All Fucked Up
"Surf's Up, Fuck You"
A pinch in my back, a chill. The older surfer and myself
held eachother's gaze longer than was exactly comfortable.
Two wickedly sheer blue eyes staring back into two dull
brown eyes. There was somethiing about his voice:
arrogance, authority. A certain "Surf's up, fuck you"
quality. Yet, his eyes hazed w/a funny, self-deprecating
glint. I stared at the exquisite curve of his deep pink
lips, their fullness, his smooth, suntanned skin. My throat
tightened, then burned. His black rashguard was imprinted
w/the word KAHUNA. "Kahuna," I read, speaking too
loudly. "That's me," he replied proudly, "Let me introduce
you to the guys"
One by one, like suntanned savages of the western sun, a
surfer popped up from the hollows of the sand, revealing
ripped suntanned bodies behind their boards-- each
resembling a modern Dionysus. "That's Pipeline Perry-- he's
obviously surfed The Pipeline, that there's Samuel
Adam's...and he, uh...he's obviously had one too many this
morning, and that's Ray the Ripper-- the kid can surf in
the gnarliest of rip curls....and that, that there's
Kalani." Kahuna introduced each surfer w/delicate care,
pasuing to take in their individual talents. "What about
me?" I whined. "You, why you're Wahine, the Sixth Surfer!"
he boldly proclaimed. I shot a childish smile of self-
satisfaction. A babe in boyland
The next day was a killer in The Boo (surfer slang for
Malibu). Ten footers crashed into the sleepy shore and the
only surfers in sight were those that had already made a
living riding the big ones from Waimea Bay to the golden
shores of South Africa-- Terry the Tubesteak, Robin
Mahoney, Fast Boy Schweppes and Pipeline Perry. "Hey, you
think Pipeline'll be alright out there?" I half-worriedly
asked the Kahuna, subconsciously tugging at the leash of
his 9" Webber. "Ha!" the Kahuna shot back in all convincing
sheer stoke, "Sure the dude'll be alright! These swells are
chop suey to him!!" The Kahuna then ran past the shoreline,
happy as a mutherfucker w/"Betsy," his 9" and a childish
smirk on his ruddy face and paddled out into those gorgeous
From what I was told many times over, one needn't worry if
the Kahuna was in 2 footers or 60 footers-- it didn't phase
him as he was hand's down the best surfer on the beach. I
gazed out past the breakers diggin in the scene, amused by
the Kahuna and his eccentricities-- cut off Dickies (by now
he had taken off the rash guard), scattered tatts I
couldn't quite make out from the shore, a St. Christopher's
medal and a straw hat that looked more like a single
shredded wheat. No sunblock-- definitely rare for those who
surfed the blazing summer days of Southern
California. "Hey, Ripper?" I asked, approaching the more
advanced surfer, "Chop Suey. What's that mean?"
(To be continued)
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