Saltwater Snowcaps

For two generations, Mercers have ridden boards -
All we need are the laws of gravity and an abundance of frozen flakes compacted into the hillsides of mountain ranges.
All we require are a set of curling masses of water just off shore of beaches made of tiny fragments of rock -

soft grains of sand -

minuscule ghosts of old mountain ranges that once formed snow capped barriers of older worlds.

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There is something spiritual about surfing the open face of a wave or snowboarding down an untouched powder run; knowing that, in all of human history, you are the only person to ever surf that exact wave, or carve a line through that virgin snow.

With all that said, we spend only seconds doing exactly that – we spend most of our time planning, checking weather reports, strapping boards to cars and traveling – and when we finally arrive, we prepare and spend the majority of our time looking at it all. That’s it. Just looking. On ski lifts or beaches, strapping in our bindings or paddling out into the open sea – we observe, patiently deducting a course of action that will bring us to that one instance of “nothing fucking matters but this.”
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As things and body parts mature and deteriorate, the love for such places becomes not about a single ride, or a single wave, but a love for the entirety of the experience.

A childlike awareness so deeply knotted into a person that it stop clocks and unleashes the primitive soul of a man.

So much so that, sometimes, we don’t even need boards at all. We plan despite the weather. We drive because we can. We just go for day trips and watch the ocean or play in the snow with our loved ones. We go on camping trips and sit by rivers and swim in lakes and live amongst it all with smiles on the wrinkles of our faces.

It’s the reason why so many Mercers own all-wheel drive cars with racks on top. It’s the reason why my dad owns so many damn bungee cords and why my collection of boards and outdoor gear continues to grow exponentially.

Eventually, it all fucking matters.

It’s the reason my Dad first took me to the coast. It’s the reason I take my Wife up to to play in the first mountain snowfall as we spin around snow-capped trees, gripping their roots with saltwater soaked fingers.

Life Worth Living

The old guy was a roving landmark on the Edmonds waterfront every morning, checking for unclaimed coins in payphones and newspaper coin returns.  He appeared to be a  hunchback as he walked slowly, but that was his normal body posture while looking down for coins on the sidewalk and the street.  His trademark old and faded Washington State Cougars baseball hat, slightly cocked, sat atop his 85-year-old head.  With fadedblue jeans, old worn coat, and well-worn tennis shoes, many took him for an old-timer who was down on his luck.  Dave Jasper was actually financially set for life, and his search for loose change was like a fun easter egg hunt that enabled him to meet and get to know everyone along his “route”.

Edmonds ferry

Dave was a truly loveable and upbeat guy.  He stopped every pedestrian along the way to tell them a joke, or funny story.  This included joggers, those taking their dogs on a walk, fishermen at the pier, Washington State ferry workers at the ticket booths, ferry passengers inside the ferry terminal, and pedestrians who parked in one of the few unrestricted parking areas in Edmonds, who walk to the bus stop, Sounder commuter train station, and the Washington State Ferry terminal.  I was one of the latter, who parked along the street in front of Edmonds Park to avoid the $125 monthly parking fee at the lots near the ferry dock.  This requires me to walk nearly a mile, and on the way I pass Dave’s apartment building.  My walk intercepted Dave’s route each morning as he returned home at 6:45 am.  This is the time that  his wife of 61 years, Evelyn, woke up each day to do volunteer work for the Catholic Church.

Edmonds waterfront along Dave's morning walks

We all knew Dave.  He greeted us all with a smile, and a twinkle in his eye.  He was a sweet guy who brightened everybody’s day.  The coins that he found were coins that we all planted for him to find.  I dropped coins on the sidewalk like bread crumbs to guide him on his journey home each day.  Yes, we all knew Dave, but I would learn that I got to know him better than most.  We became good friends.  I would later learn that he would roll up the coins and cash them in at the bank.  He used this money to buy an occasional beer at the Elk club, and to take his wife to the Angle of the Winds Casino in Arlington.  They set their limit at $10 to gamble.  If they won $10, or one of them lost $10, then they left.  He told me that he once won ten dollars on the first try on a machine, and told his wife that they had to leave before she even got started.

Dave was born in 1925 in Hoquiam, WA, the 10th of 11 children fathered by a mill worker.  When he learned that I had lived in Couer d’ Alene, Idaho, he told me that his father had worked in a mill there in the late 1800′s, and his mom hated it.  She said that the Couer d’ Alene Indians would walk right in the front door and take things from her house right in front of her.  They never said anything, and would take only item at the time.  Dave said that his dad wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer… he  never thought of installing a door lock.  His mom ended up pushing dressers to block the doors, and left all windows closed even in the summer.

Dave went to boot camp at what is now Farragut State Park in north Idaho.  He was involved in the battle of Midway Island during WW2.  Being Dave, the story that he told of it had a humorous twist:  He was the cook on a tug boat that hauled beach landing craft back out through the waves from the beach.  He said “Do you have any idea how hard it is to cook eggs Benedict when waves and bombs are rocking the boat?”  As I got to know him better, he shared personal stories that are not often told by WWII vets.  In the Philippines, the captain ordered him to deliver two one-hundred pound sacks of rice as payment for a prostitute to come onboard.  Crew members were in line to share the woman, who was selflessly providing food for her village.  Dave said that he was a virgin, and when his turn arrived, he didn’t know what to do with the naked woman , the first that he had ever seen.    He shook her hand and said “I’m Dave.”  He then ran out of the room.  He would be known as “Fast Food Dave” for the rest of his stint on the tug.

 After the war, Dave became a union meat cutter at would later become the Raineer Beer building in Seattle (currently Tully’s Coffey).  He worked the graveyard shift, and when he got off work, he worked a second full-time job as a butcher at Scott’s Market in North Seattle.  He still requires little sleep, hence the early morning walks.  He saved up enough money to buy a small house in Edmonds, and years later, paid cash to tear down the house and had a five unit apartment building built in its place, with he and Evelyn living in the penthouse…”It was the  smartest move that I ever made,” he said.

Was he cheap?   Frugal may perhaps be a better word.  He did, however, pay professionals to do whatever maintenance was required on his building.  He told me one morning that his daughter and son-in-law came to his house for dinner the night before.  His son-in-law walked in the door and said “Where’s the bourbon?”  Dave told him “Drive to the liquor store and buy your own damn bourbon… you’re not drinking any of mine.”  On one Saturday morning, Dave told me that the ferry was shut down because a woman had committed suicide by jumping out in front of the train near the ferry terminal.  Since it would be a couple of hours before access to the ferry terminal was reopened, he asked me to go with him to his building to check out one of his apartments where a tenant had just moved out.  I had never seen such a clean apartment.  The tenant had not even hung up any pictures on the walls.   Everything was spotless, except for one window sill that Dave found some dust on.  There was only one spot on the carpet.  Dave saw that and said “They”re not getting their cleaning deposit back.”  I bent down and discovered that the spot was simply a lint ball, and picked it up and showed Dave.  He took it from my hand and inspected it.  He then handed it back to me and said “Put it back where it was.  They’re not getting their cleaning deposit back.”  I started to make a case that the tenant deserved the refund.  I took a piece of Kleanex from my pocket and cleaned the dust from the window sill and said: “You won’t have to do any cleaning at all… they really deserve the refund, Dave.”  He replied with a twinkle in his eye, “Now they lost their security deposit too because you rubbed your snot all over the window sill”.  We laughed.  Dave said “That was fun, I wish the ferry was late everyday, too bad about the lady who killed herself, though, thirty-seven years old with nothing else to live for.  Having fun like we are having is what makes life worth living.” 

Yeah, I really liked Dave.  I left my home to catch the ferry fifteen minutes earlier than necessary in order to talk to Dave longer each morning.  I also worried about him being hit by cars, as he would J-walk slowly across SR 104 looking for coins, with dark colored clothes, and not looking for cars.  I left in time to meet up with him before he crossed the busy road, and walked back with him until there were no more roads to cross.  He bragged about the pretty young  joggers who stopped to talk to him, calling them his “harrem”…”Lucky for them and for my marriage that my plumbing quit working twenty years ago.”   Dave was a blue-collar union Democrat, and a rabid Cougar football fan.  He was still friendly with Republicans and Husky football fans.  He would yell “Go Cougars!” to known Husky fans, who would reply “Go Huskies!”  We crossed paths one morning with one of my friends, John, who I ride the ferry with, who is a Republican.  Dave yelled “Bush sucked!”  John yelled back “Obama sucks!”  Dave laughed, and then got serious and  asked me: “What does ‘sucks’ mean???”  Dave loved people.

I knew that something was wrong when I saw that the coins that I had left along the route had not been picked up.  No faded red Cougars hats were to be seen along my walk.  Coin returns contained quarters.  I knew that Dave had said that he and Evelyn were  going to Walla Walla to visit relatives over the weekend, but he should have been back by now.  The nice lady who sold passenger tickets at the ferry terminal sadly handed me a clipping from the local Edmonds Beacon newspaper.  Dave made an illegal left turn, and was killed instantly in a head on collision in Eastern Washington on August 18, 2010.  Evelyn survived with non life threatening injuries.

I pass Dave’s apartment twice a day.  In the mornings,I wait out front on the sidewalk until 6:45 to see the lights in the penthouse apartment turn on to make sure that Evelyn is ok.  I follow Dave’s route that he kiddingly offered to sell to me, but I told him that I couldn’t afford it.  I still look for someone wearing a red faded Cougar’s baseball hat.  I talk to the early morning  joggers, exercise walkers, dog walkers, and commuters along the way.  We all miss Dave.  They all say the same thing: “He started my day off with a smile.”   Dave loved his morning walk, and we all loved him.  He showe me how to live a rewarding life.  He lived a life that was worth living to the very end.

double click to enlarge

Perceptions

“The stars are out…. maybe not, yes, no, maybe.”  Mike was uncertain if the clouds had cleared on this moonless night as we ate the incredibly good steak and potatoes that Mike had cooked on our campfire near the beach at Grayland, Washington.  I replied “They are out, no, yea, well maybe.”  Stars could be seen with peripheral vision, and yet we could see no stars when looking directly at them.  I discovered that I could see Venus when I looked two degrees all around it, but it vanished completely when looked directly at.  I theorized that the light mist was diffusing the light.  Perhaps it was illusion that our minds were perceiving as the images of stars behind the cloud cover.  We had just returned from a late afternoon surfing go-out at Washaway Beach.  Maybe we both had water on the brain. 

Earlier the same day, I picked up Mike at his apartment overlooking Lake Union at 10 AM on a Sunday in mid September.  We had not been together on a father and son adventure for several years, and surfing on the Washington coast is one of the most special bonds in our relationship.  Even so, I felt guilty taking Mike away from his wife Mina, as at the time, Sundays were the only day that they had off together.  We had hoped to take this trip together when this blog first started, but our schedules always conflicted.  I hadn’t surfed for two years due to knee, shoulder, and back problems, but being together on a surf trip again was wonderful.  We talked and laughed for the entire trip.  I apologized for repeating old stories that I was sure that I had told him many times before, he responded “You have told these stories to my friends, but never to me”.

Mike reserved a cabin for us to  stay in at Grayland.  We usually camp in a wet tent at Twin Harbors State Park, which is closer to the surfing at Westport, but Grayland is close to North Cove, and Washaway Beach, our ultimate destination.   While Mike was checking in at the private campground office, I was checking out the items that they were selling there.  The usual ice, pop, and candy that you might expect.  One shelf, however, had used items that campers had left behind for sale.  I started laughing when I saw three cooking pan lids for sale.  I thought “who would ever buy those?”  Mike then walked up next to me and said “Wow, I need a lid!”  He gave the lady with the German accent 25 cents for the lid that would cover the pan for our diced potatoes that evening.

We dropped off supplies at the cabin and drove to explore the ever-changing Washaway Beach at high tide.

As usual, shattered rubble from more destroyed homes lines the beach

1920 Canadian Shipwreck uncovered last winter

In awe of the power of nature, and sadness for those who lost their homes normally keeps us solemn at Washaway.  There is something about a pink toilet, a pit bull, and a wolf dog eyeing him on the cliff that brings out drama in Mike.

Isle Knot Go

The owner of “Isle Knot Go” purchased this house in 2004, expecting it to be washed into the sea within four years, in spite of installing a huge and expensive breakwater around the property.  It will hopefully save his home for many more winters to come.

10/25/2010.  Washaway claims another.  Waves up to 35 feet combined with high tides are hammering the coast.  Waves up to 48 feet are hitting north Vancouver Island.  The webcam at Westport shows the groin jettys (fingers) at the surf spot almost completely submerged.

Graves were exhumed before being overtaken by the sea, and relocated to North Cove Pioneer Cemetary in 1977.

Don Kiel died while mowing the lawn at this cemetary.  He was the buddy/helper of the one who carved the headstone.

After exploring Washaway and the cemetery, Mike and I drove to the Tokeland casino and donated a few dollars to their machines.  Mike bought some discount res cigarettes, and we left to check out the waves.  We were surprised to see a guy surfing south of Washaway.  Westport is the surfing beach, not Washaway.  The high tide and swell direction were creating some fun waves south of the Army Corps of Engineer breakwater.  I spoke with the surfer as he returned to his truck.  He was an older guy, a minister from Walla Walla who has a church camp in Raymond.  He sneaks away from his parishioners at the retreat to come here and surf, to get inspiration for his sermons.

Mike and I decided to go for it and suited up.  Mike misplaced his wetsuit booties, and I forgot to bring mine.  The paddle out at Washaway is very easy, and the scenery was very aesthetic, with an eerie fog.  Both of our feet were freezing.  Mike started catching wave after wave.  I told myself that I could still pop right up from the prone paddling position to the standing position.  On my first wave, I did just fine.  My body still works!  My surfing ability was terrible, but I was having fun.  Mike caught an outside wave and rode it perfectly to shore.  I took off on the next set wave, but a brain fart reminded me of my torn ACL and meniscus while I was getting up… I blew it.  Mike laughed.  We had a good time.  Mike then brought out his new digital camera, and did the water shots that can be viewed on his Washaway Video on an earlier posting.

Cold, but energized, we returned to our cabin with bunk beds, a light bulb, and a heater.  I brought firewood, but Mike wanted to first start with a Presto Log that he brought, which burned instantly.  This was in commemoration of a previous camping trip that we took.  On that trip, I brought a “self-starting” Presto Log that simply would not light.  I wadded up an entire Seattle Times newspaper, along with kindling, but the log didn’t even start it to smolder.  I then used a propane blow torch at full force for ten minutes that did absolutely nothing.  Hearing Mikes’ great laugh at my antics that night meant more than a campfire.  This brings us back to where this story began.

Perceptions.  There were stars, but there were no stars.  The sound of the roar of the ocean waves was coming from the north, but the ocean was to the west of us.  The warm glow of the fire highlighted Mike”s face.  This was not the face of the boy that I raised, but that of a mature man, a very good man.  Parents do not always see their children as they are, only what they remember them to be.  Older people like myself see themselves as much younger than the mirror reflects.  When I was young, my grandparents seemed to be 100 years old, when they were only forty-five.  How we perceive ourselves and others are often like seeing stars where they aren’t, and seeing nothing where they actually are.

While our perceptions are not always accurate, Mike reaffirmed, and surpassed my positive opinions of him.  He has matured, grown wiser, and has become an even more loving man.  Since Mike was born, he has always been a really good, considerate, funny, smart, loyal, and caring person.  He has always been very popular and outgoing, but I did not see his inner reflective and sensitive side.  Perhaps, I looked at him, but I didn’t really “see” him.  At the campfire, I asked him if he is getting more sensitive now, and if he has become a deeper thinker, as reflected in his recent writing and music, or has he always been so.  He replied, “I always have been.” 

I will love my son for the rest of his life no matter what, but now I love him even more.

Uncreative Writing Class

We have all had teachers who inspired us, and we have all had teachers who made our lives a living hell.  Mike created this blog as a writing tool for us to overcome our lack of self confidence to write down our stories and reflections.  My reluctance to write, and my illiteracy of the basics of the written word, can be directly attributed to one creative writing teacher that I had at Airport Jr. High… Mr. Tischler.  I still cringe when I hear his name.

The idealic summer vacation of 1962 was in its final week.  I hated school, but I looked forward to seeing my school friends, especially the girls.  My mom gave my brother and I a JC Penneys credit card to buy school clothes, and five dollars each to buy school supplies.  We both bought the same three-ring binder notebooks, paper, supplies notebook pouch, pencils, rulers, and erasers.  Bill bought a three pack of BIC pens, but I chose a cool four ink combo pen… where I could use black, blue, green, or red from the same pen.

I loved writing science fiction stories, and I looked forward to the Creative Writing class.  I sat to the left of my friend Craig, and to the right was a pretty blonde girl named Kathy, who would later become my girlfriend.  Mr Tischler introduced himself, and had us write our names on cards on our desks.  He saw my name, “Ivan Mercer”, and squealed a machine-gun like high pitch giggle.  He asked me if Bill Mercer was my brother, and I replied that he was.  “Hee-hee-hee-hee-hee….Bill Mercer, initials: B.M.…..hee-hee-hee-hee.  B.M.…Bowell Movement…..hee-hee-hee-hee.  From this moment on for the entire semester, Mr. Tischler would lose control every time that he glanced at me, “B.M. hee-hee-hee-hee”.

Our first assignment was to write a short story, which would be due in one week.  I wrote an absolute masterpiece, and stayed up late and worked all weekend perfecting it.  I re-wrote it so many times that I used up a lot of ink and paper.  By my final draft, I used up most of all four colors of my multi-color pen.  I started in black, which ran completely out, then went to blue, then to green, and I finished the story with red ink.  Twenty-five pages, single spaced, written on both sides.  I was so proud of this story, and I looked forward to Tischler’s grade of A+ when I turned it in.

‘The following Monday morning at the start of class, Mr. Tischler started with the following statement: “I have read and graded all of your essays.  There were some that were very good, and some were very bad.  There was one, however, that stood out”.  He held up my story, easily identifiable by the different colored ink.  My pride swelled, and my heart began to race.  “That’s mine!”, I whispered to Kathy.  The teacher continued: “Some of you did the bare minimum, and wrote only one page, but this student wrote a novel.  It is unfortunate that he did not follow my basic rules.”  As he flipped through the pages to the class, he showed the different colored ink that I used.  He continued, “I refuse to even read this trash.”  He then violently ripped up pages and started stomping on them.  “This student receives an F.” 

Our next assignment was an essay, which I did not work as hard on, but I was still very proud of it.  The teacher once again held it up in front of the class, easily recognised because I did it in pencil.  He again tore it up and threw it in the trash without reading it.  “Ink only!  One color only!” , “F “.  He then looked directly at me with a stern look and said: “B.M…… Bowell Movement!”  For the first time, he did not giggle.

For the remainder of his class, I paid no attention to anything that he taught, and I only submitted the bare minimum to survive with a D-.  I lost all interest in writing, and I never learned the basics of English or composition from he, or any subsequent English teachers, save one.  Mr. Tischler would no doubt simply delete anything that I have written on this blog due to my illiteracy of the basics, and never find out if I have anything of interest to say.

I had a great summer vacation the next year, and carried my notebook and an arsenal of black pens to my posted assigned home-room to get my class schedule for the new semester.  My life collapsed when I saw that my home room teacher would be Mr. Tischler… “B.M.  hee-hee-hee-hee”.  It got even worse.  Receiving my new schedule, I saw Tischler’s name also for my third period English class, as well as my fifth period Social Studies class.  I had him for three classes!

 I was zoned out in his Social Studies class later that year.  I apparently was sucking on the end of my black Bic pen, sucking the ink out into my mouth.  When he glanced at me, instead of BM hee-hee, he looked horrified.  Black ink was drooling out of my mouth.  That year, I got a “D” in English and a ”D” in Social Studies.  I got an “A” in all of my other classes that semester.

Years later in my senior year in high school, I struggled with my confidence to write a story for an English class assignment, a subject that I was doing poorly in.  I was expecting a bad grade when the teacher handed out the graded stories to us.  I saw red correction marks and notes on every sentence that I wrote.  I was amazed, though, when I looked on top to see an A+.  The teacher met with me after class to tell me that she loved the context of the story, although, it needed a lot of editing, and it had a lot of spelling and punctuation errors.  The main thing is that she actually read the story, and she liked it.

I re-wrote the story, using her notes and suggestions.  She submitted it in a L.A. County School District writing contest.  My composition won first place.  I, being the grand prize winner, was awarded to have lunch with science fiction writer Ray Bradbury.  He wanted to hire a hit man to go after Mr. Tischler. 

 Mr. Tischler,…..M.T…..empty….hee-hee-hee-hee-hee.

Washaway Video

Video from our recent camping trip to Washaway Beach

Below are some photos that I took of Mike at Washaway Beach and Westport while he was filming with his new camera, which is water resistant to ten meters.  He had a constant smile on his face while he filmed the water shots:

Mike at Washaway Beach. Eyes wide shut.

Our stories of our father and son trip will be upcomming

Thomas is the Man!

  

It was a pleasure to introduce friends of Shaela, Melanie, and Mike to surfing.  Twenty years ago, there were only a few hundred surfers in Washington State… now there are many  thousands.  Surfing here in the late eighties and early nineties was a rare novelty, and it was a special alternative for them to snowboarding when there was no snow.

 

On one of these trips, I brought Mike and his friend Thomas.  Mike made friends easily, and he became instant friends with Thomas and Chris when we moved here in 1988, and they remain true and loyal friends to this day.  Thomas was a big kid who has grown to be an even bigger man.  Whenever Thomas was around, fun and laughter were guaranteed.  

Thomas and Chris (as well as Chris’s brother Ben) didn’t have much growing up, and any act of kindness to them was greatly appreciated.  Thomas lived in a small home, and built himself a small uninsulated shed without any heat source to live in his backyard when his grandma moved into his bedroom.  Winter temperatures in the twenties are not uncommon, and Thomas never complained. 

 

Thomas’s family religion barred him from celebrating Christmas, and exchanging gifts.  One Christmas, however, Thomas gave me one of the most special Christmas gifts that I have ever received: “Battle Chess”.  Battle Chess was an intense computer chess game for Windows 95, where captured pieces were brutally smashed and cut up, with blood and guts, and screams.  I had fun playing this, but what made it so special was that it was a gift from Thomas. 

Upon arriving at Westport, I stopped in to see my friend Al at The Surf Shop to rent a long surfboard and wetsuit for Thomas.  Al felt really bad that he did not have a wetsuit large enough to fit him, but Thomas seemed unfazed by the chilly fifty-five degree water temperature. 

Westhaven State Park

The learning curve in surfing is extremely long.  Beginners learn by staying close to shore riding the whitewater of waves where most of the energy has dissipated.  It can be many days or weeks before one is ready to paddle out with the better surfers to catch the faces of waves, especially at Westport when the waves outside are overhead, as it was on this day.  There are also rules of etiquette in surfing that one must learn and respect to avoid confrontations with the better surfers.  I was teaching Thomas the basics , with Mike surfing the whitewater nearby.  Tom seemed comfortable not trying to stand up, just riding the waves in on his prone paddling position was giving him great joy.  He was having a blast! 

I decided to paddle out to catch wave faces with the more experienced surfers after a half an hour, asking Mike to stay with Thomas and to keep an eye on him.  The beach at Westhaven State Park has a very gradually sloping sandy bottom, and the bigger the waves, the further out they break.  On big days, waves break a quarter of a mile out to sea, and paddling out through wave after wave to get outside the break can be quite an ordeal.  I had just made it out to the pack of surfers when one of the locals looked directly at me and angrily said: “What’s he doing out here?”, as he pointed in to Thomas, who had followed me out.  A beginner can be spotted a mile away by the way that they paddle.  Thomas was about fifty feet towards shore from me.  

I started to paddle in towards Tom, when someone yelled “OUTSIDE!”.  This meant that the largest wave of the day was approaching, and would break much further out to sea.  As the other surfers paddled out, I had to paddle in to help Thomas.  It was then that I realized that the water here was well over six feet deep, and I didn’t even know if Thomas knew how to swim.  

 We both paddled out frantically together towards the huge approaching wave, which did not break further out, as everyone expected.  It held up long enough to break right on top of us, in the impact zone!  I just made to the top of the curling lip of the wave when I looked back to see Thomas turning around below me to try to catch that wave at the most intense spot where you are going to get nailed.  To my astonishment, and to the astonishment to the other surfers outside, Thomas road that monster wave all of the way to the shore.  I could hear him laughing and hooting all of the way to the beach. 

It has been said that the best surfer in the world is the one who is having the most fun.  I have never seen anyone have as much fun surfing as Thomas.  He rode the wave of the day.  Thomas is the Man!

 

Big Al

Big Al, owner of The Surf Shop in Westport, WA

Al Perlee is a big man with a big heart, and a philosophical mind.  Al and I are the same age, and we both first started surfing when we were nine years old, in 1959.  Al was a defensive lineman for Stanford when they won two Rose Bowl Championships.  Injuries kept him from a promising professional NFL career.  He was somewhat of a nomad, and left the crowded surf scene in Santa Cruz to start a new life with his wife Kathy in 1978 at Westport, Washington,  where he built a 12×20 foot tar paper shack to live in.  He opened Washington State’s first surf shop in 1987, appropriately named “The Surf Shop.”

Couer d'Alene River, Idaho

    At the same time that Al and Kathy left California to move Westport, I moved my family to Couer d’ Alene, Idaho.  We lived a great life there, spending a lot of time enjoying its’ rivers and lakes.  I got laid off from the phone company in 1983.  This was during Ronald Reagan’s ”Trickle-down Economics” that was so devastating to the working class.  I was able to find jobs to feed and support my family, but I needed to find a stable job with benefits.  Shaela was doing great in school, but the High School had lost its accreditation, making Shaela ineligible for college scholarships.  I applied for, and was hired by GTE in Kirkland, WA, a suburb of Seattle.     

We sold our nice home in Idaho at a loss, and purchased a modest cinderblock home in Mountlake Terrace.  My entire family hated the house.  They hated the area.  They hated me!  My daughter Shaela told me just this year that she finally forgives me for taking her from her friends and life in Idaho.  I reported to work after returning the UHaul truck after our move and was advised by my boss that another union employee had bumped me out of my job.  Now I hated me too!    

On the positive side, our children made friends, who introduced them to skateboards and snowboarding.  Melanie, who felt a bit as an outsider, met others who shared her idealistic moral ethics, helping to reafirmed what would become her strong lifelong convictions. I built a quarter-pipe in our carport for them and their friends to ride skateboards.  Snowboarding was in its infancy then, and Shaela, Melanie, and Michael absolutely loved it.  They even pitched in to buy me a used Kidwell model Simms snowboard for Christmas.  They all became really good snowboarders.  I had fun, but I never got good.     

We took our first family drive to see the open ocean at Westhaven State Park in Westport.  The coast of Washington receives massive raw unobstructed energy from all over the Pacific Ocean, and yet, the two-mile long south jetty at the entrance of Gray’s Harbor made the waves and currents “surfer friendly”.  The waves were really good for surfing, and there were a few surfers out catching great waves!  I loved the waterways of North Idaho, but I am a child of the sea.  I was reborn!  Shaela, Melanie, and Mike seemed to share my enthusiasm.    Surfboards are kissing cousins of skateboards and snowboards. 

The Surf Shop

Driving through Westport, I was amazed to see a surf shop.  The sign said “Surf Shop”.  Great name that says it all!  We walked inside and met the owner, Al.  Al related with a genuine smile as he listened to my enthusiastic surfing stoke, a smile that he would come to wear often as he helped to positively introduce  many to the joys of surfing in the Northwest.  We rented surfboards and wetsuits, and had a great, but chilly time, as the water temperature generally ranges from 45 to 55 degrees, and the air temperature is usually very cool.  My kids seemed to see me in a new light, as a cool dad.  That felt great!  While they never became accomplished surfers, I was able to pass on to them my love and respect for the ocean, and they came to understand my special love of surfing.  In forty years of marriage, I have made only two major purchases for myself… two surfboards, both from The Surf Shop.     

The term “soul surfer” sounds very corny, but Al is a soul surfer in the truest sense of the word.  He  loves the beach and the ocean, as he truly loves his family.  He runs his business with the attitude that if you care for the customers, the business will take care of itself.  He is very laid back and philosophical, and he lives his life accordingly.  I instantly felt that I had met a special friend.  I had not met anyone in my nine years in Idaho who was anywhere near being enlightened.  There is a lack there of cultural, ethnic, and intellectual diversity.  Each conversation was a homogenized talk about hunting, fishing, and firewood.  A person was judged not by the merit of his character, but by the type of tires that he had on his rig.  I not only rediscovered the best aspects of surfing because of Al, I reconnected with my own idealism through Al.    

Al would drive to the beach to check out the conditions before opening his shop at 10 am.  We would often talk these mornings well past 10, but he said that talking to me was more important to him, even though those waiting in line for the shop to open to rent boards and wetsuits would give up, and go to the new competition down the street, at the Steepwater Surf Shop.  Al once told the story of seeing a mushroom growing in the sand on one of his morning surf checks.  He said that he had lived his entire life at the beach, and had never seen a mushroom growing in dry sand.  He picked it and took it home to show to his family.  His daughter Hana told him “if it is so special, why did you pick it?”  Al looked at me, feeling ashamed as he said, “She was right”.

The Northwest Chapters of the Surfrider Foundation sponser the Clearwater Classic surfing contest at Westport each summer.  At the awards ceremony at the Westport Convention Center, a special presentation was given to Al last year.  Bob McTavish, the Australian pioneer of the shortboard, made a special longboard that he presented to Al onstage, a board on which many of us wrote our tributes and thanks.  McTavish is to surfing what Jimi Hendrickx was to the inovation of the electric guitar.  Al, who was obviously very uncomfortable with all of the attention said  the following:  ”There are so many galaxies in the universe, and the earth is spinning so fast… it’s amazing that we’re not all thrown out into space, and yet, here we all are in Westport”.   Al, surfer and philosopher, then walked offstage.   

Hana and her brother Dane are excellent surfers, and really special people.  They have more family love and respect than any family that I know of.  They share their dad’s love of the ocean, and ride waves on longboards, shortboards, boogie boards, skimboards, and bodysurfing… complete watermen.  Dane is a shaper for Pearson Arrow Surfboards in Santa Cruz, and he is very respected in the surfing community.  He is a soul surfer extraordinaire, who truly respects ideals that his dad and I share.  I have also been privileaged to see Al’s special relationship with Kathy as they hold hands at the beach and watch the sunset together.    

Al is a good man.  His merits are reflected in the following story:  

Melanie was working for the State DNR (forestry), living in a small old rental home in Olympia.  It was Labor Day Weekend, 1999.  I drove my 1977 Ford Econoline camper van, and picked her up to go surfing.  Arriving in Westport, my rear tire had a blow out.  I had recently had the rear end repaired by a respected Lynnwood mechanical proctologist, who way over-tightened  the tire lugs.  I could not get any of them off.  My camper van had a pop-top with a canvas hammock, supported by 7 foot steel poles.  Even with the leverage of the long poles, I had a very hard time getting the lugs off, but I finally succeeded.  The spare tire, unfortunately looked like it would only take us a couple of miles, as a big buldging bubble started when I lowered the jack.  I drove to the Surf Shop and asked Al if he had an extra spare tire that he could sell me, as he also had a Ford Van, or where I might purchase one in Westport.   

Westport becomes a ghost town after Labor Day.  This is the last weekend of the season that businesses such as the Surf Shop have to see them financially through the winter.  There are many more year-round surfers now.  After hearing of my situation, Al wanted to close his shop so that he could help me out.  I of course refused, saying that he needed to stay at the shop and “Be like a squirrel and store financial nuts to see his family through for the winter”.  I said that his offer was very kind and greatly appreciated.  Genuinely so.  I gingerly drove the van to Sears in Aberdeen to buy new rear tires, where they struggled for a long time to get the other rear tire off. 

 This is just one example of what a good and special man that Al is.