A few months after Razor had dropped the board by the station, I called him at the shop, told him I had been using the board every day, and thanked him. Razor said there was a nice northwest swell and asked me if I wanted to go surfing. The next morning, Razor picked me up and drove up the coast to Silverstrand beach in Oxnard. I had trouble with the hard-breaking waves, which were overhead with paper-thin walls; I continually tumbled off the board and ended up in the surf with my leash tangled around my legs. Razor showed me how I was taking off a fraction too late. “Commit yourself fully to the wave,” Razor had said. “If you hesitate, you’re lost.” I knew he was right. During my next few rides, for the first time that day, I stayed with the waves all the way and finished off with flourishing kick outs. Since then, we surfed together a few times a year. I still had the board with the fiery wave in the center.
During the past year, Razor had called a number of times, but I always put him off. I wasn’t interested in surfing or seeing anyone connected to my days as a cop.
Now, Razor was trying to lure me out again. “A south swell just rolled in. The outer reef by Little Dume is cranking.”
I had surfed the outer reef with Razor in the past. But only in the summer and fall. South swells in the spring were rare. A hurricane from Baja must be blowing up the coast, I figured.
“I got a case, Razor. I don’t think I can break away.”
“Dude, I’ve been worried about you. You’ve got to get out of your own head.”
I thought about what Dr. Blau had said: You have to learn when to let go and leave the job behind-”
“Okay, Razor, you’ve worn me down. What time tomorrow morning?”
“Six. And get your stoke on.”
CHAPTER 10
My alarm woke me at four fifteen. I grabbed my wet suit and board and tossed them into the back of my station wagon, which I had bought when I started surfing. Now I was glad I hadn’t sold the Saturn.
By four thirty, I was on the freeway, speeding by the first morning commuters.
When I emerged onto the Pacific Coast Highway from the Santa Monica tunnel it was still dark, but I could see the iridescent spray of the white water crashing against the shore. The moon was full, casting milky shards of light farther out at sea.
I cruised up the serpentine highway, hard by the rocky cliffs, past Sunset, Topanga, and a few other surf spots that caught the swell and were jacking good-sized waves near the shore. After I passed Malibu and Paradise Cove, I dropped down the hill to Zuma, pulled into the lot, drove down a frontage road, and parked next to Razor’s van. I could hear the waves of the Zuma shore break before I saw them: a thunderous roar that pounded the sand.
I banged on the window of the van and Razor emerged, naked, wearing only sheepskin-lined Ugg boots, rubbing sleep from his eyes. From the neck down, Razor looked like a teenager: he had a washboard stomach, wide shoulders, arms and chest corded with muscle from a lifetime of paddling. But his shoulder-length hair was as silver as a chrome pistol, and his bushy mustache and soul chip beneath his lower lip were bleached white from the sun.
“Surf naked, brah,” Razor said.
“I don’t think so,” I said, pulling my wet suit out of my trunk.
“Just kidding. Some of these waves are double overhead. Good way to lose your crank in the drink.”
After we slipped on our wet suits and grabbed our boards, we climbed the steep bluff that separated Point Dume from Zuma. The morning dew raised the pungent smell of sage and sumac. Flowering white yucca as tall as a surfboard-called Our Lord’s Candle-bordered the path. At the top of the bluff, we stopped for a moment. In the smoky early morning light, I could see the entire sweep of the Santa Monica Bay, from Point Dume below me, to the tip of the Palos Verdes Peninsula in the distance.
Little Dume, a short, rocky point, was a half mile down the coast. About six hundred feet from shore, just beyond a kelp bed, I could see the waves breaking off the outer reef. The faces were huge, slowly rising from the deep water, pausing for a moment as they caught the reef, frozen in time, glassy and deep green in the faint light, before crashing and crumbling into a mountain of white water.
We climbed down the bluff and set our boards on the wet sand. Razor lovingly ran his hands along the rail of my board and said, “That’s one sweet stick.”
We dropped to our knees and began waxing our boards, the bubble gum smell filling the air. The presurfing ritual-climb into the wet suit; check out the surf, tide, and wind; wax the board; pick the right spot to paddle out- reminded me of my old prepatrol routine. Clean the Galil. Slip on the flak jacket and helmet. Fill the canteen. Hook on the grenades. Then get going and look for moving shadows.
“Wake up, Ash,” Razor said. “It’s thumping out there.”
I waded out to my waist, board under my arm, the cold water chilling me as it seeped into my wet suit. Then Razor and I hopped on our boards and began paddling out at an angle to avoid the turbulent water. We circled around the outer reef and pulled up just beyond the break. Pale bands of orange and pink streaked the eastern horizon; the sky overhead was neon blue. There was not even a hint of mist or wind, and first wave of the set that rose from the reef was a velvety wall of water. Razor took off and I saw him disappear down the huge face, spotted the top of his head a few seconds later, and then lost him again as he ripped up and down the wave, the lip feathering, catching rainbows of light.
I paddled for the last wave of the set, looked down, and felt as if I was standing atop a skyscraper staring at the street below. I quickly pulled out and swiveled around. When Razor paddled back he said, “Don’t be such a puss.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve been out,” I said sheepishly.
When the next set broke, bigger than the last, Razor pointed at me. I paddled for the first wave. When I saw the steep drop, I felt like pulling out again, but I muttered, “Fuck it” to myself and soared down the face as I climbed to my feet, carved a clean turn, and jetted through the silky face, just ahead of the roaring white water. I could see the wave beginning to close out, so I crouched slightly, grabbed the outside rail for balance and powered through the tube; for a moment I was completely engulfed in water, locked in, unable to see anything but a flash of green and a cloud of foam, the hiss of the surf in my ears, then I rocketed out of the wave into the sunlight, and just as the breaker began to peter out, I caught another good-sized wave, skimming along the shallow water until I ended up near the shore and caught my fin on a rock. I couldn’t help grinning as I paddled back out.
As the sky lightened, other surfers joined us, but because the south swell was a surprise in the spring, the outer reef was not as crowded as the usual Southern California surf spot. After another fast rumbling ride, I paddled back out, feeling a world away from the L.A. sprawl. Steep rocky cliffs, studded with thick stands of eucalyptus, banked the shore. Looming in the distance were the Santa Monica Mountains, the escarpment purple in the morning light. A sea lion barked in the distance.
I straddled my board and stared at the sharp horizon line, the water cobalt, the sky the palest blue, with just the single brushstroke of a ragged cloud. A faint wind began to blow in from the west, rocking the red bell buoy off Zuma, the clanging echoing out at sea. The water was so clear I could see the underwater kelp beds and tiny schools of fish swim past my toes.
The sun was rising over the mountains and beams of light dappled the water, still roiling and flecked with foam after the last set. I studied a patch of water for a moment, transfixed: a clean square of foam outside a smooth square of water. The water like the Mexican tiles on Relovich’s kitchen floor. The foam like the grouting.
I whipped around and furiously padded toward shore.
“Too early to book,” Razor called out.
“Just thought of something. Got to go.”
• • •
I snaked back down the Pacific Coast Highway, crossed town on the Santa Monica Freeway in rush hour traffic, showered at home, changed, and headed south on the Harbor Freeway. I went straight to Relovich’s kitchen and studied the grouting around a corner tile.
