"There are enough waves out here for you too, brah!"
My friend Dean welcomes me to the lineup where he is already out and surfing solo. He surfs a stand up board and is as South Shore Hawaiian as spam musubi. He's perpetually cold here on the mainland and wears more rubber than the rest of us. Dean likes to park it way out the back and wait for set waves, island style. The waves are small and inconsistent. The sun is out and the sky a bright blue. There is no wind. It's "glassy as a cat's ass," as mi amigo Kirby would say. It’s an otherwise uneventful Sunday afternoon, with just the two of us out. It's the way I like it … two old surf dudes taking turns and talking story. There's no rush, no need for a game face. Plenty of time to swap as many stories as waves.
Dean talks story about his old surfing and fishing haunts from growing up on Oahu. Soon, the subject of old junker surf cars comes around. I tell Dean about "Old Blue,” a 1965 Ford Falcon that I bought for 300 bucks in the late '80s. A car that was more function than show. A vehicle able to get me to surf breaks within a twenty five-mile radius without too much worry. In other words, the perfect beater.
Years ago, on my way back from windsurfing Waddell Creek, Old Blue was running hot, to put it mildly. In actuality, my beloved Falcon is running really, really hot. Water is leaking from God-knows-where and she's starting to steam. I have a gallon milk jug filled with water riding shotgun for this very purpose. The temperature gauge is pegged on “H” for most of my trip home back down the coast. "H" means hotter than hell. The “steam" that I see coming from under the hood is not steam at all; it's smoke.
At the edge of town, I veer sharply into the old County Bank parking lot for a pit stop. Dark smoke is streaming out from under the hood like an overworked Weber grill on the Fourth of July. Bright orange flames flare up as soon as I pop the hood. Yikes! I slam the hood back down. My thoughts are racing as fast as the flames. The car? It’s a 300 dollar POS … I don’t care about the car. But I do care about all the new windsurf gear inside of my piece of shit, and the two brand new boards on top of it. My first move is to untie the boards and chuck them into a nearby rosemary bush. Next into the foliage are three sails, two masts, booms, a gear bag, and a wet wetsuit.
My actions haven’t gone unnoticed. A small crowd of tellers and bank patrons have been filing out to watch the commotion. They act like they’ve never seen a frantic idiot heaving sports equipment from a burning car before. A nice lady from the bank yells out that the fire department has been called. Within minutes I hear sirens wailing.
A bright-red fire truck roars into the parking lot and stops next to my fire-pit of a car. Firemen jump from the truck and spring into action. One firefighter lifts the hood while another sprays the flames with white fire retardant. A still flaming air filter is pulled from under my hood. It dies on the pavement with an audible hiss. Next, the battery cables are disconnected. The fire is officially out. Only the mess remains.
I then have to sign some papers. The fire department leaves. The nice lady from the bank says, ‘come inside and wait for your ride’. I call a friend. No answer. Fifteen minutes later, I try again. Still no answer. I wander back out to the parking lot to survey the damage. The entire front half of my car is coated with black oily soot mixed with white foam. The windshield is completely smoked out with grease and black gunk. There’s not as much damage to the engine compartment as I expected. Other than the foam residue, and a strong smell of burning rubber, it doesn’t seem too bad. But, this being my first car fire, what do I know?
On a whim, I reconnect the battery cables and slide inside. I insert the key and...varrooom. Old Blue roars back to life! Motor running, I repack all my kit and caboodle from the bushes. With a sandy beach towel, I wipe a clean spot on the windshield big enough to see through. With one final wave to the astonished onlookers, I'm back on the road, driving home like nobody's business.
My long story is a testament to how inconsistent the waves are on this glassy afternoon. I’m able to get through the entire narrative before Dean takes off on a good one and surfs it all the way to the beach, Hawaiian style. The next wave is coming right to me. I can’t help but smile as I drop in. We’re just groovin’ ... Groovin’ on a Sunday afternoon.
