Because of the full moon, I could see that I'd just tripped over
“I meant to tell you about that,” whispered Cokes. “This guy is some sort of Jesus freak. He’s got like a map of Bible stuff in his yard. Try to hold down the noise, willya?”
By the 1990’s, though, the new owners decided they didn’t want scruffy surfers walking on their beach and using their ocean, so the footpath was landscaped over with rocks and new plantings, including some surprisingly mature trees, and every portion of the property surrounded by either brick, stone, or security fencing. Well, all portions except for one small opening in the ramparts where the brick and metal fencing did not quite mesh. This hole in the wall was a secret closely guarded by only about 100,000 surfers in the contiguous
Cokes, whose nickname was earned not because of any drug use, but because he was all but blind without glasses that were pop-bottle bottom thick, had offered to be my guide because, as he had noted earlier that day, “It’s a place of history, man.” So, with a cassette of “Surfin’s Safari” set on perpetual loop, we took his venerable Toyota pickup at 1 in the morning to the hole in the wall, squeezed through its opening with a couple of nine-and-a-half foot boards, and navigated our way over the "Jesusville" golf course to the place of well-earned legend. When I entered the water I had that same feeling I had when I first saw the Liberty Bell, or the time I shook John Glenn’s hand.
[Excerpt from Reading Water, all rights reserved ©2011]