When I was in my late Twenties, surfing was not just my life, but my religion. Half the week I'd surf, and half the week I'd give lessons—tourists, bored housewives, ambitious entertainment types who thought surfing should be part of their L.A. lifestyle. I lived in a shack right on the beach in Malibu. It was cheap because it was out behind a filling station on a crappy little bluff. One room with one tiny salt-encrusted window looking out to the ocean, a shower, a sink, a bed, a toilet, a Coleman and four boards leaned up against the wall.
What else did a guy need?
I lived alone, but I was blond, 6'2", ripped, with a slightly Norwegian look that drove the girls wild—so I never had a problem getting laid. My chest was huge and flat, my six pack shone, my blue eyes killed. My blond hair was long and usually tangled. I had a hand-made sign above the door that read "Surf God." Every now and then I'd gather up some of the other surf bums along Malibu and we'd throw beach parties with torches and rum, and the girls would flock in. I'm not exactly sure where they all came from. L.A. Girls with sun-bleached faces. Girls who spread their legs wide. They kissed my pecs, but somehow, we never connected. They'd suck my dick dry, but in the morning, well, I was disappointed that they'd spent the night.
Was I gay? I wondered all the time. For it was true that all my dreams and wildest imaginings were not about the girls, but about the other surfers. Their powerful legs. Their hairy chests. Their bleached eyes. I'd imagine pulling down their baggy suits and pushing them down gently onto the sand and having at their muscular behinds...but of course, I never did anything about it. "Dang, Peter," I'd say to myself. "That's weird thinking."
Into this life came Jacob Townsend. Sweet Jacob of the curly black hair and soulful eyes. He was a young businessman, 32, with a silver Porsche Boxster and an eager smile. Some kind of finance guy, I was given to understand. Like everybody, Jacob wanted to learn to surf, and I was ready to take his $50 an hour. Normally, I only charged $35, but when I saw the Boxster, well—I wasn't a fool.
The first day he showed up it was late December. He came with a brand-new wetsuit he'd bought himself for Christmas, a thermos of hot coffee, and a ridiculously short board that some hotshot had sold him at a sporting goods store. He was so cheerful, so clean cut, so fucking motivated, and so perfectly coiffed, that I had to laugh.
"Sorry amigo, can't learn on a short one." I said.
"What?"
"The board, Amigo. It's barely taller than you."
"Is that bad?"
"Fuck, Amigo."
He smiled uncertainly, and because I was a Surf God, and he was a business dweeb, I slapped him across the back. He went sprawling. I mean, he wasn't any kind of wimp—he worked out and all—but he was kind of a little guy, maybe 5'8", nervous around me, and besides I liked to give little guys a hard time.
"Sure," he said. "Long is good. I get that."
The lessons went slowly. Jacob was no born surfer—no feel for the water, just fighting it all the goddam time, not able to relax and go with the waves. But what the hell, he was paying good money, and I had to admit I enjoyed the way he admired me and my freedom and my tan. I mean, he had such a boring fucking existence—the wife, the stock options, the incredibly clean car. For several days we just did a hold-and-push. You know, he'd lay on the board, and I'd give him a push into white rollers, and he'd try to stand up. Hours passed without any progress, but I didn't mind. He seemed to appreciate the whole thing so damn much. At the end of each lesson, he'd give me this little shrug, and shake my goddam hand, and go off perfectly happy, even though he'd missed most every wave, and fallen after two seconds on little rollers. I have to admit I'd sort of play it up for him, you know, the tough, buff, Surf God thing.
And yeah, I started thinking about his ass. Holding the board as he tried to stand, I'd imagine grabbing that ass and shoving a finger up it. Or more.
This went on for a couple of months. We didn't talk a lot—which Jacob seemed to appreciate. I gathered that the other people in his life talked plenty. I got the feeling that he was under a lot of pressure all the time, to keep up the Boxster payments, and to please his Beverly Hills born and bred wife...who he said he hardly ever saw, and with whom he always argued. She didn't want kids, he said, a sore point that had driven them apart.
I started feeling what? Affectionate about him. Protective.
Then came that fateful morning in March. It was an unusually cold morning—full wetsuits. I'd had him come early, and after we finished our ritual coffee, we paddled out into a heavy mist. The ocean was gray and uncertain—a little bit blown out with a shifting wind; not a good day, at all, but shit, it was Jacob's Wednesday if he wanted it. By now, I was pretty dependent on that three hours of reliable pay, and I didn't want to call it off. We did the easy stuff for a while, but he said he was bored with the foam and begged me to go out to where the waves were actually curling—so against my better judgment, and to keep him happy (and I enjoyed keeping him happy), I at last agreed to take him out there.
Jacob struggled to paddle through the surf, hell both of us struggled, and when we found ourselves a ways out, the wind suddenly picked up into a kind of whirl—like it was coming from all directions. The chop increased, and I turned back to Jacob to call it a day...but he wasn't there. My training longboard was there, all right, getting tossed around, but no Jacob. The mist was bad, so I called out...but no response. I started to panic. Finally, I caught sight of his black suited body way out beyond the breakers, thrashing around. How the hell? Like an idiot, he must have let the leash come off, then he'd fallen off his board, and some wild rip had caught him—all in the space of a couple minutes. I paddled out after him like a maniac, but he seemed to keep being pulled out further, and I lost sight of him again and again. When I finally found him, he was completely exhausted and panicked, and I as I hauled him up on my board, he gave me this desperate, animal-like look. Me, I went around back to propel the board from behind, high-tailing it for shore. It was rough getting back against the rip and the wind—it seemed to take forever and every ounce of strength I had, especially with Jacob laid out on my board, heaving water and flopping around. He was confused, and thrashing around, and he kept kicking me in face.
Finally, I actually spun the board around and slapped his face.
"Stop that, Jacob! Don't thrash around, and don't kick me!"
He looked at me, surprised and uncomprehending at first.
"What do you want me to do, Peter?"
"Just lie still and I'll get us the fuck out of this."
"Okay, Peter," he said, "I get it it" he said, as if I might not decide to save him at all.
Finally, I got us to shore, where the wind was really whipping the surf, and the fog had really moved in. You couldn't see five feet in any direction. I hauled Jacob up out of the water and just laid back on the sand in my wetsuit, next to him, totally exhausted. After a while, he said:
"You saved my life."
"Never, never get separated from your board."
