Written By: KEVIN MIRSKY

When I was in my mid-teens, my mom would try to discourage me from surfing at the nearby beach. All that “under-tow, and those sneaky rogue waves!”, she would caution. “Mom,” I’d counter, “the most dangerous part of the beach isn’t the surf, it’s the scene in the parking lot. The local crew is terrifying!”

That was mostly true for me, at the time. But with patience, humility and a bit of unhinged commitment, I would over the years come to learn the ways of those rogue waves and even how to navigate that infamous undertow. And now, perhaps even more importantly to me, I’ve come to embrace and even be embraced by that same local crew. The crew, who makes up the unwieldy tribe that holds court down at the end of the beach road, near the picnic table that overlooks the best sandbar. This same bunch, that once looked like thuggery, miscreants and a ragged band of misfit toys, today looks to me like a tribe. Like my tribe, my people, my friends, my happy place.  On this particular day, under the warmth of the October sun, all of them were **out there, and I know my mom was smiling at it all from up above. Not just because I was now more accomplished and a lot “safer” in the water than I once had been, but because she always appreciated eccentricity, outsiders, and counterculture, as do I. As do we—the surfers down at the end of the road, gathered around the picnic table.

First comes Regular Pete. Pete is Regular Pete because he is a regular foot, who only surfs on his forehand and also because he is the most regular amongst the regulars. Pete is always here, every day, at the picnic table or out in the water or holding some kid’s head in the toilet. Surf or no surf, Regular Pete is here. Amongst the crew, Regular Pete has ascended to the top of the tribal hierarchy, mainly due to his unwavering dedication to picnic table sand bar. But in recent years, he has also become the single, most vocal man in the water, enforcing the rules, and breathing fire on unsuspecting newcomers. Today many people call him, “Regulator Pete.”

Suddenly, a cacophony of sputtering, backfiring and rattling noises announce the arrival of Wrong Way Troy. Wrong Way rolls up in his beleaguered 1991 Ford Taurus station wagon. There is a ten-foot mass of dented fiberglass and duct tape, loosely secured to the roof by a pair of badly worn bungee cords. The car has no windows. Troy has a tendency to go right on obvious lefts, and left on obvious rights. While this can prove dangerous to those paddling out, everyone loves Wrong Way Troy.

Next to arrive on scene is Boogie Mike. Boogie Mike is not the only bodyboarder to surf at this beach, but he is the only body boarder who is feared by nearly every surfer, and many beach goers, and even a few dogs. This is because Boogie Mike is heavy. He is rumored to pack heat and is a gang member, and for him—the beach is every bit a part of his turf. Boogie Mike also charges hard. Boogie Mike is respected first and foremost for this last attribute.

Though it is still fairly early, the beach is filling up fast. A big, gangster looking American sedan pulls slowly into the parking lot. Derek is here. Derek is perhaps the most revered member of the crew. He looks like a young Paul Newman and has no problem playing the leading role. Derek is not the oldest, not the biggest, but definitely one of the toughest and without question—one of the coolest members of the group. When called upon, he will act as judge and jury for all matters of alleged infractions. Today, Derek sits quietly in his late model Impala, and takes in the scene. Derek has swagger, confidence and the general presence of a natural born leader. The deep crows feet that emerge from under the sides of his black, wrap around sunglasses, only add to his good looks,  punctuating his persona. Derek has lived more lives in his 40-something years than the rest of the group put together and now serves as the patron saint of the picnic table crew. He has your back. He is there for anyone, and everyone, under any circumstances.  Derek’s got you, and everyone has Derek. Still seated in his car, he holds court. He might surf later, he might not, it doesn’t matter. Derek is killing it.

Stopping only to bump fists with Derek and a few others before making his way down the beach and into the line up, is Erickson, The Viking. 

Erickson is an absolute mountain of a man. It is impossible to imagine where he finds a wet suit big enough to cover his gigantic frame, not to mention how he gets it on or off. He rides an 8-foot, “short board” with 3-inch thick rails. When he makes his initial bottom turn, it is hard to tell if he’s soul arching or just trying not to tip over, but once he gets his considerable weight centered under him, his power and precision align and he roars over wave faces. Erickson’s hands are thick and heavy. I know this because he once took a swing at me. I was still a grom and had gotten perhaps a little too comfortable with my emerging station in the line up. A set came and he and I were the only two people anywhere near it. It seemed like he had no interest in it, for whatever reason. He just sat there on his board, about 10 feet outside of me, looking off into the distance. Assuming he was going to pass, I paddled around him in pursuit of the wave. It was a really nice peak, to me an obvious right-hander and I wanted it. Suddenly Erickson, having decided he liked the look of it too, and further deciding that it was a better looking left than a right, swung around and started to paddle. We were going to be on a collision course for one another, him going left, and me going right. Huge, Viking Erickson stood up, and in one motion took off and threw a left-hook at my face as he set his rail and began steam rolling his way down the line. Fortunately for me, the punch did not land. I still remember the wind that his fist created as it passed, just an inch or so from my nose. I knew immediately that I was in the wrong. Erickson was the man. He’d surfed out there forever, he was highly competent, he was respected and the rules are the rules. You don’t just paddle around a guy like that, ever. Later, in the parking lot, I humbly apologized to him. I said, I should never have paddled around him. “Fucking right you little shit!” he said with just a tiny bit of a smile. Apology accepted, thank God. Not long after that incident however, Erickson began calling me into waves. First, by simply nodding, ever so subtly in my direction, when a set came to him, as if to say, “OK kid, you can have this one, don’t fuck it up.” Eventually, and audibly, he’d actually tell me to “Go!” with what felt like a hint of enthusiasm in his voice. This was it, I had been knighted. Or at least acknowledged. I was triumphant.

As the day’s warm morning turns to a hot afternoon the rotation of surfs, hangs and surf-agains keep moving in and out, with the changing of the tide. A familiar, tribal hum of voices, activity and rituals is beginning to fill the air. Jackson Jenkins is telling stories about his time on Maui—how it was he who first taught Laird and others to windsurf, and about a monster day he had out at some unnamed outer reef. And his favorite—how Simon Anderson actually stole the idea for the thruster from him. Jack never stops talking, in or out of the water, but everyone makes time for him.

Across the lot I see Colleen, the artist. Colleen is 110% local, but she doesn’t spend any more time than necessary at the beach. She arrives, suits up, surfs brilliantly, and leaves. “Too much mansplaining and jerking off around that damned picnic table for me to want to hang around,” she once told me. Colleen is fierce. Colleen was one of the first surfers I became aware of who wanted little or nothing to do with mainstream, pop-surf culture, and at the time that broadened my horizons considerably. She was more East Village than SoCal. She wore black work boots and overalls, not flip flops and bikinis. To this day I still have a respectful crush on Colleen. Not because of her considerable good looks but because of her presence, her style, and her strength. She is extremely well-respected and gets her waves. No one reads the lineup better than Colleen, and her high lines and swooping arcs are my love language.

The waves are great all day. There are peaks up and down the beach, but the sandbar out in front of the picnic table at the end of the road is absolutely firing. Around the table, the crew is now framed by the broader swath of humanity that comprise weekend beach goer types. They are out in droves on this rare, warm day. Low-riders, chopped bikes, and base thumping rice rockets fill in the remaining parking spaces alongside preppy, multi-family minivans and newly minted techies. The gang bangers, the bros, the bongo players, hippies and sun tanners, the kids, the dogs, the entire world is out at the beach today. At the far end of the beach access road the playful mood is still a bit tenuous however. Someone could look at someone the wrong way.  Somebody burns somebody, and it’s on. Down here, the characters, the criminals, the screech of burning rubber, rogue waves, and the dreaded undertow will all serve to keep today’s harmony in check . The scene can still be a bit dangerous, and the crew is still close knit, protective and quirky. And I hope it never changes.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: while based on personal experiences, this essay is largely fictionalized.

Follow Kevin on IG: @kevin_mirsky

Thanks for reading, ya'll! Look out for the next WAVE SLIDERS JOURNAL coming soon.

- Jack