, every revolution of the searchlight soaks the car with light, in a giant slow motion strobe effect. My lips are on hers as my hands desperately work the delicate hooks that keep her perfect breasts from me.   The last hook comes undone in the dark. Kelly giggles, pulling away. I can just barely see her sliding the white lace straps off her shoulders when my phone rings, drilling into the heart of yet another hangover. Rolling over, I suffer through the next four rings and let the answering machine take it.

            "What's up, this is Drew. Leave a message." Click. Beep Beep.

            And then nothing.  Which is strange. I don't hear the sound of anyone hanging up, I don't hear the mechanism of the machine rewinding, I just hear silence. No heavy breathing, just quiet static sort of waiting to record noise. But there's no sound to record.

            And then I hear it, faintly in the background hiss off the machine.

            Shhhhh, croooshhshhhhhh, Shhhhhhhh, croooooshhhh. The sound is so familiar I sit up in bed, unbelieving. It can't be, but it is. It's the ocean.   I'm on my knees scrambling to get the phone to my ear before the machine clicks off.  

                                                            *             *             * 

            Damn. It's got to be Eddie. He always calls first. Cracking my crusty eyelids, I peek at the alarm clock. 5:27.

            "Yeah," I manage.

            "It's pumping.  Report says six to eight foot, wind offshore at ten, steady. Are you ready?" Son of a bitch is wide-awake, probably already dressed too.

            "Eddie. Listen to me. Do you know what time it is?"

            "Don't pull this shit on me, Drew. I'll be there in ten."

            "Can we at least wait until the sun comes up? Please? I was just about to make it with our favorite barmaid when you called. Give a brother a chance--"

            "You were making it with Kathrine? From the Bomb Shack Bar? Man, you're always dreaming about some cosmetic pseudo Playboy-bunny type like her. Screw all that. Start thinking about getting barreled in head high glassy perfection. Today. This morning. Right now. I'll see you in five."

            "But Eddie wait, you just said ten --" The dial tone gets me going.

            Out of bed, I stumble to the pisser and continue the ritual that begins with the first weather reports generated from data gathered by buoys placed far out in the ocean. Eddie and I are surfers. And Eddie can predict with an uncanny accuracy the size, and type of an incoming swell, based on the measurements of those lonely bouys way out. Somehow, he just adds the prevailing wind direction and tide specific information, and always has the recipe for quality surf. So when that swell reaches the shallow waters of California's coast after travelling thousands of miles across the ocean, it jacks up and forms waves at certain spots. Waves we like to surf, so we rise early to greet them like old friends. But so do all the kooks.

            That's why there's dawn patrol with Eddie. He firmly believes you've got to beat the hordes to score some quality water time, and maximize our wave potential. After a hard night out at Reef Road, the local surfer's bar, the only thing I want to beat is Eddie himself for calling me at the buttcrack of dawn. Of course, he was the one who drove me home last night after way more than "just one." I don't know how he does it.

            Eyes half closed, I stop at my dresser to slip on a pair of my favorite baggies, the ones with the big Hawaiian orchids in blue and white. Then it's over to the closet where I snag a tee-shirt from the pile of clothes inside and slip on my favorite brothel-creeper sandals. Grabbing my backpack by the sliding door in the living room, I throw in a towel, some sunblock, a couple of energy bars  and a bottle of water.

            My small second studio is on the hill overlooking the small town of San Clemente. Rent's cheap, and I got a balcony. The neighborhood is full of people like me, trying to make it, but not trying too hard. It's Southern California, damn it. And I got the day off. Told Larry at the garage I'd be out. He knows to let me go when swell is on it's way. He surfed once, too.

            I pause for a second on the balcony, wondering which board to take. I can't decide between the 6'6 Allison gun or the 7'6 funshape. I almost consider bringing the 5'7 thruster, but I remember Eddie said it was gonna be pumping.  I don't want to be undergunned. Then again, I don't want to be too big or I won't be able to duckdive. Plus you just can't turn a big board quick. I decide on the 6'6" for comfort.

            I head downstairs when I hear the familiar sound of Eddie's old yellow station wagon rumble to a stop.  It used to be mine, but I pretty much sold it to him a year and a half ago when I got busted for a DWI a third time. Lost my license for three years. Who'd a thought a twenty-eight year old garage mechanic would have to hitch to work? It's funny though because I almost went to jail for assault at the same time. I got into a fight in the drunk tank and cracked some Mexican guy's head open.

            It was like pissing blood in a pool of sharks. The arresting officer was Mexican and he pretty much had my ass in sling. He was about to let the Mexican's filet me. But Eddie runs in to bail me out, with the help of some shyster at the last second. The cheapo lawyer got me off the assault charge on a technicality. Still had to pay the fine, do the counseling and all that jazz. My mom never found out about it. She was too busy putting the money she made stripping in her arm.  I never knew she was a dancer until the Eddie and some of the guys took me over to the Sugar 'n Spice Club for my eighteenth birthday. I got arrested for the first time that night and nobody had any fun. Least of all my old lady. She was committed to a nuthouse a few days later. I haven't seen her since. 

                                                            *             *             * 

            Eddie always stuck with me since the day we met on a mushy waist high Saturday in August at Trestles. I was twelve. This was back when my mom used to drop me off at the beach with a brown bag lunch, my board and some sunblock before she went off to "clean houses."  I had just caught my balance after popping up, thrilled to be gliding across the face of the wave as it cruised to shore when I was violently shoved from behind. "Watch out, you crazy kook!" I heard just before I splashed over the back of the wave. 

            After getting worked in the whitewash, I spluttered to the surface, looking around for the punk who tossed me. Paddling back out to the lineup, I watched this skinny kid make a series of cutbacks that belonged between the pages of a magazine. He must have been new in town. I'd never seen him before. But he could surf. Each time his board slammed into the lip, it sent up a spray of saltwater behind him. The sun came through each arc and the rainbow effect reminded me of a peacock's tail.  Even back then as a little grommet, Eddie was good. 

            At the time, I remember being all upset and embarrassed at being pushed off the wave, even though I deserved the shove. I had dropped in on him, which is always dangerous. If it's a big day and somebody drops in on someone already flying down the line, people can get hurt bad, and I'm not even talking about the high speed collision with pointy shortboards made of fiberglass. It's after all that. No one likes taking a set on the head.  If it's a shallow break, getting caught inside can sometimes end a life. Even when the surf is small, paddling like a madman, duckdiving breaking wave after breaking wave trying to get outside gets a body tired real quick. It was just another lesson in the water I needed to learn twice. Another lesson on a long list to come.

            I tried to forget the incident and focus on catching waves. A little while later, I was up and pumping down the line, gaining speed, when guess who decided to drop in on me without looking. The son of a bitch. I gave him the same shove he gave me, and put my hands out to make sure his board didn't hit mine as he went over the back.

            "Who's the kook now, jerkoff?" I shouted full of adrenaline and testosterone, racing along the wall of water, feeling much better about myself. A few seconds later, I looked back and saw him surface with a fierce scowl on his face as he looked for his board. When he recognized me as the guy he had tossed, his face softened a bit. I kicked out and paddled alongside him as he headed back out to the lineup.

            "Hey! We're even, ok?" I didn't want any bad blood even though I knew a bunch of people in the water who'd have backed me up in fight. I was a local, after all.  "You got me, I got you. Alright? We're even."

            "Even?!?!  Even my ass, your--"

            He was cut off as we duckdive under an incoming wave.  As I push the nose of my board under water and place my foot on the tail to submerge my board, I wonder if he's gonna swing at me when we surface.  The wave breaks over me and I pop through the back.

            "--wave sucked elephant dick. My wave was ten times better!" he said and broke into a smile.

            "Yeah? When was the last time you sucked elephant dick?" I shot back.

            He laughed and shook his head sheepishly. I laughed too, more relieved than anything else. Paddling back outside to the lineup together, we became instant friends. It turned out his Dad was a drill instructor and had just been transferred to Camp Pendleton, the big Marine base across from San Onofre State Park. That was years ago.                        

*          *             * 

            Outside, I gently place my board in the payload of the wagon.  Eddie greets me with a cup of coffee and a bagel, in the darkness illuminated only by the instrument panel.

            "Morning," I mumble in thanks.

            "Morning," he replies. We pull out from the curb and head north on Highway 5 towards Trestles. The headlights cut throughout the morning mist as the light grows over the hills behind us. Hardly anyone is on the road. I point to a flag blowing in the stiff breeze. Steady offshore. Eddie nods. The Pacific Ocean is off to our left. It's just a little too dark to see, but I know its there. The bagels disappear and we sit in silence sipping coffee, preparing for the upcoming session.

             My pulse speeds up as we exit the highway ten minutes later.  The first rays of sunlight play on an empty parking lot.

            "We're a little early," I say, yawning, a little nervous.

            "Right on time, " he says grins.

            We hop out to take a look at the break. He was right. It's big. Real big. The lines are long, clean and crisp, peeling in perfect sets. I hear the roar of the water and watch lip after lip pitch forward,  creating tubes that spit as the waves rumble towards shore. It looks like a godamn surf flic.  The bagel begins to feel heavy in my stomach.

            "It's heavy out there," I say slowly.

            Eddie just nods, his eyes taking the scene in. Lighting a joint, we sit watching the action of the waves.  Between puffs, we stretch and watch the water. We always watch the water to see what its doing before we paddle out, because it's always changing. A new rip could have formed overnight, the wave could be doing something different, something unexpected. Everything is so fragile when it comes to good surf. Too much wind and the waves get bumpy, and close out. Not enough wind, and waves get mushy. The wind can shift in the wrong direction, the tides can be wrong, the swell direction can be off--so many things can go wrong.

For me, surfing is about when things go right. It's about the perfection of morning glass, when everything comes together in the water. For Eddie, I've always thought it was the whole process. He's a real soul surfer. He's got the love, the fire, and the perpetual stoke. And he's jealous. He loves the ocean like a miser loves his money. But I'm proud to share it with him.  Putting the joint out on my sandal, we head back up to the car and ready ourselves for the water.

                                                            *             *             *

            I remember one night during a flat spell over a couple of pitchers at Reef Road, Eddie broke it down for me. It was late, we were drunk, and we were both trying to make a couple of blondes we'd met from Oklahoma. They were on Spring Break and the only thing they knew about surfing were the godamn Beach Boys.  Reef Road being the local surfers watering hole, we were in there bullshitting and watching some expensive surf videos we couldn't afford to own on their big screen. We were generally just jonesing for swell, and figured the girls might take our minds off the fact that our Pacific was a lake, when one of the girls, Tiffany, I think,  got Eddie started.

            "So you guys are surfer dudes, huh? Do you hang ten and all that crap?" Her friend Teri, or Sheri, laughed and almost choked on her beer.  I had to smile, even though it was getting late and all I wanted was to fuck her friend silly.

            "Surf's up, dude! Cowabunga!" she gargled. We all laughed.

            But Tiffany kept it up.  "No seriously, what's it like? Is it dangerous? I mean, like, what happens if you fall?" she asked, slightly drunk. Eddie didn't answer right away. He took a pull on his beer and looked at the liquid inside as he spoke, mastering the moment.

           "If you get caught inside the impact zone on a decent sized day, forget about it. You get a real lesson. Nature's washing machine gives you a beating, plain and simple.  After being, rag-dolled under water for ten to fifteen seconds, you’re lost. You're out of breath. You think you’re gonna die."

            The girls had stopped smiling at their jokes. Eddie went on, his eyes all lit up. He was excited. I nodded for him to go on.

            "You're desperate, trying to reach the surface, but you've no control, you're fighting it when you gotta wait until it lets you go.  Finally, after what feels like forever, the water lets you up. Clawing your way to the surface, you gasp for oxygen, and then another wave breaks on your head, taking you down again. And again. And now, you're officially getting worked." The girls just sorta looked down at the table. Eddie's brought them somewhere else. I poured off the last of the pitcher. It's last call.

            "All sorts of thoughts run through your head, but the only important one is etched in your mind for days afterwards. Mighty ocean, little man. Small little man. Big fucking ocean. Somehow you crawl on to the beach, coughing, utterly exhausted.   You sit on the beach and watch the water.   Cry a little bit, sometimes. But I'll tell you this, things become a lot less important after that. All the little fears we carry around with us all day seem inconsequential, you know? And that's why I surf. You can't beat the ocean, you just can't ever beat it. No matter how many contests you win, no matter who sponsors you, it doesn't matter. The ocean always wins. That's why I like it when it's big. It makes me feel alive."

            Eddie wasn't even talking to the girls anymore. He was looking at me, square in the eyes. I just nodded. I've been caught inside before. I've been there and I fear it.  He switches gears. And the girls listen close.

              "But drowning, yeah. People think it's a bad way to go, but they're wrong. It's the best. They say your brain automatically shuts down in response to swallowing water into your lungs. You black out. No pain, like sleeping. After the split second movie, when your heart quits pumping blood to your brain, you fade to black. Your brain, it just doesn't get enough oxygen and you die. If you're lucky, they'll find you. You'll be napping in the shorebreak."

            Teri, or Sheri, I can't remember, reached over and squeezed my hand under the table. I saw Tiffany looking at Eddie with such respect, I knew it was time for us to finish what he started. Moments like those that remind me Eddie's got a mouth on him. When he uses it like that, it's a beautiful thing.

                                                            *             *             *

            After waxing up, and checking our leashes, we lock the car up, stow the key inside a pocket in my baggies and head back down the trail to the beach, ready for our session. Trestles is going off.  We're halfway down to the water when we hear another car pulling into the lot. We glance at each other, but are secure in the fact that we'll be the first ones out for a while--everyone's got their routines when it's this big. The early light on the coastal scene is stunning. It reminds me of the perfect wave photographs I'd seen in one of those expensive coffee table books I always wanted. I just never got a coffee table.

            Leashes in hand and boards under our arms, we pick our way across the sharp, water worn rocks that extend out past the shorebreak, timing ourselves, waiting for the right moment to leap in. We save energy by walking out this way, avoiding the tiresome paddle through the currents close to shore. But timing is everything. Jumping before a wave breaks will get one of us stitches or worse.

            Eddie's out in front, he jumps and in a flash he's paddling hard to the out side. I wait until I see him duck dive the first wave, and then follow. The water is refreshing cooler than usual. But I stop thinking about that as I paddle frantically towards the avalanche of white water. Popping up after the duckdive, I see Eddie paddling over the top of the next wave as it explodes in a tight barrel just to his right. Holy Shit. I'm going to take this one on the head.

            I toss my board out behind me, and swim down toward the oncoming wave. It's got to be at least four feet over head. And pitching out as it reaches shallower water. This could take me all the way to the rocks. Oh Fuck. I feel the impact of the wave on my legs, and my body shudders underwater. I'm almost taken back in the hydraulic, but I'm just deep enough. I pray my board doesn't pull me back through and over the falls. It doesn't. I'm up, grabbing the leash and pulling my board toward me as fast as I can. Sliding up on it, I begin to paddle in earnest, controlling my breathing. I'm scared shitless after that close all. Paddling for all I'm worth I make it up the face of the next wave and all of a sudden it's quiet. I'm outside. I see Eddie smiling with his hands in the air, clapping.

            We sit on our boards, getting the feel for the swell and on constant watch for an outside wave. A natural statistical anomaly, an outside wave is bigger than the average and breaks farther out. When a surfer first sees an outside wave, they have to shout it out, or signal because sometimes not everyone is paying attention. Everyone paddles towards it to avoid getting worked. Slowly, my confidence returns as I see Eddie charge what looks like a medium-sized peak. I'm wrong, it's a fucking beast of a wave as it jacks up in to a wall of water. He's focused, feeling his board as it begins to slide down it's face.  As I stroke for the outside, I cheer him on as he paddles into the pocket.

            Eddie had to have made the drop because I see him bash the lip a little ways down the line. I actually can't see him; when these waves break, I can't even see the shore. But I see the spray from his cutback, and know it's my turn. I pick my wave and begin to paddle for the peak. It's coming up on me quick. I give two strong strokes and I feel the wave lift my board. I'm up on an instant, dropping down the twelve-foot face, making a sharp bottom turn to cut my speed and setting up for the next section.

            I drag my hand as the wind holds up the wall of water, slowing down just enough so that the water curtain folds over me as I slip into the liquid green room. I'm inside a moving waterfall and celebrating my fear. I can see the early morning sun through the wall of the barrel. I'm fully slotted. The seconds feel like minutes. When I see the wave close out ahead, I pump twice, ducking out of the barrel, and kick out over the lip as the wave explodes on the rock reef behind me. This was already the session of my life.                                    

                                                            *             *             *            

They had a memorial paddle out for Eddie Larson three days later, when the swell began to fade. Everyone we knew from our little surfing world was out that day at Trestles. It was the last time I've been in the ocean in over a year. It was really a beautiful, sad ceremony. Everyone paddled out, sang, told stories, laughed and cried, shared memories. People had Eddie's picture on their board, flowers floating everywhere, the girls were crying, I mean there must have been eighty people on surfboards just sitting in the water. Some surfed, some just drank. A couple of the surf shop owners took the day off, and even red-eyed Staff Sgt. Larson paddled out on Eddie's longboard for an hour. He told me they had dropped all the flags to half-mast over at Camp Pendleton when he shook my hand. I didn't know what to say. They never really got along.

I was stoic through it all until I got so drunk celebrating Eddie's life at Reef Road I puked blood. Two months went by and I got my car and my license back. But I don't use it so much because I drink a lot these days. I got fired from Larry's garage for missing work for a week. I found work at another garage closer to Huntington Beach, about a half hour drive north. Larry eventually found out and tried to re-hire me. I told him to go fuck himself. I quit hanging out at Reef Road. They had one of Eddie's boards hanging up in the rafters. It killed me to see it. I'd guess I've put on about twenty pounds.

I met this chic Sophie at a biker bar not too far from the garage in HB. She's a little frayed around the edges, with a couple of tattoos and some piercings. She's more sexy than pretty, and we started going out. She moved in with me a couple of weeks later. Things were going great, feeling fine and when I start to wonder about everything. I don't really dig her biker friends, and she hangs with them more often than I think she should. I drink. We argue. A months later I find out she likes heroin. The bitch was shooting up through a vein behind her knee, so I never saw the tracks.  I'm arrested for assault and spend 30 days inside before they let me out yesterday morning. I spent the whole day boozing slow at Reef Road, watching the surf videos, and just trying to remember it all. The dawn patrols, the evening sessions, everything. They got a picture in there with me and Eddie on the wall, when we were real little. Eddie's smile kinda gets me all soft inside. Son of a bitch, I say to myself and wipe a tear. I keep watching the damn video's, perfect wave after perfect wave, the pro's horsing around.

           I finish my drink and leave before the place gets too crowded. I'm not too popular anymore. My time came and went a while ago. Picking up a fifth of Jim Beam on the walk home, I drink myself into oblivion.  

                                                            *             *             * 

            "Hello?! Hello?!? Who the fuck is this?! Hello?!?"

            No one answers.

            "Who's there? Answer me!! What the fuck do you want?"

            I can hear the waves crashing, as if the phone was a seashell.              Shhhhhhh, Crooooooshhhhhhh, Shhhhhh. I hear a seagull screech, and I start to lose it. Someone is fucking with me bigtime.

            "Answer me dammit! Who's there?! "

            I'm crying now, sobbing into the phone like a child.

            "Don't fuck with me like this...don't you do it, you son of a bitch. Answer me!!!"

             When the dial tone clicks to a busy signal, I'm wiping the tears off my face, sniffling in dark, trying to breathe. The silence seems loud to me, but it's early. Dawn patrol early.