Earl Shores is September's winner, receiving $50 in quality surf prizes (and is entered for the grand prize of a new surfboard, winner to be chosen in April 2001 ), CONGRATULATIONS EARL!!
A Quitter's Story
by Earl Shores
A comforting coffee burp blew past the toothpick clenched between my teeth, leaving the tangy hickory vapor of bacon on the back of my palate. Breakfast is taken seriously in the South, and the cholesterol-killer-over-easy-lard-biscuit-gut-buster we ingested at "Cap'n Daves" left us waddling to the car like four fat cats looking for someplace to lick their bellies.
But there was reason for celebration and indulgence - well, overindulgence if you want to get particular. We had just scored glassy early morning overhead Lighthouse, surfing ourselves silly before the crowds got too heavy. And now with our fill of waves and calories, we set off to find a relaxing way to kill a beautiful August day on the Outer Banks. The price of the morning - our jobs - was kind of steep, but the summer only had two weeks left and we had made enough money. What we wanted was time, but the supervisors at our place of employment, an Ocean City, Maryland, slave galley masquerading as a seafood restaurant, decided they couldn't afford to let us all have several days off. Their "bottom line" stance was lost on a surfing foursome two weeks overdue for a promised ten cent raise, so we rewarded ourselves with a deep-friar mutiny at 5 o'clock on Saturday night. Exiting from the restaurant like giggling school children headed for recess, we parted a line of customers that wound halfway around the block, knowing their wait had just gotten a little longer.
The unity of our uprising was remarkable, considering when the summer began, we didn't know each other - or how to surf. And without surfing, we would have never hung out together. There was Harry, the spoiled smart-ass Washington, D.C. suburbanite; John, the handsome Baltimore prep school jock; Jack, the small town good ol' boy from a famed southern military college; and me, the life-time wannabe who earlier in the summer would have sold his soul for someone to surf with. But the unforeseen power of surfing rearranged our lives, and we became like one of those "cross section of America" platoons from a cheesy "B" War movie - best buddies. Better yet, hard-core surfing buddies, and nothing else mattered. The daily lessons we received from a benevolent local (our kitchen crew chief), quickly removed us from kookdom, and smoothed our path into the universe of surfing. He also supplied fuel for our revolt with tales of almond-shaped barrels, powerful lefts, and empty lineups at the "Eastern wave-magnet," Cape Hatteras.
By August, our transformation into the exotic life form known as a surfer needed one more step - a surfari, and Hatteras was the logical choice. After rounding up some camping gear, we headed south Monday morning in a vehicle Jack borrowed from the "Take good care of the car, son," agency. The deal, unlimited mileage and just pay for fuel, was too good to pass up, even though the potential consequences were severe (lifetime guilt). Our evening arrival provided a slightly onshore but fun surf at the Lighthouse, and we indulged in rides that seemed three times as long as we were used to. That session on its own made the trip worthwhile, but our morning surpassed all expectations.
So with youthful cast-iron stomachs providing smooth digestion, we piled into the car stoked for a commemorative T-shirt search. The Fox Surf Shop proved an adequate destination, but along with T-shirt designs, board prices were the topic of conversation. At least with Harry. He was still riding a "loaner," and now was frothing at new boards priced $100 less than at Ocean City surf shops. He didn't have enough cash on the trip for such an investment, so the rest of us offered a combined loan - which made him circle the boards like a feeding shark. But the array of "prey" overwhelmed him, and he couldn't make a decision before we left to check out the dying swell. The Lighthouse was ruled out because of the crowds, so I was given scouting duties when we stopped at the One Way Road - probably because I was riding shotgun. The sand burned my feet as I hurried through a clearing in the Sea Oats, and a hot west wind blew the hood of my sweatshirt against my head when I reached the top of the dune. The empty swells fought against the offshore to become something other than shore break, but few had success, and two other surfers had already resigned themselves to catching rays on the beach. I moved quickly back down the burning dune. "Might be rideable - it's worth a try," I reported. "Whadaya mean, MIGHT be?" mocked Harry, "Is it, or isn't it?" "Come look for yourself."
The four of us made double-time up the dune, and it looked like the swell had given up. "I'll go out," volunteered John, peering out from under the brim of his Bronzed Aussie hat - which matched his board. "I'd rather be in the water than in the car." "Yeah, hell, why not. Ain't much summer left," said Jack. Harry also made a decision, "I wanna go back and get a board." "Oh, so now that it's flat you'll take our money?" I deadpanned. "Yeah - maybe we changed our minds," said John. Harry stood silently, but I couldn't keep a straight face any longer. John and Jack broke up too. "Assholes. Gimme the money," said Harry. "How you gettin' back there?" said Jack, giving an uncharacteristic late hit. "Huh? Gimme the keys then. I'll drive myself," said Harry, as he started to walk toward the car. "You think I'm gonna let you drive my car?" continued Jack, while the laughter from John and I escalated. Harry offered us a finger, and the three of us followed him to the car, where he leaned against the white vinyl roof, smirking at us for a moment before his devilish smile radiated from a three month "no sunscreen" tan. "C'mon guys, I want a board." We knew - but Harry deserved a little harassment. He spent the summer dishing it out, especially to John, who was still too naive to understand he was a preppie. This innocence made John all the more likeable, and sometimes Jack and I headed off Harry when his needle got a little too sharp. But most times, Harry found deserving targets for his caustic comments - including himself. "Get in - I'll take you," offered Jack, selfless as always, "but I want to hurry back before it gets flat." Shading his thick glasses with a thick hand, he squinted an exaggerated smile at Harry. "So everybody's a comedian today, huh?" said Harry. Jack wasn't very often, but we savored the moments he was. Harry got our extra money, and he and Jack both chortled, "Save us some waves" as the car pulled away.
John and I hot-footed it over the dune toward the water. "That was a great ride this morning - the one where you almost ran over Harry," chuckled John, stripping the T-shirt from a chiseled physique that generated dreamy-eyed gazes from the waitresses all summer long. "Oh yeah. I was lucky to get that wave to myself, the crowd was gettin' kinda heavy," I said, once again feeling like the skinny sand-in-the-face "before" kid in those stupid weightlifting ads. "We won't have to worry about that here." "Nah, and those guys seem dead to the world," I said, nodding toward the two sunbathing surfers down the beach. The warm water felt cool after a few minutes on the beach, and we paddled leisurely toward a smooth horizon defined by various blue shadings from a Crayola 64 box. As large puffy clouds drifted lazily overhead, deciding where the line-up was, if there was one, appeared to be our most difficult task. We were still paddling gently when the horizon sat up. I looked over at John. "Do you see that?" I said. "I think so - can't be, though" he answered. We kept moving, picking up the pace a little while arching up on the boards a little for a better view. "Shit, I don't believe it. Outside!" I screamed. "Whoooa - Let's go," added John. The race was on. A building set of five waves closed in, as our unprepared nervous systems shifted from third to overdrive - and our reactions sputtered accordingly. Maybe it was the extra weight from breakfast, but number five was faster than me, and the lip of a top-to-bottom wave, the likes of which I had never faced, exploded on my back. The board was gone in a flash, and after the initial take-down I went over-the-falls. When I finally surfaced, my board floated in the foamy remnants of the wave, pointing out toward the once again smooth horizon. John was nearby, struggling to mount his board through a fit of coughs. I caught his eye, and my smile quickly turned to a laugh. "Were the hell did THEY come from," he asked, now laughing too. "I don't know, but I hope they keep coming," I said. They did. For the next forty five minutes, John and I were in goofy footer heaven, taking off on one overhead almond shaped left after another. Each wave seemed the same - steep drop, make the turn, look down the line to infinity, and scream yourself hoarse while racing the pitching lip to the shoulder. The "tube" became a reality for both of us, and through burning arms, and heaving chests, we continued chasing waves that never closed out. The sets got sporadic, and our arms stopped listening to our brains, but the exhausted tongue wagging smiles on our faces said it all.
When Harry finally marched over the dune - like a triumphant hunter with his conquest - he was greeted by four frantic arms motioning him and Jack to the line-up. "Where the hell've you been? You missed it," said John. Harry thought his abuse from the morning was continuing, especially since he and Jack had yet to see a set. "Yeah, sure - we missed it. What? You guys pickin' your noses?" "No, man - you REALLY missed it. It's been great," I said, "Just you wait." Jack looked over, waiting for my face to crack, but it didn't. And my silence was too much for him. "You ain't shittin' us?" he said. I just shook my head. Some occasional sets rolled through, not as good as earlier, but good enough to give John and me credibility. I hated to pop Harry's "new board" bubble of excitement, but honestly, they had missed it. By Thursday it was flat, and we dropped John off in Nags Head where his brother had been living for the summer. That was the last time I saw him - and that was 1979. But the image of the four of us basking in the shadow of the lighthouse has come to mean one thing - the memory of a lifetime.
Thanks guys.
Earl Shores