Kem Nunn - Tapping the Source

The wave held him down for a long time, and when he finally did resurface, still caught in the white water, moving north and toward the beach, he’d managed to lose most of his enthusiasm for this particular swell. He was back on the beach, seated on the nose of his board, when he caught sight of Hound Adams walking toward him out of the water. Hound was dressed in a pair of blue trunks and the dark vest Ike had never seen him surf without.

Hound put his board down next to Ike’s and sat with him. “Chew you up and spit you out?” he asked.

“I guess.”

“You started out on the wrong side of the pier, brah. Let’s rest a minute, then we’ll go out together. I’ll show you the way.”

Ike came close to refusing the invitation, but it was a little like having Preston waiting for him after that first wave at the ranch. At last they stood and Ike followed Hound back to the water’s edge. “It’s a state of mind,” Hound told him as the white water reached their feet. “These waves demand a certain commitment. Once you’ve picked a wave, don’t let yourself think about anything else, don’t doubt what you can do. Paddle as hard and fast as you can. You’ll get into the wave faster and with more control. Don’t hold back. Be part of it. Understand?”

Ike nodded and followed Hound into the water. The sun was just coming up behind them now, charging the sky with a fine yellow light that seemed to hang above the sand in a golden mist. Above the water, tiny rainbows appeared in the spray blown back from the lips of the waves, and beneath the pier there was an incredible play of light and shadow, a seemingly infinite progression of blues and greens shot through with the rays of the sun.

It was easier getting out this time. Ike stuck in Hound’s tracks. They stayed on the north side of the pier—maybe ten yards out, their boards angled toward it at forty-five degrees—and soon Ike was back outside, moving with the rest of the pack, no longer a part of the crowd on the pier, but among the dancers.

Ever since that first day, when the other surfer had punched him, Ike had followed Preston’s advice and avoided the pier. But he had stood on it and watched the others often enough. Things were hectic and competitive among the crowds below the pier, surfers always moving, jockeying for position, shouting. And now he was with them, trying to stay on the outside edge so as not to get caught inside. He was able to spot a number of surfers he recognized, Frank Baker and one of the Samoans among them.

Along with the crowded conditions at the pier, however, there was a certain pecking order. He had noticed it before: there might be forty people in the water, but you would still see the same dozen picking up the best waves. Part of that had to do with judgment and skill; part of it had to do with intimidation. And one of the things Ike noticed that morning was that even though there were other younger surfers who were just as good, no one got any more waves than Hound Adams.

But for Ike it was a tough session, a morning of freight-train lefts, of clawing over the top into waves that only closed out and snuffed him. Perhaps it was, like Hound said, a state of mind. It was also hard work and so Ike did not give it much thought when, at one point, he noticed the spot of brightness, which he identified as sunlight on chrome, moving along the highway. And later, as the spot grew and contracted so that it was possible to see that it was not one large object but a number of smaller ones, he was not watching at all; nor did he see them make the turn off the highway and into the lot beneath the pier. It was not, in fact, until Hound had officially called it a morning and Ike was following him back through the sand that he noticed the bikes, and in particular the low-slung Panhead he recognized as belonging to Morris.

Hound and one of the Jacobs brothers were a few steps ahead of Ike as they came out of the sand and into the lot, the point at which Ike identified the bike. It was a bad moment, and Ike was aware of a sinking sensation spreading through his tired body. He called to Hound, but even as Hound was turning to look back the bikers made their move. It was Morris and three other bikers Ike did not recognize. Ike figured they probably wanted the Samoan the worst, but he was definitely caught in the middle.

There was a brick rest room near the center of the lot and the bikers had been waiting behind it. They came around now, two from each side, and they were coming fast. Chains and wrenches appeared out of nowhere, grabbing scattered bits of sunlight. A surfboard hit the pavement with the crunching sound Fiberglas makes when it shatters. Ike thought that it was the Samoan’s board that fell, but for some reason it was hard to tell. He was trying to see everything at once, to consider all possibilities. He took a few steps backward but did not run. The strength seemed to have left his legs. It was the way he had felt earlier, in the water, clawing his way over the face of that first outside set, staring into the stone jaws of the old pier. For a moment it was hard to register exactly what was happening. There was just all this movement: a blur of grease-stained jeans and tattooed flesh, black boots digging sparks out of the pavement, sunlight on metal. And then the action seemed to arrange itself into two separate battles, one on each side of him.

It was the bikers’ play and they had called it two on one, going after Hound and Jacobs first, saving Ike for last. To Ike’s left, Hound Adams moved so quickly it was hard to see what was happening, but he seemed to have turned and his board was in the air spinning rail over rail, as if he’d flipped it at the two bikers coming toward him. One biker sidestepped the board, the other knocked it to the ground and then stumbled over it. And it seemed that just as one biker stumbled, Hound crouched and made a move to his left, as if to run. The other biker went for the move, digging bootheels into the lot, spreading arms as if to block an escape. But Hound was not trying to run. He came out of the crouch, moved a half step forward and spun around, catching the biker coming in with a vicious roundhouse kick to the head. Ike saw the biker’s jaw go slack, saw him drop to one knee, his mouth dripping blood as he stared into the pavement with a slightly puzzled expression on his face.

To Ike’s right, however, the big Samoan was in trouble. He had dropped his board and then, in an effort to set up for the biker’s charge, had brought his foot down on the rail and thrown himself off-balance. And Morris had picked up on the slip. He had caught the Samoan with his legs spread, fighting for balance, and kicked him solidly in the groin. Jacobs gasped for air, then went down hard, landing on his shoulder, and instantly the two bikers were on top of him. Someone wrapped a bicycle chain around his head and two pairs of heavy black boots went to work on his rib cage.

Ike himself stumbled backward, though no one had touched him, and banged his board into a parked car. Suddenly there were people running across the lot, fishermen, tourists, a few surfers, everyone coming to watch. Ike clung to his board as if it were going to save him, banged it again into the car. The lot was a place of fear and confusion, dozens of people running from all directions, pigeons scattering and rising like leaves on a wind. Somewhere there was a siren, the red flash of a passing Jeep. But Hound Adams was alone now, circling, kicking, trying desperately to hold three bikers at bay. There had been a moment, earlier, with one biker stumbling, one down, when Hound could have run, but he had stayed and he was now all that stood between Ike and the chromed wrench in Morris’s hand.

The bikers, however (and Ike would think of this only later), had been stupid to make their play so close to the pier, in full view of the lifeguard towers. Perhaps they had thought to make it fast, not counting on Hound Adams to slow them down. Or perhaps they had not thought at all. At any rate, there were suddenly black-and-whites skidding across the lot and helmeted cops coming out of the woodwork.