Honorable mention: “El Porto” by Mike Matthewes
by Pete Whalon
It was a typically gloomy morning in late June, 1966, when I received the fateful call from my best friend Larry.
“Hey Pedro, surfs up! Waves are supposed to be 12- to 15- feet at 13th. Let’s go body-whompin’ man,” he chuckled.
“Holy crap, Batman, that’s bitchin! Pick me up in 10, dude. Call Bob and Lenny. I’ll call Danny, John and Mike. Later, dude.”
Fifteen foot waves at Hermosa Pier started my adrenalin racing. As a teen I was tough, but not muscular, fearless but not sensible, and bold but lacking sound judgment — all the necessary ingredients for an impending catastrophe. Soon after our conversation, John’s ’55 Chevy and Larry’s ’65 VW bus were crusin’ down Hermosa Avenue toward 13th Street and the Hermosa Pier. Although we occasionally surfed, we preferred bodysurfing. Since nearly all of our parents lived from paycheck-to-paycheck, our families couldn’t afford the luxury of buying us surfboards.
We parked the cars and jogged to the shoreline to see if the reports were true. Our crew sat on the sand in awe as we witnessed the most gigantic waves we had ever observed. Three or four sets of menacing 8- to 10-foot waves were followed by a colossal set of 12- to 15-footers violently smashing 100 or so yards from the beach. We sat silent, not quite sure how to process the events unfolding before our eyes. I foolishly spoke first while pulling off my Mick Jagger T-shirt.
“I’m goin’ in ladies, who’s with me?”
Mike, our youngest comrade, eager to prove himself to our circle of friends, cautiously replied, “If you’re goin’, Whalon, I’m goin’. Let’s stay close out there, Pete, okay?” He trembled slightly, intently gazing at the imposing breakers.
I knew it would prove a catastrophic error to allow Mike into the surf. Since his mother expected me to be his guardian, I needed to make it easy for him to back out and save face.
“Mike, stay here and see how I do. Damn, I might bail out myself man. How’s ’bout I wave you in if it’s cool. Just hold your water dude, it’s wicked out there.”
“Okay, I’ll go waist deep ’til you call me in.”
The remaining jackals in the pack made it obvious what their next move would be.
“Hey Peety Boy, can I have your Dylan albums after the funeral?” John considered himself the comedian of our mob.
“You’ll be back in 10 seconds chickens***t!” Lenny was a lad of few words.
Without responding and greatly relieved that Mike would remain land-locked, I marched into the pounding surf. It proved one of those unique moments in a person’s life when you know, deep down, that what you are about to do could be a Titanic blunder. Every fiber in my quivering body begged me to turn around and confess to my friends that conditions were far above my physical capabilities. I dove under the first wave and began swimming away from shore. I stopped and began treading water as I glanced to my left, noticing I was about at the middle of the Hermosa Pier. The pier was jam-packed with cheering teens, encouraging the few crazies attempting to tame the wild surf. I turned and motioned for Mike to stay put. He waved and nervously smiled. I timidly swam out a little further and waited for the next swell. The fact that I spotted only six other heads bobbing in the water heightened my apprehension. My quickly devised plan, solely based on survival, was to catch the first breaker in and call it a day, guaranteeing me group “macho-man” status for the foreseeable future. I hadn’t done anything this daring/dim-witted since leaping from the 50-foot bridge into Lake Isabella in ’64.
Seconds later I spotted a massive wave at the end of the pier, perilously rising from the turbulent sea about 50 yards from where I was nervously treading water. Uncontrollable panic consumed me. There were only two options — swim like a mad man toward shore and let the monster wave break on top of me or swim for my life toward the ominous liquid wall before it broke. With little time to think, I hastily made the decision to head into the eye of the storm, glide over the awesome swell before it broke, then turn around and retreat to shore. It proved a dreadful choice. Head up, eyes wide, I swam with every ounce of power in my arms and legs. As the swell elevated my slender frame upward, I glanced back. The mind-boggling drop from the peak was my last sight as I safely glided over the unbroken crest into calm water just before the liquid mass crashed behind me. My relief was short lived. Thirty yards in front, a second mountain raced toward me. Adrenalin and terror motivated my fatigued limbs. Again my helpless carcass was thrust upward. However, this time the powerful suction overwhelmed my futile struggle to avoid disaster. I was swiftly dragged down, backwards.
I was smacked on my back as tons of saltwater slammed me to the sandy ocean floor. Like a ragdoll in a washing machine, my torso tossed violently in all directions. My experience with smaller waves kicked in. To conserve energy, I didn’t fight the wave. What seemed like an eternity was probably under two minutes. I could wait no longer. I planted my feet and pushed upward. At last, air and relative safety. As I broke the surface, I thanked God. Instantly the third wave of the set smashed against my face with the force of a bulldozer, once again violently sucking me downward into the abyss.
A level of panic set in that I had never experienced before. My frightening ordeal had transformed into a battle for survival. I desperately attempted to keep my mouth closed. However, the water I had swallowed was forcing its way back up. I blew the water out then closed my mouth. I needed to breathe soon. I knew if I sucked in any more water I was doomed. I prayed there wasn’t a fourth wave. I felt the firm sand and feebly pushed off with one foot. My lungs felt as if they were about to burst as my head broke the surface. I heaved out saltwater and sucked in one full breath before the unrelenting force dragged me back under. Finally I felt the waves subsiding as I made my final, frantic move to the surface. I pushed off with fatigued legs and shot out of the water. Gagging, choking and breathing in precious, glorious air. It took me a little time to realize I was now close to shore and mercifully in waist deep water. Between short breaths and violent coughs, I spewed water from my lungs and stomach. I staggered toward shore then dropped to my hands and knees. Like a pack of puerile hyenas, my chums circled me on the shore, laughing and chirping like circus clowns.
“When you goin’ back in Tarzan? Jane and Cheetah are waitin’ for ya.” If there were any strength remaining in my weary legs, I would have kicked Larry square in the nuts!
A lifeguard came running over. “Are you okay man? Just relax, don’t get up, keep expelling water. Would you like me to call someone? Your parents?” He seemed genuinely concerned. I wanted to scream in his bronzed face, “Shut the hell up dude and let me puke.”
Instead I replied, “No, thanks, I’m cool.” He nodded and continued down the beach searching for other clueless jokers who had no business being in the surf that day. During this period, my idiot friends continued chiming in with what I’m sure they believed were hilarious remarks and observations. As I stood on wobbly legs for the first time, Danny made the only comment that seemed to make sense.
“Whalon, I think you shoulda stayed on the beach with us dude!” He shook his head as he stared at the sand. “I was a little worried man when I saw you going backward.” Danny smiled and lightly slapped my cheek. “You need to smarten up soon, Whalon.” He tapped the side of his head with his forefinger.
As we made our way back to the cars, I intentionally lagged behind the group. I looked skyward.
“Thank you God and all the glorious saints for sparing my life today.” B
