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"Surf
Heaven"
chapter
4
by matt johnson
“Jaybird,” I called.
I
was stoked to see Jay Moriarity, my old neighbor from 36th Avenue. I watched
him grow from a wide-eyed grom into one of the surfing world’s most fearless
big wave riders. Despite the fame that became rightfully his, he remained
humble and infinitely loyal to his friends at The Point.
One
of my favorite memories of Jay occurred at second peak on a junky two-to-three
foot day. I took off on a wind-chopped, waist-high wave, hit a patch of
kelp, and struggled to keep my feet. I looked like a first-class kook.
Jay watched from the shoulder and hooted loudly, as if I’d pulled off
one of the greatest hot dog moves of all time. He was sincerely excited
about my hapless ride. But that was Jay. He made everyone around him feel
important and special. Most importantly, he knew that surfing wasn’t about
money or fame or endorsements. It was about having fun with your friends,
even in dreadful conditions.
“Jaybird,”
I called out again.
Jay
didn’t answer. He was sitting in the lineup laughing animatedly with Jeff
Plucy. I figured they were distracted by the good-natured conversation
and didn’t notice me.
“They
can’t hear you. Or see you for that matter,” Dora said.
“What
do you mean they can’t hear me or see me? Why not?”
“Because
you don’t believe,” Dora said.
“What
are you talking about? Believe in what?”
“That’s
your problem, Johnson,” he said. “You never believed in anything. You
still don’t believe in anything.”
I
was surprised at the comment, but knew he was right. Over the years I’ve
grown increasingly cynical and skeptical. My mistrust of people and institutions
starts at the top with politicians, like George Bush and Donald Rumsfeld,
who snookered us into an unnecessary war in Iraq. Organized religion seems
to be a haven for pedophiles from San Francisco to Boston. Businesses
like Enron, Worldcom, and Tyco employ crooked executives who become wealthy
off hardworking men and women. Even America’s happy little homemaker,
Martha Stewart, appears to be a shyster. Dora had me pegged. I don’t believe
in anything because too many decision makers are liars and cheats. I only
believe in myself and a few loyal friends.
“I
was a cub scout once,” I said, grasping for anything that would make Miki
Dora think I was a believer.
Dora
ignored my comment and gestured toward the peak where a muscular Hawaiian
guy was paddling into a wave. Jeff and Jay cheered him on. He faded deep
into the pit then raced through the first bowl section at Sunset Beach.
He was momentarily swallowed up then spit down the line right toward us.
I paddled quickly to get out of his way, but he just smiled and waved
at Dora as he raced past.
“Who’s
that,” I said.
“Eddie.”
“Eddie
who?”
“You
know. Eddie would go, bro,” Dora said.
“Eddie
Aikau?” I asked
“Yeah,
Eddie Aikau.”
I
turned to watch him finish the wave and saw a distinguished, elderly looking
man sitting inside on the shoulder. He began paddling a redwood plank
that must have been 14 feet long. Obviously, he planned to take off on
Eddie Aikau. I braced myself for the fight or screaming match that would
surely ensue. Instead, Eddie eagerly waved him on.
“Go
Duke. Go Bruddah,” Eddie yelled.
“Duke?
That’s Duke Kahanamoku!” I screamed.
Dora
sniggered. “I told you. You’re in heaven, man.”
“Incredible.
I’m surfing Sunset Beach with Eddie and Duke and Jay and Jeff. The Kings
of Aloha. I can’t wait to tell everybody at the Dirt Farm about this place,”
I said.
“Some
of them already know,” Dora said.
“What
do you mean they know? How could they know? Who knows?”
“The
people at the Dirt Farm who believe, they know about this place.”
“I’m
still not sure what you’re talking about,” I said.
“I’m
talking about believing in us, remembering our souls, our spirits and
what we stand for. You already mentioned that Jay, Jeff, Duke and Eddie
are the Kings of Aloha. It’s about believing in Aloha, enjoying life and
your friends, and treating the ocean with respect. Just remember, our
spirit and presence is right here in the sea. We’ll always be here.”
“I
think of Jay and Jeff sometimes when I surf Pleasure Point,” I said.
“You
may have felt their spirit momentarily, but you never really freed your
mind and allowed yourself to believe,” Dora said. “ It’s a small risk
that will bring you big rewards.”
I
was still a bit puzzled, but Dora changed the subject.
“Johnson,
you need to catch yourself a wave,” he said.
“Hey
Miki, I’m never going to catch a wave with all these rippers in the water.”
“Yes,
you will,” he said. “Everyone knows when it’s your turn. It’s like going
to a good Jewish
delicatessen
and you’re waiting at the counter to order your corned beef and swiss
on dark rye. Everyone kind of knows who’s next in line. That’s how it
is here. We all know the rotation and who’s up for the next wave.”
“But
they can’t even see me,” I said.
“They
see me, so we’ll ride the next one together.”
As
if on cue, Jeff Plucy turned toward Miki.
“Your
wave, Dora,” he yelled.
A
six-to seven foot set wave rolled through the deep blue water on its way
toward us. I could see it was going to wall up and provide a long, zippy
ride through the inside sections. As we paddled into it Dora suddenly
stopped and looked toward me. I was closer to the peak.
“Your
wave, Johnson,” he said.
The
Con Ugly, my vessel for the day, was an excellent noserider, but not designed
for the fast, hollow bowls at Sunset Beach. It was like driving a Winnebago
through the narrow back streets of Rome. I angled the takeoff in order
to make the steep drop. Offshore wind pushed the sea spray into my face
forcing my eyes closed. I felt the downward pull of gravity as I blindly
went over the edge and hopped to my feet. There’s an unmistakable sense
of speed and power on a good Sunset Beach wave and this one had it. I
accelerated down the face, cranked a bottom turn going to my right, and
began a race with the lip. The Ugly performed admirably, staying in trim
for several heart-pounding seconds as white water roared behind me. Down
the line I could see a juicy inside section setting up. The wave began
to pitch and I instinctively crouched to duck under the lip. I knew I
was about to take a beating, but wanted to enjoy the momentary bliss of
a short tube ride. Suddenly, I was in a roaring cave, not a drop of water
out of place, just a solid green room that was simultaneously peaceful
and turbulent.
Then
the wave closed out. I got pounded onto the reef and tumbled around underwater
for what seemed like minutes. In reality, it might have been 10 seconds.
I came up coughing and gasping for air. My board was gone. Instinctively,
I started swimming toward shore without looking. Three or four strokes
into my swim I began to notice a drop in temperature. I stopped to lift
my head out of the water and noticed I was surrounded by kelp. I saw The
Ugly being washed toward the bluff and into the Dirt Farm cove alongside
O’Neill’s house. I was back at Pleasure Point. Several people were at
the Dirt Farm. EJ was there with Ronnie and Yogi and Pete and Funky. I
swam into the cove. They smiled at me, but said nothing. They knew where
I had been.
“I
wanted to stay. I wanted to surf with Jay and Jeff one more time. I wanted
to talk to them,” I said. I was close to tears and the disappointment
overwhelmed me.
“Check
it out,” Ronnie said pointing toward the kelp bed.
I
turned to see a pair of dorsal fins break the surface. They swam past
the memorial buoy in unison and jumped into the air. Their faces were
clearly discernible and wore that happy, almost smiling look, that dolphins
always have. It was if they were saying goodbye before they disappeared
into the deep.
Then
I heard a sound coming from O’Neill’s porch. It was the same mysterious
voice that insisted Miki Dora was riding the Black Cat.
“They‘ll
always be with you. All you have to do is believe.”
THE
END
PEACE
: Joe Hession aka 'Joe Dirt'