Origins - A guy named Tim
Tim walked into my life in the summer of 1995. At a glance, he was the bronzed beach icon that advertises the surf lifestyle to the world. Tim's hair was brown, with a light red tint, neatly cropped short to give him a well groomed look even with wet hair. His face was square with rigid, comic book features and tough lines at the chin and nose.
I was on the sand with friends at Sunset Beach, just north Bolsa Chica state beach. It was a late morning. The sun was out in full force. the wind was just beginning to pick up out of the southwest when he approached, recognizing some of the friends I was with. Tim stood bare chested and bronze, with finely tuned chest and arm muscles, an abdomen just short of a six pack, and legs that could run for miles. A single tattoo, evidence of service in the Marines, adorned his left arm. He carried a shortboard in the style of the day - short, sharp, and thin, with three glassed-in fins.
I had just moved to Orange County from Pomona, having finished my degree, and was living in Garden Grove. Tim had just moved to Orange County from San Luis Obispo.
Most importantly, he had an extra board.
Tim's extra board, as it turned out, was a wafer thin shortboard, less than 4 inches taller than myself. I stand 6 foot, 2 inches. The board was 6 foot 6 inches. Sitting on it, only my chest and head floated above the water. Paddling into a wave, the board would stay submerged until the wave was breaking, giving me no time at all to get to my feet and out in front of the whitewater.
Tim taught me some of the lessons of surfing. "Don't bother standing between the wave and the shore, thinking that you can stop it." He said. "The wave is going to get there, no matter what. You either need to work with it, or get out of the way."
He told me to watch the other guys in the water. "Look at where they lay on their board. How much of their nose is out of the water when they paddle. Watch when they stand up and how they do it."
When Tim wasn't around, I practiced standing up on dry land. I put markers on the floor of my living room and practiced going from prone to feet in one motion. "Don't stop halfway at your knees." Tim told me. "That's for kooks on longboards."
Unfortunately for my progress, Tim didn't hold a high opinion of longboards. "Don't learn on a longboard." He told me. "IF you learn on a shortboard, you can buy a longboard later and it'll be easy. But, if you learn on a longboard, you can't just get a shortboard. You won't be able to ride it."
I've since realized that this was very bad advice, though I stuck to it for many years.
After a month, I bought a used surfboard from a street vender in a camper on Beach Blvd. The board was 7 ft 2 inches, shaped like a cartoon rocket ship with a giant single fin. At the front, it beast was a full four inches thick, making it nearly impossible to pearl. I could fall backwards or sideways on every wave, but never forward. The "Sunset" board was my board for the next year.
Tim was a decent surfer. He caught his share of waves and rode clean, fast lines with swooping bottom turns and not too much else.
Unfortunately, in his life away from the beach, Tim was less successful than he was in the water. He had one daughter and a pregnant wife when I met him. His son was born at the end of the summer of 1995. Tim worked for his father, selling insurance from an office in Covina.
Tim consistently reported having anal sex with the office secretary during the workday. He was also violent with his wife. One of the walls of their apartment was decorated with a giant hole from Tim's fist. Tim had a saddening history of drug and alcohol abuse, the escapades of which nearly always involved sexually deviant behavior. More than once, I stopped Tim short of finishing his stories.
"Do you know what she did after that?." He asked.
"No, dude... and I don't want to."
Tim's wife was a sweet girl, who was ultimately too smart to stay with him, and took the kids to live in Fallbrook while Tim tried to find a new way of life. He'd stopped working for his father ("I quit that dumb job") and was living with some mutual friends who quickly learned to hate him and kicked him out.
About a year after I met Tim, he dropped by my house on the verge of a divorce. His life was in shambles. He was drinking heavily and spending his nights in a motel near the 22 freeway. His mother had offered him a cabin in Idlywild to move the family into, in the hopes that the isolated environment would do them good. Tim planned to work construction during the week in San Diego, coming home to the secluded mountain town each night to "be with his wife and his kids".
I bought both of Tim's surfboards, his wetsuit, and his wedding china for $200. "In the meantime...If any of her lawyers call..." he said, issuing instructions for how I should reply to any inquiry.
Tim's son, wherever he may be today, bears the middle name of "Spyder". He was named after Tim's 6'6" thruster by the Redondo Beach company of the same name. The Spyder board was one of the boards I bought.
On a big day of hurricane surf, I took the Spider to at the Newport Jetties, to try my hand a big wave surfing. The board was incredibly fast, and I took off on a screaming left that holds the place in my memory as the largest wave I have ever ridden. I normally defer from approximating the size of this wave, as I once read that all seafaring men have a natural tendency to exaggerate wave height. But, as I now recall, it was at least 40 or feet tall. Adrenaline pumping from the ride, I turned to paddle back out. I made it three quarters of the way to the line up when a set came.
Gasping, I paddled over the first monstrous wall of water. Ignoring fatigue, I picked up the pace of my paddle. A giant loomed over me, the steep glaring at me. I pushed the front of the board in to duck dive through the wave, and immediately realized that I was too late. The swelling water pulled my legs up to the crest of the wave, dragging my torso behind. I let go the board and took the plunge without even a preparatory intake of air.
The wave threw me into the airless and timeless abyss and battered me around for what always felt like an eternity. The leash told me he was thinking about pulling my leg from it's socket. My open eyes watched the whirl of black water and dark sand, hoping for a clue of light to show me the surface. Up and down lost all meaning. When I finally surface, the leash had sliced it's way through the tail of the surfboard, cutting a line up to the center fin.
The board sits in my garage to this day. The tail is hopelessly damaged. I have attempted multiple repairs on occasions when the mood strikes me. But, none have produced success.
I saw Tim briefly about five years later. While we only spoke for a few moments, Tim looked healthy and reported that he was working in a bicycle shop in Long Beach.
"I need to get that board back from you one of these days." He said. "I'll buy it back. You know, my son is named after that board."
"I know." I told him.
I never heard from Tim again.
More Later
-Travis
copyright 2004 Travis R. English
I was on the sand with friends at Sunset Beach, just north Bolsa Chica state beach. It was a late morning. The sun was out in full force. the wind was just beginning to pick up out of the southwest when he approached, recognizing some of the friends I was with. Tim stood bare chested and bronze, with finely tuned chest and arm muscles, an abdomen just short of a six pack, and legs that could run for miles. A single tattoo, evidence of service in the Marines, adorned his left arm. He carried a shortboard in the style of the day - short, sharp, and thin, with three glassed-in fins.
I had just moved to Orange County from Pomona, having finished my degree, and was living in Garden Grove. Tim had just moved to Orange County from San Luis Obispo.
Most importantly, he had an extra board.
Tim's extra board, as it turned out, was a wafer thin shortboard, less than 4 inches taller than myself. I stand 6 foot, 2 inches. The board was 6 foot 6 inches. Sitting on it, only my chest and head floated above the water. Paddling into a wave, the board would stay submerged until the wave was breaking, giving me no time at all to get to my feet and out in front of the whitewater.
Tim taught me some of the lessons of surfing. "Don't bother standing between the wave and the shore, thinking that you can stop it." He said. "The wave is going to get there, no matter what. You either need to work with it, or get out of the way."
He told me to watch the other guys in the water. "Look at where they lay on their board. How much of their nose is out of the water when they paddle. Watch when they stand up and how they do it."
When Tim wasn't around, I practiced standing up on dry land. I put markers on the floor of my living room and practiced going from prone to feet in one motion. "Don't stop halfway at your knees." Tim told me. "That's for kooks on longboards."
Unfortunately for my progress, Tim didn't hold a high opinion of longboards. "Don't learn on a longboard." He told me. "IF you learn on a shortboard, you can buy a longboard later and it'll be easy. But, if you learn on a longboard, you can't just get a shortboard. You won't be able to ride it."
I've since realized that this was very bad advice, though I stuck to it for many years.
After a month, I bought a used surfboard from a street vender in a camper on Beach Blvd. The board was 7 ft 2 inches, shaped like a cartoon rocket ship with a giant single fin. At the front, it beast was a full four inches thick, making it nearly impossible to pearl. I could fall backwards or sideways on every wave, but never forward. The "Sunset" board was my board for the next year.
Tim was a decent surfer. He caught his share of waves and rode clean, fast lines with swooping bottom turns and not too much else.
Unfortunately, in his life away from the beach, Tim was less successful than he was in the water. He had one daughter and a pregnant wife when I met him. His son was born at the end of the summer of 1995. Tim worked for his father, selling insurance from an office in Covina.
Tim consistently reported having anal sex with the office secretary during the workday. He was also violent with his wife. One of the walls of their apartment was decorated with a giant hole from Tim's fist. Tim had a saddening history of drug and alcohol abuse, the escapades of which nearly always involved sexually deviant behavior. More than once, I stopped Tim short of finishing his stories.
"Do you know what she did after that?." He asked.
"No, dude... and I don't want to."
Tim's wife was a sweet girl, who was ultimately too smart to stay with him, and took the kids to live in Fallbrook while Tim tried to find a new way of life. He'd stopped working for his father ("I quit that dumb job") and was living with some mutual friends who quickly learned to hate him and kicked him out.
About a year after I met Tim, he dropped by my house on the verge of a divorce. His life was in shambles. He was drinking heavily and spending his nights in a motel near the 22 freeway. His mother had offered him a cabin in Idlywild to move the family into, in the hopes that the isolated environment would do them good. Tim planned to work construction during the week in San Diego, coming home to the secluded mountain town each night to "be with his wife and his kids".
I bought both of Tim's surfboards, his wetsuit, and his wedding china for $200. "In the meantime...If any of her lawyers call..." he said, issuing instructions for how I should reply to any inquiry.
Tim's son, wherever he may be today, bears the middle name of "Spyder". He was named after Tim's 6'6" thruster by the Redondo Beach company of the same name. The Spyder board was one of the boards I bought.
On a big day of hurricane surf, I took the Spider to at the Newport Jetties, to try my hand a big wave surfing. The board was incredibly fast, and I took off on a screaming left that holds the place in my memory as the largest wave I have ever ridden. I normally defer from approximating the size of this wave, as I once read that all seafaring men have a natural tendency to exaggerate wave height. But, as I now recall, it was at least 40 or feet tall. Adrenaline pumping from the ride, I turned to paddle back out. I made it three quarters of the way to the line up when a set came.
Gasping, I paddled over the first monstrous wall of water. Ignoring fatigue, I picked up the pace of my paddle. A giant loomed over me, the steep glaring at me. I pushed the front of the board in to duck dive through the wave, and immediately realized that I was too late. The swelling water pulled my legs up to the crest of the wave, dragging my torso behind. I let go the board and took the plunge without even a preparatory intake of air.
The wave threw me into the airless and timeless abyss and battered me around for what always felt like an eternity. The leash told me he was thinking about pulling my leg from it's socket. My open eyes watched the whirl of black water and dark sand, hoping for a clue of light to show me the surface. Up and down lost all meaning. When I finally surface, the leash had sliced it's way through the tail of the surfboard, cutting a line up to the center fin.
The board sits in my garage to this day. The tail is hopelessly damaged. I have attempted multiple repairs on occasions when the mood strikes me. But, none have produced success.
I saw Tim briefly about five years later. While we only spoke for a few moments, Tim looked healthy and reported that he was working in a bicycle shop in Long Beach.
"I need to get that board back from you one of these days." He said. "I'll buy it back. You know, my son is named after that board."
"I know." I told him.
I never heard from Tim again.
More Later
-Travis
copyright 2004 Travis R. English
posted by travinator @ 1:28 PM
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