Harbour Stokes the Stoke

First a few pictures from the recent "Harbour Surf Day", on Dec. 10, 2005 at Bolsa Chica State Beach, then a short story about my history with Harbour and the "Harbour Surf Day."

Also check out the Awefoto link to the right for Fine Art Photography, and some sweeeeet surf shots.
More shots from the day can be found here: "http://www.awefoto.com/surf/events/hsd-121005/index3.html"

And an article on the day in Orange County Register found here:
"http://www.ocregister.com/ocregister/sports/ocoutdoors/article_888678.php"
You might need to register, but it's free and a very good, short article.

Christmas in California, gotta' love it!


The next morning a big swell hit, and I saw this guy take a huge one; he's fun to watch.


Boardhound surfs then passes out the shirts he helped design with Rich Harbour.


Jeff finds a fun one.

Classic!

TDRevolver lives the dream...loving it!

Bobby J. as Surfing Santa.

Rich Harbour and friends.

Jeff finds the glide.

NReilly shares the stoke.

Small, but Sweeeeeet!

TDRevolver does the Zombie Slide.


Surfing--it'll put a smile on your face every time.


____________________________________________________________________

"Harbour Stokes the Stoke."
by TDRevolver


Dark clouds threatened to dump their load as Jeff and I turned off Seal Beach Boulevard and drove down our familiar route to Bolsa Chica State Beach early February last year. The Pacific Coast Highway was near empty as we crossed the bridge into the small town of Sunset Beach, heading for the first annual “Harbour Surf Day”.

A large white heron glided across the ghostly waters while the hull of a small boat sliced through the mist that shrouded the marsh below us. The lone fisherman braved the pre-dawn cold temperatures, trolling through the channel leading to open waters.

Reaching the highpoint of the bridge, I slowed the car for three reasons; to avoid the often-present speed trap, to pay homage to the service men as we passed the Destroyer that sat docked in the small bay, and to catch a glimpse of the morning swell. Despite a sky-line that seemed to be changing daily as classic two story beach houses sprang forth three story skeletons that exploded into completed luxury condos, we could still scout the waves via the Northern corner of beach left open near the jetty, and the waves were breaking.

“Some size out there.” Jeff said.
I nodded. “Only the core will show on a day like today.”

Moments later, as we passed Jack in the box, excitement growing as the day we’d talked about for months on the chat room grew closer, the air was let out of our sails. Orange barriers ran across PCH just past the Warner intersection. The road was closed, washed out by the rains.

“Dang’ it.” I growled as I took a right into the cul-de-sac behind Jack in the Box, and pulled to the curb. “Well, that’s going to cut down on the numbers.”

Not to be thwarted that easily, we pulled up to the exit, staring down at the jagged faded orange spikes that stuck up like talons from the black top, threatening to rip my tires to shreds.

“What do you think?” I said, turning to my co-pilot.
Jeff smiled, “I say we try it.”
***
Several years earlier, as a new surfer who had tried several boards, and had finally developed the skills to ride a face, I was wanting to learn more about surfboard design, surf history, and all that related to surf. I’d yet to subscribe to, or even read a surf magazine, and so I went to the one place where I knew I could ask my kook questions and be received with open arms…the Internet.

I soon realized that asking a question on most internet chat rooms that related to surf was like rolling around in beef and jumping into a pool of piranhas. The following months would not only teach me much about surfing the waves, but also about surfing the chat rooms.

One day, as I perused another shaper’s cyber room, I was asking about the appropriate size board for my size and weight, and whether or not I should be transitioning from my 8-foot beater board to a 10’ cruiser, 9’2 performance long board or 6’8 short board?

Many friendly and not so friendly surfers of the cyber waves put forth their input, and at one point a pleasant poster pointed out that www.Harboursurfboards.com had a great size chart, and it would be great place to start (of course this guy was reamed for even mentioning another shaper’s name on someone else’s site, and the lurking Trolls leapt from their dark holes and several pages of senseless banter ensued). Never the less, I ignored the barrage and went in search of these size charts.
What I found I could honestly say changed the course of my life as a surfer.

Rightly so the Troll had tried to protect the unnamed surf shop’s web site from competition, for once I visited Harbour’s site, I rarely stopped by another. The well laid out web pages not only were easy to use, but the information was superb. The photos of the surfboards were awesome; with front, back and profile shots of the boards. Although it would be over a year before I would own a Harbour Surfboard, I quickly had several dancing across my laptop’s screen. A yellow Simms (now known as a Diamond Tail), a Trestles Special with its aggressive ‘show me a point break’ outline, and of course, what would be my first Harbour, The Spherical Revolver, a retro style single fin.

I quickly read through all the site had to offer. The history of Harbour Surfboards, where I learned that the Seal Beach location is the oldest running surf shop in the country, that Rich Harbour worked with legends like Chew, August, Martinson. That Rich himself had been inducted into the surfer’s hall of fame. I read about tail design, rocker, outline, and shape—later I would watch videos on these very concepts, on the web site, videos of a board being shaped, and the art that it is.

All this I took in with zeal, eagerly checking the “New Arrivals” section, just to get a peak at a new board.

I began to read the message boards on the site, and I noticed, that outside of the occasional Troll that attempted—and failed—at hijacking a thread, the conversation was mature, informative, and most importantly, it stoked the stoke. Stories from surfing in Hawaii in the sixties, posts after morning sessions in England or Australia, talk of a retro board being restored, decisions on the next board to buy being discussed, theorizing on how the rise of Starbucks corresponded with the lost soul of surfing, Awe f’shore’s stellar photos and of course the general chatter about surfing.

Then I saw what truly amazed me, answers to questions by non other than Rich Harbour. Not one word answers, but well thought out, years of experience, want to help answers. He answered questions about everything from the right board for a given break to board repair.

It was through discussions with Rich on-line—as well as input from posters with the nicknames; Boardhound, Slider (Jeff), PacSlim, Bobby J, NReilly, Sunbums, 5over and Awe f’shore (to name a few)—that I came to call up Robbie at the shop and place my first order for a 7’4 Spherical Revolver with 2 plus 1 option.

One of the amazing things about this virtual world we live in, is that I had talked with Rich, become friends with countless Harbour owners, and knew more than most about Harbour History—and I’d only been in the shop one time. I first entered the shop not knowing it from any other, when I had bought my first quality (used) long board at another shop years before and the guy had not included the screw and nut for the fin, I had stopped at Harbour on the way to surf Seal, and Robbie was as nice selling me a $1 item then as he was when I bought a $800 board later.

Well, when I went in to pick up my board I wasn’t disappointed, as the web site is 1st class in the virtual world; the shop is 1st class in this dimension.

Robbie helped me that day, and was polite and informative, willing to answer all my questions. As I came to visit the shop more often, I met the owner Robert, who’s always willing to share his ideas on board design, riding style and the best board for me. It is always a pleasure to stop by the shop. The same thing that drew me to the Harbour web site and kept me there, was what appealed to me at the shop, they treated you like family.

A prime example of this is the occasional “Classic Film Night” that Rich has hosted over the years; Robert, Robbie and staff lay-out the goodies, Rich answers questions, and we watch original footage shot by Rich from the golden era of surfing.

Now the Harbour shop is a regular part of my routine, I surf some waves, grab the best burrito I’ve ever tasted at Nicks, stop by Harbour and say hi; gazing at boards I hope to own soon. Bottom line, when you go by the shop, the stoke gets stoked.

So there I was, my first day on my new board, appreciating what great craftsmanship means to riding a wave, getting the best rides of my life on my new Spherical Revolver with canary deck and one-drop grey rails, and I see a guy on the shore raise his hand to say hi. After a few more rides I decided to catch one in to see who watched from the beach, camera in hand.

It was an inconsistent day, with occasional peaks rising up here and there, and a small off shore breeze to keep them high. One such peak rose up just South of me, I paddled for it, the wide outline of the SR allowing me to cover the ground easily, turning into the wave, that same outline gave me the early entry I needed at that stage of my surf life—and still do on bigger days.

Dropping in, the wide rounded pin drew a perfect arc for a nice left down the face of the wave. Being a goofy-foot, I was able to caress the glass with my left hand. The flattened out bottom and hard rails at the tail gave me the speed I needed to race down the face. Tucking low, and enjoying the chest high face that rose before me, I laughed, this board rocked! Just as the wave broke, I drove the board into the surf, ricocheting of the break and letting the wave propel the surprisingly agile SR out of the closeout, gliding to the safety in front of the pounding surf.
I rode the wash in, a fist in the air that was matched by the man on shore.

As I walked up the sandy beach smiling, my buddy who I now know as Ron (Awe F’shore), who I probably would have never met outside of the Harbour Web Site, said, “Nice ride. How ya’ doing man?” Ron had shown up to snap a few shots of me on the SR because I’d been talking it up on the message boards.

Now when I say snap a few shots, I mean create art (of course when I’m the subject, the only art you’ll find is in lighting, composer, etc.) Ron is now a professional photographer, and his photos are Awe-inspiring. His photo accompanies this story and you can view his work at www.awefshorephotography.com.

I always look forward to a beer with Ron and tapping into his knowledge about swell direction, board shapes and general surf lore. Ron is just one example of the quality people that become part of the Harbour family, people who love the history of surfing, love to surf, and love to stoke the stoke.

So after meeting Ron, I got to thinking, I’d like to meet more of the guys from the message boards. So I threw it out there with something like, “Harbour Surf Day” as a topic line. The members jumped on the idea, and the chat increased on the topic. Soon the master planner Mr. W. was on the ball for food, Awe f’shore had volunteered to chronicle the event in pictures, and Rich and Robert said they’d stop by to say hi. The date was set, the pre-event banter was high, and all were excited for the first big, “Harbour Surf Day”…and then it rained all week.
***
“Dude, I’m not blowing out my tires. We could walk.” I said as we sat staring at the exit claws of death.
Jeff’s smile faded. “This sucks.”

I thought aloud. “One time I camped here, got back after it closed, and these guys used some wood to hold the spikes down while they crossed. Let’s see if we can find something.” I opened the door and we both searched around, finding two small pieces of wood.

Jeff lined them up as I pulled my car forward, looking out the window. “This looks sketchy, they are barely covering a wheel’s worth of spikes.”

“You’ll make it.” Jeff said. It wasn’t his car.
I slowly accelerated, Jeff adjusted as I got closer, and CRUNCH…the first tires were over, but one of the boards had smashed in half.

“Dang it!”
“Now what do we do?”
“Find something else.”
“Oh Crap.”
“What?”
“A beach cop’s coming.”
“Dang it!”

“Quick, use what you have, I’ll angle it so use the same one for both. I want to be in when he gets here.” I cried out in a panic as I pulled up so that the back tire was almost on to the pointed metal. “Hurry up.”
Jeff worked quick and said, “Go for it.”
I put the gas down, and the left rear cleared, Jeff moved the board, and the right tire crunched over. “Jump in, let’s start driving like nothings wrong.”

Jeff hopped in and we made are way North toward tower 20, at least until the Dodge Ram with the pretty lights on its roof pulled sideways across the road to block us.

The beach-cop walked up to my window, and said with agitation. “What do you think you’re doing?”
We proceeded to explain that a Harbour Surf Day was taking place and we needed to meet people, and the road was closed, and we had a pass, etc. Finally, after much cajoling, he let us go.

From that point on it was smooth sailing; the resilient were there and kept arriving. Mr. W had set us up huge with burgers, dogs, and all the fixings. Coffee was brewing and the tent was up. People were surfing the cold winter peaks then hiking the mile back after a couple of rides with intense riptide conditions, and the Bolsa B#### was in full effect. Rich was discussing board design and the day was everything we hoped it would be. Although the crowd was small due to weather conditions and road closures, the core were there, and the stoke was stoked.

It wasn’t long after that first “Harbour Surf Day” that we decided to have another. This one was slated for spring, and the turn out was bigger. A warm sunny day saw Rich and his wife cooking up breakfast burritos that would compete with the best. Once again, the vibe was good, Awe captured a plethora of shots that he graciously posted on his site, and we all had a great time.

And the third annual “Harbour Surf Day”, just happened on December 10th, 2005. It was our best turn out yet, and fun times were had by all. A clear brisk day with clean small waves made for perfect surfing conditions with the crowd size. Several of us were out early and reaped the benefits of few people in the water and the best waves of the morning. It was great to hang with people who I hadn't seen since the last gathering. For one or two Saturdays a year it might make for crowded surfing conditions, but I think well worth it for the stoke that is shared. I'll let the pictures speak for themselves, more can be found at this link.



So a couple of years ago I went on to a web site to get an idea of what size long board I should be looking for, and what did I get? A surfing buddy in Boardhound who’d drive you to Cabo and not ask for a dime in gas, a brethren bard philosopher who happens to be a pro photographer in Awe F’shore, and a good friendship with guys like Bobby J., who I can call to share the stoke with anytime…oh, and I found out I should ride a 9’6 long board, 7’2 SR, and a 6’ fish.

“Harbour Surf Days”, not too organized, nothing fancy, just a bunch of surfers who appreciate the soul of surfing, want to ride some waves, share a tale, and most importantly, follow in the steps of Rich Harbour, who for years has been stoking the stoke.

By
Trevor Downs
a.k.a. TDRevolver

Updates and "There are no waves in Colorado!"

Here are some updates and then some pics from a recent trip to Colorado for Trevor's 20 year reunion.

Writing updates: We just finished the rough draft of our novel, "Quixotic". It is the origins story for our characters Rip and Tide. The first three chapters are off to publishers and agents. Our elite team of product research specialists (our middle school students) have given it a thumbs up.
We heard back from an agent about our latest rewrite for our action/adventure film, "Coyote", and he gave it the green light.
Please keep us in your prayers that the New Year will bring us success with our projects, and that we will be diligent on the promotional front.

Surf and Skate updates:
Trevor has finally mastered the "drop-in" at the skate board parks and is feeling more and more comfortable gliding his fish upon the emerald glass, and Danny is carving the waves like never before, performing text book bottom turns, and tucking into the curl whenever possible.

Thanks for your support.
Trevor and Danny
Surf Writers

Now to the pics...

In between seeing old friends at the Reunion, Brent and I were able to skate some sweet skateparks (no pictures) and get an epic downhill Mnt. bike ride in, and my dad and I were able to do a nice 10 mile bush hike across the mountains.

Brent, Dad, Sister, John, and Me at the start of our descent down Pikes Peak. Brent was pumped, because he was going to attempt the epic downhill on a 5 year old bike three sizes too small for him, and John was excited his wife hadn't killed him yet for making her drive down Pikes Peak alone.




Pikes Peak is impressive from any view point, but when you're riding down it--spectacular!!!





A very cool log cabin for sleep overs, half way down Pikes Peak. Great stop for coffee and a snickers. The Bar Camp.


Always fun to spend time with my daughter Jordyn and sister Traci. Don't ask what that sparkling thing is in Jordyn's cheek.


Family time and Mega Mel's birthday!

Fun in Mega Mel's tractor with my beautiful and super cool daughter Dakotah at the wheel....yikes!!!


Mega Mel all geared up for epic hike. Would you want to run into this guy on the trails?


Start of hike took us up massive boulder field, My dad almost killed me once on one of these, so this time I stayed above him.


Mid-hike we came across one of the many WWII plane crashes scattered across the Rockies, God Bless the Armed Forces.


The Punch Bowls above The Navigators are fun and very cold if you slip.


Some nice falls.


A nice cup of coffee at the end of the day...great hike!


There might not be any waves in Colorado, but it's a great place, and full of people I love.

Have a Great Day!

Blessed to Surf

Pristine shoulder I slide...

Tranquility comes, I glide flawless face...

Dreams of syncronicity, in the green room I hide...

Seeking trim before the ivory trail of grace...

...and the Spirit of God moved over the surface of the waters.

A tribute to Dale Velzy by Bobby Johnson

Guest writer Bobby Johnson pays tribute to a legend by surfing five Southern California spots, including the Velzy paddle out at Doheny. In the telling, Bobby opens a window into the soul of surfing.

Check out more photos from the tribute at Awe's link to the right.







My Tribute to Dale Velzy
By Bobby Johnson
I never personally met Mr. Dale Velzy, but with everything I’ve heard and read about him, it seems like I knew him just the same. When I heard of his passing, a few different thoughts went through my head, but I knew I wanted to show my respects to him if possible, especially if there would be a paddle out I could attend. I learned from Tom at the Longboard Grotto that there would be one on June 14th at Doheny State beach. He said that if you mentioned Mr. Velzy, the parking was free and talk of a Luau afterward. My work schedule had recently changed so I would have this particular Tuesday off. And with a deal like that I figured the event would be packed beyond belief and I would need to be there early. Things were definitely looking like I was supposed to be there. While we were talking, my wife Lia found a black “Surfboards by Velzy” T-shirt in my size (just came in that morning).
Since I would be making my way back down to Oceanside from Westlake Village, I could leave early enough to catch a few waves at Malibu as well. This thought quickly turned to thinking I could make this a personal tribute to Mr. Dale Velzy.
Lately I have been watching the first series of films Bruce Brown made, borrowed from my friend Munger. Bruce Brown’s movies have really been instrumental in shaping my life. “Endless Summer I” and “On Any Sunday” hit me hard when growing up-as a kid I was nuts about surfing and motocross racing. Later “Endless Summer II” would determine my very first “new” board, the Robert August Wingnut I model. In the intro on his first movie from 1958, “Slippery When Wet”, Bruce mentions that he used to work at night in Velzy’s shop, and how he and Dale used to talk about Bruce making a surf movie. Turns out Dale funded the project which gave Bruce his start in the movie business. Dale and his shop were featured in Slippery When Wet, as were several exceptional Southern California surf spots like Trestles and Malibu. Bruce’s second movie (1959),”Surf Crazy” opens by showing several more spots-Swami’s, Dana Point, and Rincon. The seed for my journey has now been planted-I blame (thank) Munger.
Next question is: How long does one stay at any spot? I determined that since Dale had been shaping for nearly 60 years, I would surf one wave for each decade (6), and one additional wave for a total of seven- in the Bible, the number 7 represents completeness. So now my journey was mapped out. I would surf Rincon, Malibu, Doheny (Dana Point), Trestles, and Swami’s, surfing seven waves at each.
Monday night the 13th, I read LongBoard Magazine, Volume 10, Number 6, In Trim section on Velzy by Paul Holmes. I revisit Velzy the man and remember the stories about his business dealings and generosity. Problem now is: I’m so stoked and worried about getting in the parking lot on time for the main event, I can hardly fall asleep.

4:20AM Alarm goes off. Get up quickly because I haven’t slept much anyway.

4:45AM Leave the house. Turn on the radio to get the traffic and weather report. Unfortunately, they are interviewing someone who is a friend of a cousin to someone who once saw Michael Jackson from 3 miles away and thinks they know how Michael feels about the trial outcome. Arghh!!! I turn on the CD player not knowing, or caring what disk is in. Peter Mayer’s “Stirring up the Water” comes on. Perfect. The music matches the mood of the morning. Besides, the weather doesn’t really matter for this trip, and there isn’t any traffic at this hour anyway.

5:30AM Arrive at Rincon (35miles). There’s not one car in sight. Should I check it out first, or just suit up and go? I’m going anyway so I put on my board shorts and dawn patrol top. I left my full suit down south, but I rode waves at Rincon in January before I ever had a suit- days of the inflatable canvas raft. Besides, it has more of the feel during Velzy’s days. Just as I finish getting dressed, a VW bus rolls up and parks next to me. We exchange “Good Mornings” and introduce ourselves. John is from Santa Barbara and tells me how good the surf was over the weekend. Shoulder high+ and only a dozen guys out. Wow, I don’t think the surf will be like that today. I tell him about my trip and he tells me to look for a display with some Velzy boards and an Indian blanket with a custom flathead V8 manifold/carb. set-up on top. He said it was from the guy who used to have the surf museum in Santa Barbara.

5:45AM I enter the water. It’s barely light out and I’m the only one out. It’s an eerie feeling being out here alone. I keep thinking about the scene in Bruce’s “Surfing Hollow Waves”. Reny Yater catches a wave at Rincon, looks over his shoulder, and sees a shark cruise through the lineup. Waves this morning are knee to waist high with a couple around chest high. I catch a couple of waves before another guy comes out. He’s got a Robert August “What I ride” model. It kind of looks like a scene from the movie ”Endless Summer II”, only darker and a lot colder. Air and water temperature are 59, not the 80’s they had in Costa Rica. On wave number 5, out of the corner of my eye I see some black things, pop up just before the trough of the next wave. Just as I kicked out over the top of my wave and turned to adjust my eyes I make out two seal heads. At the same time they turned and saw me. Apparently they hadn’t noticed me before and got pretty startled. I got two more waves and paddle in.

6:30AM Get out of the water. Think to myself, “That’s for your Mr. Velzy”.

6:45AM Back on the road, heading south on the 101 Freeway. Passing by La Conchita I can now see the slide area and what looks like water still coming out of the side of the hill. I offer up a prayer for those affected. I drive passed Hobbson’s beach and see a small pod of dolphins having breakfast. One was so excited he jumped out, did a quarter turn to the left in the air, and then landing on his side. I called Lia on the way back to give some ideas how to fix our computer/printer issues so she can turn in her school project tomorrow. I tell her I’m going stop by the house on my way to Malibu. I could always use another hug and a kiss from her.

7:15AM Arrive home, get my hug and a kiss. Look at the computer-printer issue but unfortunately I’m a computer moron, so she’s going to try and fix it her way. Steal another kiss on my way out the door.

7:30AM On the road again.

7:55AM Arrive at the ‘Bu (105miles). Parking is full on the beach side so I turn around and find a spot on the other side at the end. Another guy pulls up behind me, changes and unloads quickly. The crowd’s not too bad, for Malibu anyway. The guy who pulled up behind me is getting some great rides. I get my waves in, and my left shoulder’s starting to hurt. Last wave is the best. I take off, angle the board and climb towards the nose reaching the front third of the board. Crouch down and stretch my left foot to the nose for a cheater 5. I’m just dialed in and working this wave for everything it’s worth. The wave starts to close out on the beach and I bury the nose, the tail breaks out and swings around in a Hawaiian pullout. I can’t contain the stoke and shout out loud “That ones for you Dale”. The guy who parked behind me was paddling back out nearby and overheard me. He looked over with a big smile on his face. I got out, rinsed off and headed back to the truck. As I was packing up, the guy parked behind me shows up and is getting ready to leave. We chat and he tells me that he works for Jacobs surfboards (another Velzy link), and everyone at the shop is going to the paddle out except him. Someone has to hold down the fort. He confirms what Tom told me about directions and parking at Doheny.

9:00AM Leave Malibu. I hope I’ve timed it right and most of the traffic is done. 5 minutes later I’m slammed into construction traffic going at a crawl. Breaks loose after Big Rock and we’re off.

10:45AM Arrive at Doheny State beach (190miles). Just as Tom said the parking was free and there were still plenty of spots available. I see a few familiar faces milling around, George from Malibu was there. I met him at the paddle out for Ray “The Enforcer”. That was when I met Big Wave Dave Sweet. I had Lia’s Dave Sweet board with me that time and never knew the connection to Ray until then. Funny how things can work out sometimes. Walk out to check the surf. Water is an amazing green, with a little bit of texture on it. Looks like the south wind may start to build, so better get on it while I can. There are two main groups of people out, the one south of the rock has about 6 people who look like they might be learning, and the group towards the river mouth that has about 20. I pick to go between these groups so as not to get in their way. I’m just a visitor after all. I drift down a bit and a couple of guys move up from the pack. I’m now within ear shot and eves drop to hear their stories about Mr. Velzy and boards he made for them. Great stuff, and some gorgeous boards. The best was when one guy said he asked Dale to make him a more progressive board. He said what he ended up with was not what he considered a progressive design, and he said so to Dale. Mr. Velzy said “That’s the only way I make boards.” Kind of says it all doesn’t it? I took a few waves alone and then I started sharing waves with these other guys. Good group with a great vibe. Told them about the journey and they thought it was pretty cool. I got my seven waves and got out. Walked up to the sidewalk area to rinse off. Looked over to see Mr. Robert August himself chatting with someone. He saw me half staring and waved. After I showered and was walking passed he motioned me over to look at my board. I still get star struck whenever I try to talk to him or Wingnut-I swear I don’t know why, they’re such cool, easy going guys. Anyway, I try to tell him about the board, how I had it specially made by Mike Minchinton, and how well it works for me. I think he was stoked and proud just seeing how happy I was with it. As I walk away I pass by Donald Takayama. I’m getting pretty tired now so I go back to the truck to take a quick nap.

12:45 PM I call Lia to ask her to give me a call around 2 PM to wake me up. After about a 1/2 hour it gets really quiet, which wakes me up wondering if I’m missing something. The ceremony and paddle-out isn’t supposed to start until 3:00PM. Get out and head back to the picnic area.

1:30PM So many legends are arriving here and it feels like a reunion. There’s Greg Noll, Bing Copeland, LJ Richards, David Nuuhiwa , and so many others. I see a friend of ours, Mike N., and he introduces me to a lady who goes by the name Gidgit, yes the original. She introduces me to Jim (?). This just amazing, I’m getting sensory overload. I feel like I’m experiencing history in the making. The boards are starting to pile up as well. I see the display John from Santa Barbara was referring to, and a whole bunch of boards that were incredible works of art. The wood colors and grain, the shape and the finish are just awesome. Some representations of the various board and fin shapes Dale did were there as well. He was so innovative. I wonder how the V-fin really works. There were hot rods and woodies there in their own parking lot. There were pictures of him with horses and motorcycles and folks wandering around dressed like they were from each of these walks of life. Now I really wished I could have spent some time talking to Mr. Velzy since I have grown to appreciate all these things. I think back to how a guy named Todd wrote in the Harbour surf talk bb that he got the opportunity to do just that, and even better, got Dale to shape a board for him. Todd described the board on the site, but I haven’t seen one that matches the description yet. I meant to write that I was going, and see if we could meet, but I never got the chance. About this time I hear my name called out and I turn to see Ron (Awe F’shore). Man, he shoots some great pictures. We get to chatting and then I get to watch him work. I point out a few faces I knew. He got a picture of the Master, LeRoy Grannis. There was an area where the “other” boards were being gathered, and I noticed a Robert August “What I Ride” that was shaped by Mike laying there with a space next to it. I figured I should get its younger cousin to place next to it.

3:00PM The ceremony starts with Dale’s cousin singing the Eagles “Desperado”. Perfect song for this occasion. Other speakers from each of Mr. Velzy’s worlds get up to say something, but the sound system makes it difficult to hear what they have to say. Too bad, I know they all had a great Velzy experience to share with us all. The most amazing thing about this moment is there is such an upbeat feeling here. This wasn’t a memorial where people were sad or grieving, but a true celebration of life, a full one at that, and appreciation of someone who touched many lives in many ways. I will treasure this moment for the rest of my life. As I was walking back away from the crowd, I ran into Ron again and asked him if he knew Todd and where his board might be. He walked me over to a cool looking Harley orange and white board that I must have walked passed a couple of times earlier.

4:00PM There seems to be about 2000 people here, as this portion of the festivities were winding down. They asked everyone who was joining the paddle-out to go get ready and meet at the beach. I go to the truck and suit up, go to get my board and notice that Todd’s board is already gone. Shoot, I missed him. Grab my board and head to the water. There were approximately 700 of us trying to get to the water, as well as most of the other folks, making the trek across the sand difficult. There is standing water on the beach making a moat so there is only one spot where everyone can cross. Ron is standing there snapping shots of folks. He even got one of me. There were some people handing out flowers to take out, and one guy handing out packets made from tea leaves containing sand that actually came from Velzyland, in Hawaii. How cool is that. Funny how the first time I get to touch Hawaiian sand, I’m in California. I stuff the packet in my top and head to the waters edge. I wait for the incoming wave to settle, then dash out, launch with board outstretched in front, and land to catch the out-going backwash. All in one smooth movement. I paddle out towards the south east portion of the ever growing circle. My shoulder is really starting to hurt now, but I can’t slow down or stop. As I reach the far end I see a board I now recognize-Harley orange and white. “Are you Todd?” He says yes and I introduce myself. I see this as another Velzy day moment. The one person I was looking for in this lineup of 700, and I happen to go to the same spot he is. As the circle forms with people sitting rail to rail, it must be at least ¼ mile wide. You could feel magic in the air and how everyone is amazed at the size of the turnout. A couple of outrigger canoes paddle around in the middle, and there’s a guy on what looks like an old wood Velzy board piled high with flowers. Then we hear the roar of a propeller driven air plane getting louder. A WWII P51 Mustang comes flying close by, banks very hard and flies away-or so we thought. He came by once more. It was awesome. Everyone was asked to raise their hands in the air, and then we cupped and splashed water into the middle. I pull out the packet of sand and pour it into the water. Now there’s some of his namesake beach where he used to surf. Afterwards, we started to break up the circle and I headed towards the guy with flowers on his board. I hand the ones I had to him and say goodbye to Mr. Velzy. We all start to head for the beach. Todd and I are a little concerned how we’re all going to get out without some serious crashes occurring. We head towards the river mouth away from the pack. I loose sight of Todd, but I see Linda Benson about 50 feet to my left. Second Gidget sighting of the day (I believe she was Sandra Dee’s stunt double in the original movie). I catch the same wave as her and about 20 other people, including the girl who fell right in front of me. I make it to the beach and out of the water unscathed. Todd hits the beach at the same time and we run into Ron again. I think he said he took so many pictures he ran out of memory for his digital camera. Todd and Ron headed towards the luau, and I say my goodbyes so I can get to the next destination. When I get to the truck, the guy parked next to me is all smiles and stoked about the experience(we all were!). We had quickly chatted earlier, but now I introduced myself and told him about my tribute. He was impressed and told me about his Velzy experiences. David said Dale used to call him “The Bolsa Chica Kid” and that’s what Dale wrote on the board he shaped for him. He showed it to me and it certainly was something to be very proud of. What a beautiful board. I finish loading up and pull out.

5:10PM Leave Doheny heading for Trestles. The little bit of traffic there is, is really moving.

5:20PM Arrive at parking lot near Trestles(198 miles). Quickly pack up my suit into my board bag for the long hike down to Lowers. I arrive to find a group of kids packed at Uppers and what looks like a contest taking place at Lowers. There’s a drift wood structure where an older gentleman is changing after his session. He says that with the in coming tide, things are getting better and there is a good vibe in the water. The reason Lowers looked so crowded was there was some sort of school surf team practice thing going on. He also says that the kids with the short boards out in front of us are staying on the inside and being pretty cool, and that with my 9’6” I should have no problem catching the waves I needed. He wishes he could stay longer, but it’s his anniversary and he has to get home for a special dinner. I get the feeling he’s grateful that he has that as a reason he has to leave, and I wish him a happy anniversary.

5:50PM In water. I opt for the area just below Uppers where there are only a couple of guys on it. Good choice, the Velzy spirit is here as well. There are four of us on this peak and it’s just awesome. This is the best surf so far on this journey. Water is clear, slight evening glass, peak coming through and we’re taking turns without much needing to be said. I get three clean rides and my shoulder is now really starting to hurt. At this point in the game it’s becoming a goal just to get the 7 count in and move on. I paddle out to the outside and sit for a moment to rest. A California brown pelican flies solo just in front of me, inches above the water. They are so cool to watch as they adjust their altitude to fly just above the surface of the water. Ride number 4 comes along and it’s pretty cool. On number 5, I take off and it starts to section in front of me. As I was starting to make the section, one of the guys takes off in front of me, but there was enough room for the two of us. He apologized anyway, but I said “No worries, there was enough room. Besides, I only need two more for my goal anyway.” He looked puzzled at my remark, so I told him about the journey. I said I had started out in Thousand Oaks (most people know where Thousand Oaks is, but not Westlake Village which is right next door) and which spots I had planned to surf in Mr. Velzy’s honor. This young man was so stoked, I can still see the look in his eyes and the smile on his face. One other guy was giving me a hard time saying he didn’t believe I was really doing what I said. But when the next set came in, I told them to go ahead and take it. The first guy said “NO, you take it. We’ve got to get you to Swami’s.”. I thank them, get that wave and then the last one required. I rode number 7 in almost all the way in.

6:40PM Out of water. After I changed and packed up the board bag, I started walking back and another young man approached me and said he overheard I was from Thousand Oaks. He said he was from Westlake Village, and that he and his family were vacationing at the San-O campgrounds for the week. It was cool to talk to him as well, and I hope to surf with him again soon.

7:15PM Leave parking lot. Again, traffic’s not too bad and I can make good time.

7:40PM Arrive at Swami’s parking lot (231miles). Quickly change and head down the stairs to the beach. The water looks horrible due to the red tide. As the water washes over the front of my board it turns completely orange. Yuk. Within 10 minutes I’m getting a headache. The waves aren’t very good either. Peaky, disorganized wind swell. My shoulder is killing me and all I can think about is getting the wave count. Waves 2 and 3 pass. Wave 4 will put me over the hump. I look to the left to see a couple of dolphins strolling through the lineup. Seeing them takes my mind off my shoulder. Wave 4 comes and I take off, bottom turn, angle off and get dropped in on. Luckily this only happens once and the guy apologized. Oh well, it’s all good. It’s getting mighty dark, but I still get waves five, six and seven.

8:15PM Out of the water. As I exit the water I say out loud, “Thanks for a phenomenal day Mr. Velzy.” Head over to the shower, and spend what seems like forever rinsing off. Getting the dawn patrol top, and rash guard off is challenging due to my shoulder. Then drag myself up the stairs.

8:30PM Leave the parking lot. As I’m pulling out of the lot, listening to the radio, and replaying the events of the day in my mind, there is a strange, yet familiar sound coming through the middle of the song. It sounds like the emergency distress signal. But it’s not really registering in my mind because they usually test that on its own, not in the middle of a broadcast. Sure enough, it’s an emergency broadcast and they’re announcing a tsunami warning for San Diego county! Never thought I would cap the day off with that. Then I thought about the kid from Westlake and wondered how he and his family were affected by this.

9:15PM Arrive home (270miles). Grabbed a bite to eat enroute. Collapse on the couch and let dinner settle. I’m going to sleep well tonight.

Riding the wave you're given!

This shot is from a pretty good day of surf down in Huntington Beach California. This particular wave was nothing special, but very fun. Although mushy, and not large, it provided me with ample carve room and I enjoyed it greatly. Like life's situations, we can't control what wave will come our way, but we can make the best of them.

Stay positive, compliment somebody, and enjoy the blessing of life today; whether your day is like a sweeeeeet head-high barrel, or a knarly close-out...only you control your attitude about the wave--or circumstance--you've been put in. Have a great day!

Trev

Rip and Tide--Super Hero Surfers!!!!

Dear Story Analyst,

We’ve developed a concept that captures the heart of adventure and the liver of laughter. Rip and Tide—Super Hero Surfers.

Spending hours mesmerized by animated characters as kids—and now as fathers—we knew there was one medium that could adequately bring our stories to life…cartoons. The following will give you a small window into the fun and fantastic world of two geeks who, when summoned, transform into heroic bodies, battling evil throughout the universe, all the while thwarted with an even greater challenge—surviving middle school.

We are eager to discuss the endless possibilities of these characters. A feature length screenplay is ready for production.

Logline
The students of Central High Middle School know 12 year-old brothers Willie and Wayne Day as pencil necks, techies and geeks; but when trouble brews in the universe, these two nerds transform into, Rip and Tide—Super Hero Surfers!

Synopsis
A quest is just what is needed for 12-year-old brothers Willie and Wayne. Stuck in the lower reaches of futuristic downtown Los Angeles with their single mother and harassed by the school bully, the two hi-tech whiz kids seek escape in a virtual game world where they have created hero’s with the traits they long for: charismatic, muscular and carefree—Super Hero Surfers! Their sojourn begins when they respond to an S O S during a virtual battle and are transported into Quixotic—a world of magic and mayhem—to save the Universe.
Once Willie and Wayne realize the graphics and their virtual personas of Rip and Tide are no longer computer generated, but all too real, they must make some tough decisions. Under the guide of the mysterious Mage and the chatty white raven, Maverick, the boys housed in heroic bodies embark on an epic journey.
Armed with talismans—a staff for Rip and gauntlets for Tide—they make their way across the landscape of Quixotic in search of the magical Orgatron. Orgatron is a gravity defying living essence that was designed to work as a whole, harnessed by three persons, and responding instantly to telepathic commands. But alas, the evil HellPlank hoards three parts, giving him great power. The prophecies proclaim that The Two will come from another land to win back the orgatron, and bring the world back to balance.
The minions of Hellplank spread darkness across the land as Willie and Wayne walk a tight rope of death; facing the dreaded bantarays, surviving the murk swamps and saving an elfin princess from ogres. The Princess leads Rip and Tide to the King of the Elves who assigns the bald and pudgy Tubius Maximus to train them in the use of their amulets. After days of training, Willie, Wayne, and Tubby set off into the cavernous depths to find and battle Hellplank.
In Hellplank’s lair a battle ensues. Despite the transformation of the white raven from jabbering pest to mighty war-bird, and a duel to the death taking the life of Tubius, the dynamic duo lie defeated beneath the throne of Hellplank. Their attempt at controlling the orgatron failed, they can only watch as the tiny silvery orbs hanging above them float back toward their master.
In their final moments the brothers unite in heart and Willie reaches up to touch a glowing globule—it instantly settles across his skin. Suddenly, The Two realize, their discontent with each other has kept the orgatron at bay. Now united, the orgatron responds to their summons, instantly taking shape of their lost staff and gauntlets. Their tattered Quixotic garb is replaced with orgatron. The magical substance mimicks the image in their minds of their heroic personas, and they’re clothed in colorful super hero wetsuits. Their eyes twinkle with the possibilities.
Hellplank cries “No!”
The boy’s cry, “Air boards”—leaping into the air, landing on two silver, gravity-defying surfboards. Maverick and Mage join them and the three take down Hellplank, chasing him from his lair.
The boys are ready to give chase when Mage reveals their superhero personas can transport into Earth’s dimension and help their mother who is being pursued by drug warped Groundlings…or finish the job of defeating HellPlank. They make the only choice they can, and appear a mile above Los Angeles, two super hero surfers, racing to earth to save their mother—and the day.
Upon return from their Quixotic adventure, the boys save their mother from the Groundling gang of thugs, but quickly realize their lives have become more complicated, as they have to hide from their mother the fact that Rip and Tide, are actually her sons. They race home reaching their beds in the nick of time. As she walks the hall to open the door, the boys realize they are still in their Olympic bodies. Panic strikes as she reaches for the door, and suddenly they’re back in Quixotic.
Mage reminds them time is different in the dimensions, and they have an approximate 20:1 ratio for a window, of course, in one half a second their mom will be in their room. Ten seconds in Quixotic. “Use your mind boys. Here in Quixotic, you can transform anytime you wish.”
The boys learn fast, and with a thought are back in boy’s bodies, looking up at the tall wizard. The transformation is complete with orgatron created pajamas. “Sweet.”
The boys look to wrists where orgatron bracelets are bound.
“That’s how I’ll summon you. When there’s trouble in the world, I’ll summon you with the Orgatron, come to me quickly, transform, then return to save the day.”
The boys’ faces light up with questions.
“No time lads. But remember, only use your powers at my command, you’re too young to know when this awesome power is warranted.”
Instantly the two are back in their beds, tucked in, feigning sleep as their mother walks in. She kisses them both good night.
The boys look to one another as the door shuts, then at the bracelets. “It wasn’t a dream?”
The crow answers by popping out from under the bed. “Of course not fools, and you’ll need to come up with an excuse for me promptly, for I’ll not disgrace myself by hiding in that pigsty again.”
The boys laugh.

And thus, Earth gains another dynamic duo: Rip and Tide--Super Hero Surfers!

Don't forget to put on the stickers!

Legos…a wonderful creation, a splendid toy that sparks creativity over and over again. As a child, when I visited my Grandma Betty, I would play with a box full of the simple but brilliantly designed plastic pieces for hours. Red, yellow, blue, white connectable rectangles in different sizes became epic spacecraft, naval fleets, and Indy cars. The prized wheels and slanted blocks took my creations to new levels. It brought my young heart joy to see the fruits of my labor come together so quickly.

I enjoyed my Grandma Betty’s box of Legos so much because there were no instructions, no pictures to follow, no fine-tuning, no delicate finish pieces, no stickers to painstakingly place evenly before the project could be considered complete. When I said it was done, it was done. If half way through the magnificent Fort Apache I decided to start the Empire State Building, I could do it. Unlike those pesky car models that demanded each piece go where it belonged, and never seemed to get finished because I didn’t have the patience to attach decals or paint.

Nor were my Lego masterpieces like the chores around the house that were never done right because I couldn’t quite get to the final details of completing them. I’d sweep, but the dirt would stay in a pile. I’d mow, but the edges stayed high. I’d shovel the snow, but the powdery lines remained between shovel trails.

It’s the same today as an adult. It’s hard to finish a job. And it makes sense that this is where the struggle lies. When first starting a project, or a new adventure in life, the initial stages are exciting, fun, and you can see tremendous results. This is why some people are in constant seas of change; they are addicted to the fantastic results they gain when they start something new. Unfortunately, success almost always comes thanks to the finish work. In a move, the bulk of the furniture loads smooth, and the job seems to move quickly, but the move’s not complete without the little items, and these seem to be endless. The edges of a puzzle assembles with ease, and with highly visual results, but the final pieces of the puzzle, the ones you have to search for, wait for, sometimes agonize for, those pesky pieces in the center…those are what make the puzzle a success. The first week of working out creates sore, pumped muscles, but without consistency, the gains are minimal.
Starting new careers, changing jobs, finding new hobbies can all be good things. But if it is a pattern, we need to analyze ourselves, and ask? Do I seek constant change because I’m afraid of the hard work it takes to achieve true success? Am I addicted to the instant gratification of starting projects?
I know I’ve been guilty of this. I love the initial learning process. I’ve always picked up things pretty quickly, but rarely had the discipline for mastery. When I first started writing screenplays, I leapt into books on the subject, I banged out junk on my laptop, I sought feedback—and unfortunately got it. I reread and rewrote until I started to get the feedback I desired. Danny and I finished a great script. But then, the finish work.
Selling.
It was like the air was let out of my balloon. The temptation to start new things arose. “Another script is what we need, then we’ll start the selling process.”
Another script was completed.
“One more should do it.” We told ourselves.
And that script was completed.
“This story must be told. To the computer, the muse calls, we’ll hit the door to door sales when this masterpiece is done.”
And that script was completed.
“A novel would be easier to sell, let’s write one of those.”
A novel was completed…
And now here we sit, again. But this time we’re not taking the first “No.” as a sign we should write more. We’re going after it again. We’re going to keep writing, but we’re not stopping the selling until the job gets done. It could be today? It could be five years from now? But this time, we’re putting in the finish work.
Lego’s have become more advanced over the years. More than ever, the Lego products are more like models. You buy a box of an infinite variation of pieces, and to get it right, you must follow the directions carefully. And if you want it to look just like the picture on the box, you have to place every sticker in just the right place. Because when you do, that plastic model comes alive, the stickers are what make it worthy of the shelf.
My son has many of these neat little Lego models—which I’ve helped him build. Unfortunately, few have the stickers. It’s so much fun in the beginning, it takes shape so quickly, and it looks almost like the box when there still seems to be a hundred pieces left. It’s times like these when I miss that box of simple yet brilliant pieces at Grandma Betty’s place.
With Legos—and sometimes in life—it’s alright to enjoy the first fruits, to test the waters, to see if the endeavor is worth taking on, and if not? Move on…but sometimes, if we really want success, if we want to go to the next level, we have to stick to our guns, finish the job, stay the course, put in the 80% perspiration after the 20% inspiration, find the glory in the details…sometimes, if you want to get it right, you can’t forget about those stickers.

TREV

Anxiety

Tears on the soul, rips the mind
Stimulates foul, defeats mankind

The antithesis of trust, it attacks from within
Creeping and clawing, the result of sin

Run to the roar, find what you miss
A psychological game, sure to be a twist

It kills, it maims, bring it to bare
Shame is its root, truth its corsair

One’s got it all, in Him no demise
Take heed the fool…the fool becomes wise.

FAITH

Trevor

"Yikes!"

"
Oh, oh. I wish I would have payed attention to my science teacher. Are shark's fins straight or curved?"
"Straight, surf on!...I think."

Surf, life, and getting spit out naked on a packed beach, part II

“Going over the falls,” “whitewater frenzy,” “tiger shark sightings.” If you’re not familiar with these terms, please scroll down a little and read “Surf, Life, and Getting Spit Out Naked on a Packed Beach, Part I.”

Learning to surf has taught me one of life’s most valuable lessons. It all happened on that fateful day upon the gnarly walled-up shore breakers just north of the Wedge. I stood there, butt naked, shorts in hand, allowing the full magnitude of dozens of people staring at me to sink in. I had just survived going over the falls, getting spun on supercrazy wash cycle, and then taking it on the head a couple of times. It felt good to be alive, despite the fact that people were pointing, laughing, and I think a few, possibly, taking pictures.

It wasn’t until several years later, while learning to surf, that I figured out that going over the falls and getting spun like a rag doll under water was something I was going to have to get used to. I was told, that when you enter the washing machine, that you need to relax, let the wave bend you into whatever shape it wishes. Relax? Are you kidding me? I felt like I was in the jaws of death every time it happened. When your life is on the line, you fight. You fight tooth and nail to get out of the life threatening situation. So I kept fighting, and I lost every time, hitting the surface pumped full with adrenaline and lungs deplete of oxygen.

One day, I was dropping in late on a wave, tried to pull back, but once again, I went over. It was a pretty good sized wave, and it threw me down hard, and far. I let my body relax. My instinct was to battle, but I forced myself to let the wave do its thing. I spun, twisted, and convulsed...but this time, I kinda’ liked it. Within seconds, the tremors faded, and I popped up to the surface. I did it. I let the wave take control (as if it ever wasn’t), and I experienced the joy in giving in to my fear.

Experiencing joy in the midst of fear. Sounds like a crazy paradox...and guess what? It is. Now let me make clear that joy is not necessarily happiness. Rather, it is a sense of peace, an understanding that we aren’t the ones in control. Life throws us curveballs, sinkers, and every once in a while, unhittable sliders. We will be confronted with stress, from without, and from within, that will cause fear. Our natural instinct is to fight or run. When we fight the fear, it often grows, and overwhelms us. When we run, we turn to alchohol, drugs, porn, blaming others, (fill in blank with any other addiction), to avoid the enormous pain of facing our fear. The last two years have brought me a tremendous amount of anxiety, most of which come from never dealing with growing up with an alcoholic father whø kicked me aside, never playing with me, or even talking with me. When he did talk, it often was abusive.

I’ve had to deal with border line panic attacks, generated from within. When they first began, when my obsessive fears first reared their ugly heads, I fought like a madman, pushing them away. But they overwhelmed me. The harder I fought, the stronger they became. When I finally began to give in to the fear, much like giving in to the twisting and turning when I go over the falls, I began to experience some peace.

I have a long way to go, as the fear is embedded deeply within, but “running to the roar” has been one of the best life lessons I have learned. It will definitely save you on the waves, and I guarantee it will bring you joy. Give in to your fears. Face your anxiety. Run to the roar. Its a paradox worth living.

Danny

If three--then me.

“Dang it! This is my third speeding ticket this week! Why is this happening to me?”
This statement summarizes my concept of “If three, then me.” If you read the above statement, it is ridiculous. The statement suggests that there is someone out to get you, that you’re unlucky and helpless in the situation. It suggests that God is mad, or some force is working against you. When in reality, you’re speeding, if you weren’t, you would not have received one ticket, let alone three.
This stands as a stark example of what some people do with their entire lives. They blame bad situations on bad luck, mean people or a rude staff member; a bogus piece of merchandise, a bad apple, wrong directions…

“There’s a glitch in this game!”
“The cards are fixed.”
“My boss is a jerk!”
“My wife’s a nag!”
“This house is falling apart—all at the same time!”
“I don’t have enough money!”

The list goes on.
So often when we feel like things just aren’t going our way, if we step back we can trace the negative events to something we have done. The “If three, then me” rule is a good thing to follow.
If you are feeling scorned three times a month by tellers, cashiers, Home Depot workers, etc. Then maybe it’s your attitude that’s the problem.
If you are getting reprimanded more that three times, then maybe the boss isn’t out to get you, maybe you’re doing a bad job.
If you have three different people cut you off, or zone out while you’re talking, maybe they aren’t all rude, maybe I—I mean you—talk too much!
If three people comment on your behavior, maybe their right.
If you think three different friends have wronged you in a short period of time, maybe you’re too sensitive, overreacting, or unsympathetic to others schedules.
If you get in a loud conversation often, then maybe you’re the one who needs to calm down.
If your wife is a nag, maybe you’re not giving her enough love.
If your house is falling apart, maybe you weren’t keeping up with the repairs.
If you’re out of money, maybe you spend too much.

The problem with putting the blame on outside forces, we lose control of the situation. If we find the blame in ourselves, it’s a chance to grow, and change. Don’t run from blame, look for it—and grow from it.

It’s all right to make mistakes; it doesn’t make you a bad person.

Sometimes, no matter what we do, bad things can happen, and it’s not our fault; but if three—then, maybe, just maybe…it’s me.
Something to think about this week, I know I need to.

Trev

Surf, life, and getting spit out naked on a packed beach, part I

Going over the falls...it happens when you miscalculate, or just chicken out dropping into a wave (look careful at pic for example). The sheer force of the movement of the wave closing out takes you up and over from the wave’s backside; hence the term, “going over the falls.” But that’s the best part of the wipeout. What scares a rational man senseless is what happens next. The wave shoves you down into the jaws of whitewater frenzy where you spin uncontrollably under the surface, not knowing which way to go for a gulp of life giving breath.

The first time I went “over the falls” and got a nasty taste of the washing machine effect was near the wedge at Newport Beach. I was body surfing with my cousin and his best buddy, who were visiting from Phoenix. They made the mistake of asking me about sharks, and I had no other choice but to do my best to freak them out with a good story. As I told them of a nearby tiger shark sighting, I felt something brush my foot. In a nanosecond, I was the one freaking, and started swimming for shore. I tried to catch a nasty wall of a wave, but realized I was too late, and the beast would spit me out on the shore. I pulled back, but the force of the wave threw my like a rag doll into whitewater mania. I twisted and turned under water, literally not knowing which way was up. I fought like a mad man, but it was like peeing into a tornado. The more I fought, the faster my heart pumped, the quicker the oxygen was sapped from my lungs. My chest began to convulse, the whitewater cleared, and I saw blue sky. I was psyched to have survived, but my celebration tapered as I realized my shorts and undies were ripped off in battle. They washed ashore in front of a Saturday afternoon crowd. As I conteplated my options, another shore breaking monster hit me from behind, and I was spinning again; this time with my bare white butt leading the way. I survived another washing machine cycle, but I was presented with a rough decision. Stay in the surf and die, or walk up butt naked on the beach and retrieve my shorts. Well, needless to say, I chose the later, and here I am writing the memoirs.

I learned an amazing life lesson that day, and it wasn’t “make sure your shorts are tied on snuggly before entering the surf.” Stay tuned for part II.

Space Janitor--our newest novel...Ch. 1

...also a screenplay with a graphic novel in the works!
Concept Art by Bill Dely.


2100 A.D. DEEP SPACE: THE VOID – The small rock strewn planet floated in the midst of the seemingly endless domain of space. What classified this cragged rock void of atmosphere as a planet instead of an asteroid in the galactic charts was merely a whim of the scientific community.
The blackness was perfect until a silent explosion erupted driving the cobalt into retreat in an elliptic spectrum of energy. A silver bullet appeared from the quickly expanding saucer of light. The pearly mass slowed taking the form of a spacecraft and shattering the quiet with the 115 year-old hit song, Magic Carpet Ride, which blared into space from the ship's exterior speakers.
The long-range fighter approached the rocky surface quickly, wings folded away from fuselage and retracting wormhole shields revealed a cockpit. Intense light exploded into space from the small craft as navigation lights activated.
Inside the cockpit sat Sgt. C.T. McGregor, his black boots at rest atop switch filled control panel. He lounged in a high backed, black leather captain's chair. Muscled limbs draped loosely over large padded armrests. A charcoal tinted shirt hung open across his broad chest. Dark hair was cropped short and had the sheen of youth while the depth of his sleep left his bronzed skin without wrinkle.
The pounding music that thankfully emanated quieter inside than out seemed to have no effect on the Sergeant's sleep. It was quickly apparent that he snoozed unawares of the jagged cliffs that now filled his view screen, increasing in size at an alarming rate.
Looming large in the ship's screen, the rocky planet quickly blocked out the universe behind it. A red light flashed and beeped, quickening with the ship's approach to the planet.
Nary a twitch arose from the pilot's eyes until a very sensual female voice lyrically flowed through the large cockpit as the music faded to a whisper. "Perhaps it is time to consider the briefing?" The voice poised the question as near to a command as possible without it being one.
The switchboard lit up with light and sound as the planet rose up to reveal a crater and boulder-strewn surface. She continued. "And our eminent crash course into that large rock."
McGregor's eyes twitched, the corner of his lip almost curled, his eyes opened, his coarse hand rubbed coarser beard. "E.T.A?"
The voice responded politely, "Twenty two seconds…21, 20, 19…
McGregor yawned, and looked at the pocked surface casually. "Debrief."
"So soon Sir." The voice responded sarcastically. We're still thirteen and 3/4 seconds from impact and only two days late for a three-day assignment."
Blue eyes twinkled. "Well Aaia, if you'd kept my ship safe from those mutant tics, we'd have been here on time." McGregor smiled. He enjoyed poking fun at the computer whose personality he had programmed. Sometimes he wondered if he had not given her too much personality.
Aaia interrupted his thoughts. "Security is not in my programming. 11, 10, 9…"
"Just in case you ever decided to turn on me." He said, peering up to the ceiling. "I'm kidding. I'd give you all the power I had if I.U.S. would let me."
"Of course you would. Now, about the incinerary experience were about to have?"
The ship plummeted toward what could only result in a fiery explosion. The unforgiving surface took shape as it drew closer…closer…closer… The ship nearly shivered at the fate that was now inevitable when just before impact a large perfectly camouflaged portal on the planet's surface opened, revealing a tunnel, which lead straight into the planet's core. The fighter glided gracefully into the massive corridor as the portal closed seamlessly behind it.
McGregor smiled. "I guess I should have told you about that."
"Really?" Aaia said with the utmost human tone, expressing in the one word her annoyance and enjoyment at being a participant in her programmer's joke.
"I guess that didn't make it into the research program I gave you."
Aaia sighed and began her debriefing. "Space Hub lovingly referred to as Hell's Gate, one of the largest harbors in the known galaxy. Non I.U.S. controlled but vital to non-worm hole cross-galactic shipping. Until recently, controlled by a reasonable human crime lord...He's dead. The new lord is hiking prices, refuses to show at least the facade of respect for I.U.S. officers and had all the priests destroyed the first day. He's a grainite and mean as hell. Clean Up the mess using any means necessary with I.U.S. section 3 code 7 as protocol."
McGregor grunted. "Can't kill 'em unless he kills me first."
"Exactly".
"Dandy." McGregor flipped a coolant switch. "Wiped out all the grays, huh?"
"Yes."
"Interesting."
The view screen revealed the pitch-black tunnel that soon sprouted lights as the ship sped through it. As the light sources increased, signs of life appeared along the shaft's surface. McGregor flipped a switch, dimming the exterior lights as every surface of the corridor filled with living quarters, shops, restaurants and taverns.
McGregor's craft darted from the tunnel exit and into the planet's core. Sailing deep along the radius, the sleek vehicle moved toward the core's center. The hollowed planet teemed with activity as shuttles and taxi's scurried about the interior.
Three miles separated the planet's walls. Every inch of surface was put to use, covered with minimally profiled intricate structures and warehouses; often it was difficult to establish where one ended and the other began. Metal intertwined with stone to create phantasmagoric architectural wonders that sprawled amongst the cragged interior. An orb that glowed moon-like at the planet's center illuminated the core, currently simulating night. McGregor maneuvered the ship through heavy traffic, banking around the silver orb and then guiding his ship toward a cliff wall with several large caves. Decreasing speed, the ship's landing gear dropped and it slipped into a hangar carved into the cliffs natural caves.
Bustling traders moved about the hangar in a furor. Ships of all shapes and sizes were loaded and unloaded with cargo. Exotic creatures bartered and exchanged goods as ships were serviced for the long flight to anywhere. The stone floor of the monstrous cave was polished to sheen. McGregor observed all this while buttoning his shirt, shutting down his systems and arming himself. He looked up to where a long broadsword hung, then reluctantly took down the two holstered blasters next to it and strapped them around his waist.
McGregor's craft gracefully settled into an open space between an I.U.S. trade vessel and a much smaller clepto ship. The cleptos were just one of the many genetic mutant creations that roamed the universe along side the native creatures of a more natural genesis. Cleptos were humans with the genes of mockingbirds engineered at the point of conception. Rarely did they exceed 1.5 M in height and hollow bones allowed them amazing leaping abilities. Small wings limited their aerial capabilities to gliding--their wings not strong enough to give them true flight. Elfish features, soft feathered hair, and wings that folded gracefully down their back made them beautiful creatures and one of the touted successes from the genetic engineering revolution. But they were not without fault, their abilities at collection and hawking wares made them excellent merchants--it also made them master thieves.
McGregor smiled politely through the windshield as he lowered blaster blinds, waving at the tiny man-bird as he set his alarms.
It didn't take long to make his way through the interior caves toward his destination. He walked briefly down an exterior bridge, a five-foot wide non-symmetrical path stretching across the monstrous cavern below. He was momentarily suspended in space as he stopped to scan the chasm's depths before turning his gaze to the massive airspace inside the hollowed planet. He took a deep breath, wanting to enjoy the experience more than he seemed to. He continued down the rock walk.
McGregor entered the thriving bar with confidence. After all, he was a Space Janitor--highly trained and well equipped. He was in his third year as a Janitor, and was given the best missions. It was a dangerous job, and he loved it for that. He had worked hard to gain the position, and made the elusive rank of Space Janitor in the fastest time possible, two years. Across the globe his position demanded respect. He looked about the tavern as he strutted through the crowds. Traders from all walks of life--both alien and engineered, organic and mechanical--mingled and partied. C.T. was out of uniform, yet many in the crowd noticed his genetic superiority, he was sure by the way they parted for him. He approached the counter where a sexy barkeep quickly took notice of this tall stranger.
"What's your pleasure, cowboy?" The barkeep whispered flirtatiously.
McGregor turned to his left where two green-skinned lizard men looked pathetically at empty mugs. With a questioning glance he asked them both, "Orange Whip? Orange Whip?"
The duo nodded in unison, a ray of hope filtering into their verdant reptilian eyes.
McGregor dipped his head in acknowledgement, and said without facing the Barkeep, "Three Orange whips." He smiled at his inner joke and ode to one of the greatest adventures of all time. As the barkeep moved to concoct the drinks, McGregor scanned the room, leaning back and resting his elbows on the bar. He took in the entire alcove, noticing who noticed him, and who purposefully kept their eyes away. He grew confident from his ability to observe human emotions--and intentions--at a glance and was emboldened by his effect on the people at the bar.
The Barkeep returned with the drinks and smiled. McGregor smiled back, truly seeing her for the first time. Dark silky hair flowed about her shoulders, and ample cleavage sprang from the girl's low cut, red, sleeveless shirt. Subtly brown skin glowed between the tapered top that hugged slender waist, and the low cut pants drew a perfectly curved line across her toned abdomen, two inches below the perfectly shaped bellybutton. She set the frothing drinks down. She saved McGregor's for last, and met his eyes boldly as she placed the drink before him.
He fought to maintain his casualness, as the blood in his body seemed to instantly heat, turning him to mush. Raising his eyes, he met her gaze--reminding himself she was probably just a non-gen, far his inferior--he hoped he faked his confidence well.
The twinkle in her eye told him he failed. "Where ya' from?" She asked, the words seemingly caressing his ears as they passed.
Her eyes blitzed his senses, ransacking any chance he had at a witty response. Electric in their coloration, they danced before him; depths of aquamarine mesmerized him. In all his days amidst the genetically designed eyes of the elite, he'd never seen their equal. It was too much, and he pulled his own eyes away from the sparkling pools. Reaching for the tangerine colored drink, he raised it to his lips with his right hand, hoping to sooth his countenance. He'd long ago made the habit of eating and drinking with his right hand so that his more dexterous appendage would be available for his gun if needed. Finally after setting the drink back to the bar, he answered. "Earth."
Delighted eyes lit up, and the beautiful girl couldn't hide her excitement at the answer she had hoped for. "Long way from home. Smuggler?"
He smiled internally, his confidence returning with the reminder of who he was. True confidence replaced false bravado now, knowing his answer would quickly win the girl; every woman longed to find a man of his genetic make-up. "Janitor." He didn't have time to wait expectantly for her dazzled and impressed stare; her disgust rocked him instantly. The very face that a moment ago stirred heat in his loins now sent daggers of ice through his heart.
The girl was obviously surprised by this unexpected piece of information. She recovered quickly, leaned in toward him, looked deep into his eyes and made no attempt to hide her contempt. "You sure? I can usually tell a gen-freak…I mean, gen-man--they do nothing for me."
If her initial reaction shocked him, this statement broke him. Suddenly every fear of inadequacy swelled up from the past, taking the form of beads of sweat surfacing on the back of his neck and the muscles of his legs turning to jelly. He quickly fought the irrational fears back; he'd dealt with this issue years ago, when faced with a newborn younger brother, a brother designed to perfection by his parents. A brother--who unlike himself--was not adopted. For six years before his brother's untimely death, the boy roused fear of inadequacy in McGregor's adopted heart. It only worsened after his brother's sickness, he became near deity after that, and McGregor felt ever more his inferior in the shadow of the perfect memories his mother had of her womb born son.
McGregor shook off the doubts, so he was adopted, and without papers, his parents said he came from genetically pure stock, and he made Janitor in record time--a non-gen couldn't do that! He was who they said he was. He had nothing to fear he told himself. He forced himself to stand taller; he was Sgt. C.T. McGregor, Space Janitor--gen-man! He matched her stare, waiting for her to make the next move. Her coldness held, and she stared at him with unflinching eyes of steel.
Stepping back from the bar, he pulled credits from the front pocket of his dark brown flight jacket. He forced himself to meet her gaze then tossed them on the bar. "For the clean up." The titanium chips clinked on the bar and finally drew her gaze from his. He felt released and took the opportunity to escape.
McGregor was up and moving before her eyes rose from the money. She watched him glide purposefully through the crowd toward the rear of the large tavern. Once again, he would quell his own doubts of his genetic make-up the only way he knew how--with action, and with a vengeance.
A large double door sat well protected by two heavily armed eight-foot angular faced kragors. The sentries bred for war frowned at the approaching intruder. One of them stepped forward, extending a six-fingered hand. "Halt."
McGregor ignored the command, quickening his pace. Blasters drew as one and without hesitation the kragars unleashed a barrage of laser blasts.
McGregor's hand casually brushed by his belt as the blasts reached him, a shimmering light flickered where the shots should be destroying flesh. An invisible force field absorbed the blasts with ease. McGregor's left hand was a blur as were the two darts that entered jugulars with deadly silence--the kragars crumbled--a dart protruding from each of their crimson stained necks.
McGregor stepped over the fallen mutants and pushed through the doors, his hands snagging them at their apex and flinging them shut behind him without missing a beat. He continued toward a gigantic desk centered in the elaborate, foliage filled room.
The thing that sat behind the large desk smiled, its seemingly rigid rock face curved upwards. The thing's tangerine hide covered a massively muscled nine-foot frame--he was a Grainite--a genetic mutation bred for mining the mineral planets.
McGregor stopped, glancing toward an eagle sized winged lizard that perched perceptively in an iron cage. It's emerald skin shone like fine polished leather carved to resemble scaled skin. The dragon's tongue licked the air expectantly. McGregor turned his gaze back to the brute behind the desk, coolly meeting the Grainite's smile. "Lord Grimm, I presume."
The genetically created beast ground out a laugh. "I must have done something right, for them to send one of you."
It took an act of will not to acknowledge the complement as pride surged within him, but McGregor held the beast's gaze and said casually. "You worked quickly, unfortunately for you not quietly."
The two warriors analyzed one another carefully, waiting for the other to make a mistake.
"Why'd you kill the grays?" McGregor asked, hiding his interest.
Grimm paused, then began to chuckle, then to laugh--the laughter grew to a near deafening level before he stopped cold. "Because they kill people." Grimm used the nano-second McGregor's mind strayed to go for his guns.
Pistols slid from McGregor's holsters with lightening speed, firing simultaneously with Grimm.
Two mutated thirty inch shoeless feet that rested casually on the desk became launchers, sending literally a ton of tangerine marble hurling toward McGregor who was already diving through the air, hitting the ground rolling as he fired.
McGregor's blasters ignited again and again, lasers ricocheting off the granite's hide.
Rock chips flew from Grimm as he sprinted for the door, firing a large armor piercing photon blaster at the now up and ready McGregor.
McGregor's force field took the brunt of the first blast but it didn't keep him from being knocked back, he fought to keep his balance when a second shot slammed into his chest, propelling him forcefully onto his backside. Breath purged from his lungs and then the third blast connected, slamming the Janitor's head back against stone floor and sending a ripple through his force field…it fizzled away in an electrical light melt down.
McGregor struggled to sit, gasping at the air that was still denied him, then finally finding it and expelling it again with the words. "Oh, shit!"
A massive hand grasped him by the shirtfront; jerking him from the floor and hurling him like a rag doll into the back wall. Grimm laughed again as McGregor slid down the stone to the floor.
A twenty-inch tongue lashed out from the lizard's fanged snout and McGregor heard in his mind, Better move. McGregor listened to the thought and painfully dove from the path of another photon blast. The dragon was obviously enjoying the show.
Grimm continued his march toward the doors, he turned and smiled, firing one last shot at the scrambling McGregor who--hearing the word, Move, in his mind--threw himself behind a hutch full of multi-colored roses, landing hard on already cracked ribs. Grimm laughed at the cry of pain from McGregor and he turned away.
Just as the grotesque hand reached for the double doors, McGregor grimaced with the agony of the effort, but pulled himself up from behind the hutch and shouted, "Hey Rock Face!"
Grimm turned to see a four-inch metallic disc spiraling toward him.
McGregor disappeared behind the hutch as the disc embedded into the center of the grainite's forehead. Grimm's eyes crossed upwards as cumbersome fingers reached frantically for the tiny device. Fours quick ticks later the bomb detonated and the ensuing explosion thundered through the room like a canon.
Kneeling behind the slate desk turned bomb shelter, McGregor covered his head. The concussion blast sent rocks, pebbles and grains of sand raining down upon the room and McGregor. Shortly thereafter, as McGregor allowed his eyes to rise, the leaves and pedals of a hundred roses and a plethora of herbage settled gently around him.
He rose with an aching snarl, laser blasters still in hand, pointing at the double doors--nobody entered. Breathing deeply, he stretched out his bruised and battered body. He inhaled slowly--agonizingly--testing his ribs. Sniffing, he drew in another breath, suddenly aware of the avid aroma now filling the room, enjoying the fragrance of a hundred annihilated roses. Two pistols twirled into holsters and he said wryly, "I love the smell of roses in the morning."
A snicker drew McGregor's attention to the cage, which now lay on its side. The shaken up dragon ruffled out its leathery wings then peered at McGregor.
McGregor's mind once again filled with thoughts not his as the words, Three, two, one, zero, floated through his mind. On zero the doors of the office burst open and a half a dozen kragars charged through firing upon the Space Janitor. Without his force field he was mandated to defy physics and out maneuver the blasts. His own guns reached his hands in a blur and he miraculously escaped the initial onslaught with only flesh wounds. But he only managed to bring two of the warriors down as he somersaulted his way over a table and across the room; attempting to find cover behind the large upturned desk as he unloaded on the remaining four kragars. The well-trained soldiers spread out, attempting to put their adversary in a position of crossfire. McGregor knew too well his fate if he allowed them to succeed--he would be dead.
He didn't give them a chance to think, and kept on the move. He sprang forward, guns exploding in blue rays of death, purposefully charging in the direction of the two still in the proximity of each other. They leapt apart, as did McGregor's guns, and both kragors fell from precision shots to the head.
Blood sprayed from McGregor's shoulder as a blast from one of the remaining kragars ripped across deltoid. "ARRGH!" He dropped with the hit, forcing himself to ignore the pain of landing on the very shoulder that now burned, blasting away at the attacking soldier. The leathery skinned creature crumbled to the floor across the room from him and silence stilled the air. He scanned the room from where he laid. The last kragor had gone into stealth mode. He dared not to make a sound as he slowly slid himself into a defensive position between a carved stone pedestal and the wall. His eyes darted about the room and his ears tuned to the slightest sound.
Silence.
Free Me.
Not exactly a good time for that. McGregor thought back at the dragon.
Obviously. After you win.
If I win?
You will if I help you.
I was going to free you anyway.
Thanks. Here he comes. With that thought sent, the dragon sprang to the side of his tipped cage, causing it to roll. The kragar turned toward the noise as McGregor stood up to face him. When the kragor turned back, he was looking down the barrels of McGregor's guns.
McGregor smirked. "Always good to have back-up."
The kragor nodded, glancing at McGregor's weapons.
Two titanium barrels nodded back, as McGregor quipped. "Don't even think about."
The kragor dropped his weapon.
McGregor maneuvered around him to the cage, gun and eyes on him constantly, then reached down gingerly, opening the iron door of the cage. "Stay out of my mind." He needn't have spoken, for the telekinetic lizard had already read the thought.
The dragon's snout curled in what could only be described as a snarling smile, revealing a tiny row of fangs designed for gnashing. Taking flight, it circled the room then landed on McGregor's shoulder.
"Are you kidding me?" McGregor flinched at the talons digging into his shoulder. "To the nearest planet with meat is as far as you're going." He then thought instead of said, And stay out of my mind.
Impossible.
McGregor ignored him. "Enter the dragon."
The dragon snickered despite having no way to understand the subtext.
"I'll call you Bruce."
And you…Seeker.
In a flash, McGregor holstered his pistol and pulled a dart. He squeezed its base, causing several drops of venom to disperse. "A warrior shouldn't have to die for protecting his master." Nearly impossible to see, the movement was so quick, McGregor's hand sent the dart into the kragar's jugular and the giant crumpled to the floor in a heap.
Like a pirate's prized parrot, the dragon rode McGregor's broad shoulder as he walked back into the cantina. The clientele of this establishment were used to violence, and purposefully kept their eyes and glances at bay as the Space Janitor sauntered past them and toward the bar. He threw down another wad of cash on the countertop. It didn't escape his notice that it wasn't the girl from earlier who took up the money. He quickly shoved the disappointment from his mind--he'd never see her again anyway.

Too late for Cheung!

Paddling out with your buddies is a great thing, as you take that first hit to the head from a mountain of cold white water, you look over to see if your surf pals are making it, it gives you comfort to know they are there to feel the pain with you, and experience the joy after a sweet ride. For Danny, Jeff, Keith and I, if we see a brother’s ride, a fist up in the air and a wide smile gives the props--especially if we survived a big close-out.

Today was one of those days as Jeff and I surfed Seal pier. In photo: Jeff is in black shirt, green cap, standing next to Rich Harbour, who’s standing next to me with that sweeeeet yellow 7’4, the Spherical Revolver. The waves were 3-4 ft. and consistently holding up. But throughout the session, I had one little negative weighing me down—a court appearance at 1:20 that afternoon. Try as I might to block out stressful situations that loom on the horizon of life, I can’t help but let it seep into my mind on occasion. It’s been that way for the three months since the showdown with Officer Cheung was set. My mantra of “Don’t worry about it, enjoy this day, enjoy this moment; what will happen, will happen.” Works most the time, but occasionally the mind starts to live that uknown future over and over again. Luckily, on this day, as the hours counted down to face-off, the surf kept my mind at bay, with only the occasional thought creeping in, “Oh yeah, I’ve got a trial in a couple of hours.”
My epic battle against Officer Cheung started when I was pulled over several months ago for crossing the double line into the carpool lane, and I decided to fight it. The court date was yesterday, and it’s been a slight nagging in my mind for months. After the fun morning of surfing with Jeff and two of my daughters, Jordyn and Dakotah, it was off to the courts. I arrived early, signed in and took a seat. I didn’t know the procedure and about 16 minutes went by before I asked the receptionist how long she thought it would be.
“You have to wait twenty minutes for the officer to arrive.” She said with a smile.
I had thought I was just waiting for the court to start, I didn’t know the process had already begun, so I asked, “Are we doing that right now?”
“Yes.” She said, again with a smile.
I took a seat and quickly looked to the clock, then checked my court time. Sure enough, my official appointment read 1:30 pm, and the clock now read 1:46 pm. My eyes grew wide with the realization; I only had 4 minutes until my ticket—seemingly—would be dropped.
I watched agonizingly from my seat as the second hand moved slowly around the dial. I couldn’t take it, and stood up, moving to the door where I could watch for Officer Cheung amidst the slow flow of people checking in through the metal detector.
I glanced back at the clock. Only a minute had gone by.
I paced the hall and then made my way back to my seat, aching out the next two minutes. At 1:50 pm, by my account, the twenty minutes should be up, but I wanted to play my cards right and I didn’t know if this was a legal time limit, or just something they went by. I began to stalk the counter, pretending to read the miscellaneous family law posters—don’t hit your wife, very bad things happen to you, and they have a lot of power—and finally, after about a minute, the nice middle aged lady who seemed to be in charge, looked at me questioningly. I had found my opportunity.
“I was wondering?” I said in my nicest voice. “What happens after you’ve waited 22 minutes?”
She looked at the clock, then to her paper work. “Well, Officer Cheung never misses an appointment, so…”
I held my breath as I saw her eyes reflect inner musings.
A friendly officer behind her joked, “I’ll testify for him.”
I chuckled nervously.
She looked out the window to the darkening skies and wet streets. “It’s a crappy day out, I’ll let you go.”
In hopeful shock I asked, “Is that it?”
“That’s it.”
I smiled, laughed a little, “Thanks, I wasn’t really sure--”
She cut me off. “But you better get out of here.”
Being the babbler that I am, I laughed, and continued with my story. “—I wasn’t sure that my digitalized witness would hold-up in court, and…”
She cut me off again. “I’m serious. You better get out of here.”
This time I took the hint, if Officer Cheung showed; she would reverse the dismissal if I was still there. I bolted for the door with a wave and a smile, and walked the short distance to the glass doors set in glass walls.
That’s when I saw him.
The youthful Asian cop walked briskly, tinkering with his blue tie. I crossed his path perfectly as I exited. Recognition read in Officer Cheung’s eyes as I gave a brief nod and walked away.
Now I considered pushing it by saying, “Hi, Officer Cheung, sorry I missed you, have a great day.” Or something to that effect, but I was just thankful to be running for the hills. I’m not afraid of a showdown, but like Eastwood says, “Every man’s got to know his limitations.”
I walked briskly to the corner of the brick building, rounding it casually, but as I escaped the view from glass, I took off running!

And of course, I called my pals; Danny, Jeff, and Keith to give the verbal fist in the air and big smile...I escaped the close-out.

Lord, thank you for causing Officer Cheung to be late, and putting charity in the heart of those lovely ladies working the counter. God always takes care of his children, but sometimes it’s more obvious than others.