Kem Nunn - Tapping the Source

The rider sped down the face, drove off the bottom in a powerful turn that sent water spraying in a wide arc from the tail of his board. He drove back up into the face, was nearly covered by a rapidly peeling section. Then he was out of the tunnel, high on the lip, working his board in small rapid turns, racing the wave toward the pier. And then it was over, he had driven through the lip at the last second, just before it met the piling. For a moment Ike lost him in the spray and then he saw him again, flat on his board, paddling hard for the horizon.

By the time the sun had burnt its way through the overcast, there were maybe another half-dozen surfers in the water. They made it outside by staying on the north side of the pier, using the pilings to help shield them from the swell that was moving in from the south. Still, it was risky and Ike saw more than one surfer turned back, more than one board broken on the pilings.

Though few went into the water, many came to watch, and soon the railings were lined with a noisy cheering crowd. The people hooted and cheered for rides. Ike soon found himself cheering along with them. There were cameras set up along the pier now too, a dozen of them, some manned by crews in matching T-shirts that advertised various surf shops and board manufacturers. There were more cameras on the beach, and more spectators, more yellow Jeeps, so that by late morning a kind of circus atmosphere had taken over that strip of the town which huddled about the pier and lined the white strip of sand.

Ike saw the blond-haired surfer, the same he’d seen get the first wave, time and again getting spectacular rides, which drew cheers from the crowd. He had been watching for perhaps an hour when a familiar voice took his attention away from the surf. He turned and found Preston behind him. He was wearing that grimy tank top and the old red bandanna. He looked out of place among the camera crews and surfers who lined the pier. It was a crowd of sun-streaked hair and clean limbs. Preston, with his huge tattooed arms and square upper body, looked more like an extension of the machine gleaming between his legs. The aviator shades were flashing in the sunlight, so that Ike couldn’t see his eyes, but his mouth was bent into a large shit-eating grin, as if there was some joke in progress of which Ike was not aware, of which, perhaps, he was the butt. “Thought I told you to leave town,” Preston said. Ike felt himself grinning back, not sure about what to say, but glad that Preston had shown up. He supposed that since he’d come to Huntington Beach, Preston was the closest thing to a friend he had. Preston knew why he had come, and that created a link between them, at least in Ike’s mind.

“It’s big,” Ike said.

Preston just looked past him at the waves. “First south of the season,” he said. “Takes a day like this to get a wave to yourself anymore; the punks can’t get out.”

“You ever seen it this big before?”

“Sure. Bigger. I’ve surfed it bigger. But it’s a good swell.” Ike was suddenly aware of another sound rising now above the din of the crowd and the thunder of the surf. The tower had apparently spotted Preston and the mechanical voice had begun to whine. “No motorcycles allowed on the pier,” the voice said. “Please turn your bike around and walk it off the pier.” Preston leaned out into the boardwalk and extended his middle finger toward the tower. The voice went on in its tinny fashion: “Please turn your bike around and walk it off the pier.”

Preston just shook his head and began to turn the machine around. The spectators nearest them turned to stare but made sure Preston had plenty of room for the maneuver. “Voice of reason,” Preston said. “I think there’s been one guy in there for about twenty years. It’s always sounded like the same voice to me.”

Ike looked up at the tinted windows high above the boardwalk. He decided to start back himself and get some breakfast. Still, it was difficult to tear himself away from the railing and he turned back once more toward the ocean—in time to see the surfer he’d been watching get still one more wave. The guy was easy to spot. He was tall and blond and while most of the others wore full wet suits, he wore only a swimsuit and a vest. “That one guy’s really good,” Ike said, pointing him out to Preston.

“Your hero, huh?” Preston asked, and the grin had given way to a slightly crooked smile. A moment passed while Ike looked out to sea then back at Preston. “Just don’t go getting too sweet on him,” Preston said. “He’s your man. And that other guy”—he waved toward a dark figure in a full black wet suit with what looked to be red stripes down the sides, sitting farther to the south and way outside—“there’s another one for you. Terry Jacobs. He’s a Samoan, usually the biggest dude out there.” Preston thumped at the pier with his heavy boots and began to walk the bike away, back down the center of the boardwalk, the people spreading to let him pass.

Ike went after him. Preston didn’t say anything else; he just kept walking the bike through the crowd. When he had gotten down next to the tower he pulled himself up and came down on the stick. The engine didn’t catch and he hauled himself up once more. Ike reached out and grabbed his arm. He grabbed him right on the biceps, on top of that coiled serpent, and it was like grabbing hold of a large pipe. Preston let himself back down and looked at his arm, at Ike’s hand. He did it real slow and Ike released his grip. He stared into Preston’s shades. “Wait a minute,” he said. “You can’t let it go at that.”

Preston just looked at him. “I can’t?”

Ike hesitated. “Well, what about them?” he asked at last.

“What do you mean, what about them? That’s them, ace. Two of them, anyway. What do you want me to do, swim out there and have a word with them?” Preston kicked hard and the big engine jumped to life. Just above them the speakers had begun another order—something about walking the bike off the pier, but the voice was lost in the roar of the engine. A cloud of pale smoke hung in the air and Ike stood in the midst of it, watching Preston.

“Look,” Preston yelled at him. “Let’s get something straight. I’ve been thinking about what you told me. You let me think about it some more. In the meantime, do like I told you, keep your story to yourself. If I come up with anything I think you ought to know, I’ll tell you. But remember something. This is not your scene. Can you dig that? You don’t know what the fuck goes on around here. And one more thing. Don’t ever come runnin’ up and grabbin’ at me like that. I might pinch your fucking head off.” With that he popped the big bike’s clutch and was off, right down the middle of the boardwalk with pipes blasting and chrome bars burning and people scattering in front of him like leaves in a wind.

The swell ran through the rest of the week. Each day, however, the sea grew a bit calmer. And as the spectators on the pier went back to the beach and the circus atmosphere began to dissipate, the number of surfers entering the water grew. By the end of the week the waves were down to a consistent and well-shaped six feet and more crowded than Ike had yet seen them. Fistfights were not that uncommon, both in the water and out. Ike went to watch. At first it had been too big for him, and now that he had at last put faces to two of the names on the scrap of paper, he wanted to get a better look. If his surfing had been further along, he might have ventured out near the pier; as it was, he stood on it, watching from above.

The two men Preston had pointed out to him were there each morning: Hound Adams and Terry Jacobs. Hound Adams was tall, lean but well built. And Preston had been right about the Samoan; he was always, it appeared, the biggest dude out there—maybe just a bit shorter than Hound, but with a chest like a refrigerator. They were both excellent surfers, particularly Hound Adams. Terry seemed to surf effortlessly enough, but with none of Hound’s fluid brilliance. His was not a dance with the ocean but a contest of strengths. He could drive through incredible sections of breaking waves, like a fullback pounding through a line, looking simply too heavy and too well planted to be knocked from his board. He was awesome on the beach as well, wearing his hair in a great puffball of an Afro that bounced as he walked.