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dirt farm surf and skate |
"Surf
Heaven"
chapter
2
by
matt johnson
Ronnie's
reply startled me. He appeared to be serious.“What
do you mean it’s Jeff?” I asked.
I’ll
admit the surfboard being ridden looked like it belonged to Jeff Plucy.
The orange board with the missile airbrushed on the bottom was a familiar
sight at the Dirt Farm. It signified Jeff Plucy like number 16 identified
Joe Montana. Jeff rode it in overhead days and on little ankle snappers.
It was his calling card. But, of course, the man gliding past us at 38th
couldn’t be Jeff Plucy anymore than the man riding the Black Cat was Miki
Dora. It was impossible. I figured Ronnie must have been sipping on something
a little heavier than Coors Light.
“There’s
one more guy out in the kelp bed,” I said as I watched the largest set
wave of the day rumble through second peak. “It looks like he’s positioning
himself further outside. Is he going to be alright?”
I
turned to E.J. and saw he had an ear-to-ear grin. “It’s Jay,” he said
matter-of-factly. “He’s been waiting for this one.”
My
heart skipped a beat and I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach.
I began sucking for air. I thought my friends had gone mad. Miki Dora,
then Jeff Plucy, and now Jay Moriarity taking off on three successive
waves at the Dirt Farm. It was too much. My senses were taking a beating.
“Freshies
all around,” Ronnie said with his signature laugh.
I
grabbed a Coors Light from him. I certainly needed one. Then I handed
one to Barty Boot, who was tending to the dwindling fire.
“That’s
bloody awesome. Thanks, mate.” Bart popped it and downed it in one gulp.
I looked at him in astonishment.
“Bart,
why are you drinking so fast?” I asked.
“I’ve
been drinking like this ever since the accident.”
“What
accident?”
Bart
pointed at my feet. “That one. You kicked over my last beer.”
I
hadn’t noticed “the accident” because darkness had settled quickly on
Monterey Bay. It was becoming difficult to see the remaining surfers in
the water.
“Loose
board!!” Bart yelled.
Just
then I saw the Greg Noll model Da Cat being pushed by a wall of whitewater
toward the rocks separating the 38th Avenue cove from the Hook. I jumped
from the bluff and sprinted down the beach in an effort to save the board
from being demolished. I wasn’t going to let a Greg Noll classic get destroyed
on my watch. The tide was low, providing about 10 yards of sandy beach
between the sea and the cliffs. But the larger set waves that were passing
through the point guaranteed that the board would be washed into the craggy
outcrop and busted to smithereens.I
sprinted 50 yards, passed the drainpipe, and looked seaward. There was
no sign of the board. But then I had three strikes against me. It was
a moonless night, the board was black, and I wasn‘t wearing my glasses.
There was little chance I would see it unless it washed up at my feet.
I searched for a surfer
swimming
toward shore. No luck.'
“Miki,”
I yelled, then immediately felt like a fool.
Miki
Dora wasn’t riding that board. He couldn’t be. He was dead. Ronnie and
EJ and the voice from O’Neill’s porch had tricked me. I yelled back toward
the bluff thinking they would have a better view of the ocean.
“Bart.EJ.
Can any of you see that board?”
No
one answered. I scampered over the rocks at 41st to get a look at The
Hook. I couldn’t see a surfboard or anyone in the ocean. I searched the
beach between 41st and 38th for what seemed like a long period of time.
Again, I called out to Bart, Ronnie and EJ for help. If they answered
I didn’t hear them.
I
gave up and walked back to the Dirt Farm. Everyone was gone. Embers were
still glowing in the fire. I figured the boys went on another beer run,
so I sat by the fading red coals and enjoyed the solitude. I was glad
to be alone. I began to think the entire incident was a case of mistaken
identity.
It
felt good to relax, something I’d found hard to do since the death of
several friends in tragic accidents. Their deaths made me aware of the
fragility of life. I didn’t want to experience such despair and helplessness
again. As a result, I often felt a gnawing inner turmoil and anxiousness
and I had difficulty cultivating meaningful relationships. I didn’t want
to get too close to someone and suffer another heartbreaking loss.
There
was only one thing I could count on to provide refuge from the pain and
anguish, and that was the ocean. The roar of the surf, the cold mist hitting
my face, the intoxicating smell of the salty, sea air all supplied instant
relief. It was a balm, medication for the soul.
The
Dirt Farm was my safe haven. It was always there for me.The
solemnity and infinite calm provided by the sea caused me to lose track
of time. I wasn’t sure if I waited for ten minutes or two hours. At some
point I decided it was time to go home. I walked the two blocks down 36th
Avenue to my house.
Laying
on my front lawn was Miki Dora’s Black Cat.