Tapping the Source (13 page)

“This is what it’s all about,” Preston said. “You know, there used to be places like this all up and down the coast. Surf ’em with your friends. They’re gone now. Fucking developers. People. Fuckers’ll all drown in their own garbage before it’s over, wait and see.” He seemed a little winded from the paddle, as if it was something he had not done in a long time. He swung his arms and rolled his thick neck, then squinted out to sea as the next outside set began to build. Ike forgot about the coastline and began to paddle. It looked to him like they were still too far inside, but Preston called him back: “Just stick with me, hot shot; set up like I tell you to.”

Ike did set up as Preston told him. The set was moving past them now and Preston began paddling hard to the left, paddling closer toward the center of the peaks. Ike paddled after him. As each wave reached them it lifted them high into the air and as it passed there was a fine white spray blown back from the lip and there were rainbows caught in the spray. Suddenly Preston turned to him and shouted: “Your wave, ace. Dig for it.”

Ike swung the board around and began to paddle and almost at once, without time for a second thought, he was in the grip of the wave. He could hear Preston yell behind him. He could hear the wind and a funny kind of swishing sound. He gripped his rails and swung himself up and there he was, at the top, the wave a great moving hill beneath him, and he was amazed at the height, amazed at how different this was from the short, steep faces he had ridden at Huntington. He was dropping and picking up speed. His stomach rose in his chest. The wave face grew steeper, a green wall that went on forever. The board pushed against his feet. There was a feeling of compression, as if he stood on the floor of a speeding elevator. And then it was over. He made a bit of a turn at the bottom, but it was not enough. A rail caught and the board seemed to come to a dead stop. He left the deck as if catapulted, skidded once on his face and stomach before going under and that was when the whole Pacific Ocean came down on top of him. He had no idea of where he was in relation to the surface. His head filled with salt water. He could feel the leash that connected his ankle to his board dragging him beneath the water. He tried to relax, to go limp, but what he kept seeing was the way Preston would find his body, bloated and discolored, half eaten by crabs, caught between the rocks. He began to claw with both hands, to fight for the surface, and suddenly he was there, the sea a mass of swirling white water all around him, the sunlight dancing in the foam, and he was sucking in great lungfuls of air and blinking the salt out of his eyes and marveling at the beauty of the sky.

He floated for some time in the shallows, just outside the shore break, clinging to his board, torn between the fear of hidden cowboys waiting to beat his brains out if he went in, and drowning if he paddled back out. He could see Preston sitting far outside and he guessed maybe it was the fear of Preston that won out. He was afraid of what Preston would think of him if he gave up. He pointed his board toward the horizon and began to paddle.

He watched Preston take a wave and though it seemed at times that there was a little jerkiness to his moves, he rode the wave well, dropping and carving, getting high and fast, and he thought that there must have been a time when Preston was very good, as good perhaps as Hound Adams was now. Preston at last went up and over the shoulder so that he was back outside and waiting when Ike arrived. He took in a mouthful of water as Ike paddled up next to him and squirted it high in the air like some baby whale, laughed and made a face at Ike. “You’ll make it,” he said. “Just remember to turn next time. Lean in up at the top, drive off your back foot.”

•   •   •

They surfed until the sun was overhead and Ike’s arms were so weary he could barely lift them out of the water. But he had begun to catch waves, to paddle for them, make the drop, the turn. He was also beginning to see that the wipeouts wouldn’t kill him, not these waves, not today.

They did as Preston had suggested, surfed until noon then returned to the camp, where they ate canned peaches and drank water, slept in the shade of the trees with the hills and ocean spread out below them. Near sunset they surfed again. The water passed like polished glass beneath their boards. Once Ike turned to see Preston sitting on his board maybe fifty yards away. The sea was dark and all around him slivers of sunlight shimmered and vanished like darting schools of fish. On the horizon, the sun had begun to melt, had gone red above a purple sea. The tide was low and the waves turned crisp black faces toward the shore while trails of mist rose from their feathering lips in fine golden arcs. The arcs rose into the sky, spreading and then falling back into the sea, scattering their light across the surface like shards of flame. There was a cyclical quality in all of this, in the play of light, in the movement of the swell. It was an incredible moment and he felt suddenly that he was plugged into all, was part of it in some organic way. The feeling created an awareness of a new set of possibilities, a new rhythm. He wanted to laugh, or to shout. He put his hand in the air and waved at Preston across the dark expanse. It was a crazy kind of wave—done with the whole arm, his hand swinging at the end of it, full of childish exuberance. And as he watched, Preston raised his own arm and waved back.

12

The sun went down behind them. It was dark as they reached the beach. Ike knelt in the shallows to remove his leash. The water felt warm now, gentle as it slapped against his legs. He could see Preston grinning down at him. Ike wanted to say something, to talk about how he felt, perhaps would have tried, but was silenced quickly by the sound of a truck somewhere on the beach.

“Cowboys,” Preston whispered. They ducked down, stretched out on their stomachs in the black water. First they heard the engine. The sound seemed to come from several directions at once, then they saw the lights. There was a single pickup bouncing along the beach up near the tracks at the base of the cliff. Ike could hear Preston’s breathing at his side. They watched in silence. The truck went by without stopping or turning. When it was gone, they slipped back into the darkness of the hill, and up to their place.

They made a small fire, heated beans and hot dog buns, talked about waves. Preston talked about big days, and hollow perfect days. He spoke of places like Cotton’s Point, Swamies, Lunada Bay, the Huntington pier. He talked about the distant places he had never surfed, the point breaks of Queensland and South Africa, the reefs of New Zealand. He told Ike there were some guys who made a life out of it, traveling, surfing; they surfed places like the ranch all the time; they didn’t bother with crowds.

“What about the pros?” Ike asked, because he had seen lists of contests in the magazines.

“Yeah, the pros travel. That’s one way to do it. But then that’s a whole other scene, too. The thing you’ve got going for you is a trade. You could make a living just about anywhere, move where it’s good, travel. That’s how you get good, anyway, surfing a lot of different spots. Think about it.”

Ike did think about it and it suddenly occurred to him that Preston was not trying to talk him into something, he was trying to talk him out of something. He was trying to talk him out of looking for Ellen. The feeling came on him quickly and was very strong and he sensed that Preston was aware of it too, aware of what he was saying. Ike was quiet and a silence grew up between them.

It was Preston who finally spoke. “We may as well talk about it,” he said, and pulled himself upright. He had been stretched out, propped on one arm. Now he seated himself Indian style and stared into the flames. He acted as if it were a thing requiring great effort. “I’ve thought about what you told me,” he said, speaking slowly, still watching the fire. “And there’s a couple of things that bother me. The first is this kid’s story. He said your sister went to Mexico, with Hound Adams and Frank and Terry, that they went last summer. That right?”

Ike nodded, the smoke drifting into his eyes now and making them water after a day in the sunlight and salt.

“Okay. Maybe. But I’ve been around H.B. for a while and Hound Adams usually makes that kind of trip in the winter, around Christmastime. Locks the shop up, splits for about a month. So why would this kid have it in the summer? It could’ve been there was another trip, but it could have been something else, too. Think about this: I happen to know Hound Adams deals a lot of dope. And he’s not above burning somebody, especially some kid. So suppose that’s what happened. What’s the kid going to do about it? He’s not going to go kick Hound Adams’s ass. Most likely he wouldn’t do shit. But suppose he knew this chick, had heard her talking about her badass brother, and what if the chick split and this kid thinks he sees a way to make some trouble for Hound Adams. You see what I’m driving at?”

Ike thought about it. He thought about the kid making the whole thing up. Preston’s idea sounded pretty shaky to him. “I don’t know,” he said. “I mean, wouldn’t this kid think that …”

“Wait a minute, man, wait a minute,” Preston said, getting impatient, talking faster now, like he was going to get himself pissed off again. “You’re missing my point. I’m not saying that’s what happened. How the fuck do I know what happened? What I’m trying to tell you is that there is something screwy about this kid’s story. I say he’s got the date wrong. What I’m trying to tell you is not to believe every damn thing you hear. People will play any number of games with your head. Dig it? Especially in this town.” He jerked his thumb toward the trees, south, in the direction of Huntington Beach. “Everybody’s got a scam. If all you’ve got to go on is this kid’s story—it’s not much.”

“But what if there was another trip? What if the kid was telling the truth?”

“All right, suppose he was. That brings me to a second thing that bothers me. You told me that day in your room that all you were going to do was hang out, see if you could locate Hound Adams, then see if you could get close enough to him to find out something. Well, no offense, ace, but that whole idea sucks. The way I see it, you’ve got two possibilities. Either your sister just moved on, which is very possible, or something bad happened. But suppose the worst. Suppose she’s dead and you find out about it. What are you going to do then? You’re gonna have to have some real evidence to get the cops in on it, and that may be hard to do. I mean, I hate to scare you, but if she really did go to Mexico with these guys …” He paused for a moment and brushed at the side of his face with his thumb. “She could be dead and buried in the middle of some desert, man. No one will ever know. You see what I’m driving at. You may hang out in Huntington Beach, and you may even hear something, but unless you actually find her you’re not going to know. You might hear all kinds of shit, but it would just be stories, rumors, nothing you could ever go to the cops with. I also happen to know that Hound Adams has some big friends, people with bucks, the kind of bucks that can shut people up.” Preston stopped once more and shifted his butt beneath him. Ike could see there was a dark smudge of dirt where he had brushed his face. “The point,” he said, “is that if the worst happened, you’ll probably never know it, and even if you did, there wouldn’t be much you could do. Oh, you could go after him yourself. I mean, hide out on a roof some night and throw a brick through Hound Adams’s head. Probably the best that would get you would be some time in the can.” Preston paused and looked at Ike through the fire. “I been in the can,” he said. “You wouldn’t like it.”

Ike didn’t say anything right away. Preston picked up a stick and began poking the fire with it. “There’s another thing, too,” he said. “One more thing just in case you haven’t thought of it yourself—then I’ll shut up. You said your sister ran away. So if she ran away, how do you even know she would want you out looking for her? It’s a loser, man, all the way around. Either your sister’s out there someplace, on her own, and doesn’t want you along, or she’s dead and there’s damn little you can do about it. I realize it’s a bummer, but that’s the way I see it. And either way, if your sister’s not in Huntington Beach, then what the hell is? I mean, H.B.’s a damn sewer, man, you hang out in it long enough and you might just drown in it.

“You see what I’m trying to tell you? I’m not trying to sound like your old man; I’m just trying to run something down for you.” Preston had managed by this time to catch the end of the stick on fire and he had begun to play with it, seeing how close he could hold his hand to the flame. “Look,” he said, after a few moments of singeing his palm. “The smartest fucking thing you could do would just be to split. You sure as hell don’t have to worry about that job with Morris. Shit, I should never have talked him into it in the first place. I think I was half in the bag that day.” He stopped and made a kind of shrugging motion with one arm. “I’m not going anywhere. You could keep in touch with me; anything turns up, I can let you know. What did you say her name was?”