They Inspired Me

I thought I'd jot down a few thoughts on the people who inspired me to surf. These are some of the people who kept getting me out there, even when events seemed to conspire against me. I was young(er) and (more) irresponsible at the time, but these people shaped a big part of my life. Because I still surf.

RG is a life-long waterman. He has worked on boats on Georges Bank, and surfs big, way overhead Monahan's when most people won't even think about paddling out. When I moved back to New England, he told me about the breaks and instilled respect for the local spots. I was a clueless kook, and he taught me ding repair and told me the history of surfing in Rhode Island. One of the many things I remember him saying, and I remember a lot of things, after I asked if he ever goes up to Cape Cod or Gloucester or Maine to surf, is: "No. I just let the waves come to me." And it was said without a hint of arrogance because that's the kind of person he is. He stays put and surfs what Rhode Island provides. Thanks, RG. I owe you.

I also met K in Rhode Island. He lived in his ultra-modified truck, which is much more refined than it might sound. He did contracting work when he wasn't in the water. I was amazed the first time I looked inside the back of the truck. The sides were carpeted in close-cropped industrial gray, and the floor was that rubber material with raised circles. Storage compartments lined the walls, and he even had a makeshift shower, a sprinkling nozzle fed by a water tank on the roof. This wasn't a mini-van, mind you, it was a Dodge Ram 4x4 converted into the ultimate surf-mobile. To me, it looked like a miniature version of the newlywed suite at the Bellagio Hotel, only way classier. K built and welded a cast iron rack to the side of the cap to carry his trials mountain bike, which he rode in Arcadia and "Viet Nam," two of the premier local mountain bike spots. He led the life and further imbued me with what surfing in Rhode Island year-round is all about. Thank you K, I couldn't have done it without you.

The other person I have to mention is AP. I met him through a local surfing email list, and even though we only see each other a couple of time per year now that I moved away from Mass., I consider him one of my best friends. He has surfed Cape Hatteras, NoCal, SoCal, New Jersey, Maine, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, New Hampshire, Martha's Vineyard, Nantucket, Block Island, and the Carribean. He calls New England home because he likes it better than anywhere else. He encourages people to get into the water, and created a group with the intention of providing a positive congregating place for sufers. I must say, he gets shit for being "socially correct" but that's just the Surfing Mag and Transworld Surf readers talking. He rips on a skateboard, snowboard and, in the water, a shortboard, fish or longboard. "Socially correct" my ass! ;) Thanks, AP, for all your help.

C. was a "cheesehead" from Wisconsin. After he'd been living in San Francisco for about eight years, surfing mostly Ocean Beach and the Santa Barbara area where his buddies lived, he happened to move into a Victorian flat on the Panhandle in San Francisco. That's where I had moved a few months before from Massachusetts. C. had learned to handle the heaviness of Ocean Beach pretty well over his years there. Although he had a ingenious way with words and a sharp wit, he made money by throwing cinder blocks and railroad ties around. He came home with 100 dollars in his pocket every night, and we'd smoke a portion of his earnings almost daily. He had a big, sturdy retriever named Calvin who would jump through the breaking waves at Baker Beach, fearless, after a soggy tennis ball, scaring the ducks out of the water. Within a month, C. had me paddling out in very small (waist-high) Ocean Beach whitewater. He taught me how to paddle and to ride my first wave. He has since moved back to Wisconsin, began working on an organic bean sprout farm, and I am now in Rhode Island. We've lost contact but I still have the small shark's tooth he gave me when we parted company. I still think of him.

D. was also from Massachusetts. He worked in the seedy little board shop at the end of Taraval. I met him by chance when I replied to his "for sale" sign, advertising a very hot mountainbike, pinned crudely to the wall of the Horseshoe Cafe on Lower Haight St., near my second apartment in SF. He ended up letting me borrow the bike to see if I liked it, and it ripped. I paid him in two installments and still own the old soulful bike. It still rips. D. snowboarded with pros in his spare time and surfed OB off Taraval during work breaks from the shop. He used to annoy the neighbors in Lower Haight by shooting fireworks off in his backyard at 2am, after drinking a 12-pack. He hated SF and couldn't wait to get back to New England. When he left, since he never got a paycheck, he took his payment for his toils in the shop in snowboards, loaded up his lime-green 1972 Dodge charger, and made a beeline for Boston.

E., originally from Colorado, split his time between spinning and mixing trance, trip-hop, and dub; working at the Rainbow Grocery, the uber organic healthfood store in the Mission District; and carving big glassy Ocean Beach waves on his 7'6" Spyder. He loaned me boards and gave me rides to the beach after I moved back to SF from temporary exile in NYC. He wasn't hard to spot in the line-up because he was usually the only black guy out there, with short dreads. He had an old friend who's family owned land in Costa Rica and he said I could come down any time and stay as long as I want. He is a true water brother. He called me after I'd moved back to Massachusetts, inviting me down to CR, but I was in a bind at the time and couldn't make it. I hope I find him again, not just because I have a free place to stay in CR, but because he really helped me out in a time of need. I needed to get in the water.

M. drove a brown 1968 Dodge Dart Swinger. He grew up in Carmel, was about my age, and now lived at Pacheco (?) and Great Highway, right on Ocean Beach. I met him after seeing his ad seeking a roomate in his little shack-like apartment down in the fog. I ended up moving to a Victorian flat on Page St., but we kept in touch. I was temporarily without a car and he drove me down to Rockaway a few times. I remember once after we pulled up and got out of the car to change, he opened the trunk of the old Dart, pulled out the sandiest, smelliest, dirtiest wetsuit I'd ever seen and said, "I'm not big on hygiene." He was a far better surfer than I was (I was still learning), and he pushed me out into waves a little beyond my ability, and for that I thank him. He moved to Czechoslavakia, drank good cheap beer, and got a job as a salesman for an English tutorial company aimed at international businessmen. I got a note from him once a few years ago, but we've since lost contact.

Last but not least, S., who became my girlfriend when I lived on Page St., and who used to paint in the wink of an eye abstact designs on almost anything in sight. Just before she moved to Germany, she painted one of her mini-masterpieces, about 6-inches square, on the bottom of my surfboard. Embedded in the yellow and green squiggles and patterns was the word "Tschuss," German for goodbye. She's back in SF, and we're still in sporadic contact, thankfully.

These are the people who originally got me to surf, or who kept me surfing. Now there are others and I'm equally grateful and inspired by them all. Surfing is not just the waves you ride and the places you go, it's the people you meet and who become your friends and help you get and stay in the water.

I'm still learning, and I'll always remember them.

copyright © John S. Webster 2001

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