Miracle at Malibu

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15 Aug Miracle at Malibu

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“Miracle at Malibu” was written by Ithaka, and published in the book “Surf Story”, in 2009.

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August, The Summer of Hate

It was a

summer

marked by

a ridiculously

high number

of road rage

incidents.

Had the

congested

streets

themselves

caused

the anger ?

Or

had the

temper-fueled

occurrences

spawned

worse than

normal traffic ?

Who the

fuck knows ?

But this was

the subject

of endless

rhetorical

debate on

every local

news program

in Southern

California.

Without doubt,

the several

spells of record

Santa Ana heat

had contributed

monumentally

in either case.

Sadly it

was already

August and

there’d only

been two

mediocre

Souths all

season.

Surfers were

irritable and

crowds were

out of control,

with everyone

contending

for the minute

scraps the

southern

hemisphere

was discarding

northward

to the wolves.

Paralleling

the insanity in

the streets,

there were

probably more

surfing-related

fights in LA

county during

that summer

alone then

there had

been in

the previous

five years

combined.

And to

make it all

even more

intolerable,

the smelliest

bloodiest-

colored

red tide

anyone

could ever

remember

had been

lingering

for weeks,

dramatically

symbolizing

The Summer

of Hate.

I’d just gotten

out of high

school

and during

the day

attended

summer

classes at

El Camino

Community

College.

At night

I was working

as a cashier

at a hotel’s

coffee shop

near LAX.

Not as shitty

as a first job

as you might

imagine,

considering

that Singapore

Airlines and

several other

international

companies

housed their

entire flight

crews

at the hotel

during their

U.S. layovers.

EIGHTY

PERCENT

of the diner’s

clients were

female flight

attendants.

And for the

most part

sweet,

beautiful,

and smelling

like flowers.

Just being

around these

exotic women

made me

want to

visit the

countries

they were

from.

My bizarre

schedule

actually worked

out pretty well.

My good surf

bro Deebo,

a seasoned

schralper

a few years

older than me,

worked an

evening shift

just down

the street at

the DHL freight

wherehouse.

Our solution to

that summer’s

dementia

(and our

unusual hours)

was to

surf nights.

We both

usually

got off work

around

1:15 am.

And Deebo

would pick

me up out in

front of the

coffee shop in

an old flat-black

stoner van,

both of us still

in uniform

(mine was

beige nylon).

Occasionally

we’d roll

to Huntington.

HB was well lit,

but we preferred

Malibu,

a night surfers’

utopia….such

a predictable

wave you can

practically surf

it by Braille

anyway.

During

the six weeks

since we’d

begun our

graveyard

patrols we

hadn’t had

a single

memorable

session,

but at least

we’d surfed

without

masses of

nervous

shoulder-

snakes

and human

buoys

in the lineup.

And had been

avoiding

the recent

almost nuclear

sunshine.

If it was

too small to surf,

we just do a

quick wardrobe

change and

swing by the

Sunsplash Club

for last call.

This was

Southern

California

vagabond

decadence

at its finest.

One night in

mid-August

as we left the

airport area,

planes were

silhouetting

in front of

a big full moon

like bats on

a Hallmark

Halloween card.

The weather

had become

much cooler

during the course

of the last couple

of days, an

overdue break

from weeks of

monotonous

hot-and-dry-cloudless

desert weather.

During most

of our commute,

the sky directly

overhead until

the horizon

remained

crystal clear

with stars visible.

But nearing

our destination

up the coast,

we noted an

extremely dense

wall of fog

a hundred

feet high

about a

quarter-mile

from shore.

With NO wind,

it was absolutely

motionless, just

parked out there

like a gigantic

cotton cliff.

When we

pulled up

to Malibu

the lot was

empty, not

a good sign.

First Point

looked

micro so we

walked down

the beach to

look at Third

from in

front of the

bamboo patch

hiding the

Adameson

Mansion.

The red tide

was maxing

and the

foul smelling

two-footers

were reeling off

Third Point

with magical

bio-luminescence

(the first

hors d’oeuvres

of that season’s

only substantial

swell).

For a month

and a half

we’d been

surfing the place

uncrowded,

but we’d

never had it

all to ourselves.

Tonight though,

no one was

was around.

Even so…

there was

no real rush

to get out there.

If nobody was

here by 2am,

it was unlikely

that anyone

would be coming

around at all.

With the fog wall

sitting just outside

the lineup,

it was almost

as if this little

light show

was taking place

in front of a

gigantic stage

backdrop.

Crazy to think

that the

mesmerizing

spectacle

in front

of our eyes

had been

manufactured

by trillions

of dying

phyto-plankton.

We must have

watched about

six or seven sets

glowing their way

down-the-line.

The last two pushing

all the way thru to

the inside.

Incoming tide

with a growing

swell. It was not

only beautiful

to watch,

but the waves

were getting

much better.

It was absolutely

hypnotizing,

our eyes

super-glued

to the lineup.

Even though

we were standing

next to each other,

Deebo and I

were quietly in

our own separate

worlds. He’d been

acting weird ever

since Lori Pangrati

had dropped his ass

for a C-grade pro

skateboarder.

Although the mass

of fog had been

dead-still since

we’d arrived,

for a milli-second

there was a

movement from

within the

cloudbank itself

just past the

end of the pier

to the right.

Probably

a small

fishing boat,

I thought.

I looked

back to an

approaching

set, but the

fishing boat

rocking

in the fog

distracted my

attention again.

It couldn’t

be a fishing boat,

it wasn’t

the right shape-

too narrow

and vertical

and had no lights.

Maybe

a windsurfer,

I rationalized

vaguely.

Whatever

it was,

it was still a

few yards

back inside

the wall of

the fog .

Eyes back

to the lineup.

Then….

the movement

AGAIN !

I was getting

annoyed

(wanting

to devout

my attention

strictly

to wave

activity).

Still couldn’t

tell exactly

what it was,

but now,

thinking more

consciously,

ruled out

windsurfer.

A windsurfer …?

At night ?

With NO sail ?

And NO WIND ?

This was

beginning

to get freaky.

Then slowly….

(almost like

The Pillsbury

Dough Boy

pulling himself

out of a

vertical pan

of unbaked

croissants),

a very tall

human-esque

fog figure

freed itself

from the

pillowy mass

and now stood

ON the water’s

surface in clear

air just in front

of the cloud wall.

My entire spine

came to life

like someone

had plugged

it in, the hair

on my arms

raising in

goose-bumps.

The silhouette

stood motionless

for a few seconds,

seemingly looked

from left to right,

then

very slowly

began walking

across the surface

of the water

toward us.

At this point

whatever it was

had my full fixation.

I instantaneously

forgot about;

the waves,

the beach,

the girls at work,

the girls at Sunsplash,

and that my rent

was due

in two days.

Every single

thought

floating

around in

my head at

that moment

got completely

eradicated.

EVERYTHING.

My one focus

now being…

The Fogman.

Step by

narrow step,

slowly

but steadily

it came,

walking

on

water.

It took

several

minutes

just for him

to cross

the distance

from where

he’d come

out the fog

to get to

the wave

break line.

And as he

finally came

through

the small lines

of foaming

phosphorescent

whitewater, his

legs descended

downward into

the liquid itself

until his feet

touched bottom.

He was now

walking

shin-deep

across the

rocky

shallows.

As he got

closer, it

became evident

that he had no

facial detail

what-so-ever.

No eyes.

No mouth.

No nose.

No ears.

Just a nine-foot

fog figure

taking a stroll

across the

ocean’s surface

at Malibu Point.

I’d only assumed

it was even male

because of its

shoulder width

in relationship to

its height and

by the staggering

way it walked.

Ol’ Foggy

finally

advanced out

of the water

and up

the small

strip of sand,

slowing to a

complete stop

when he got

within about

fifteen feet

of us.

Then

suddenly he

reaccelerated-

walking

right thru

the three-feet

of space

between

Deebo

and I.

Part of it

grazed

the left

side of

my body,

my arm and

shoulder

feeling like

they’d been

dipped in

warm water.

It was

strangely

a familiar,

comforting

sensation.

During

the entire

time since

we’d arrived

at the beach

and even

during the

last ten

minutes since

The Fogman

first appeared,

Deebo and I

had not said

a SINGLE word

to each other

(telling you,

this Pangrati

chick had

messed with

his mind

in a big way).

And even

as The Fogman

passed us,

I still wasn’t

completely

sure that

all this

was real

and not a

personal

hallucination

until Deebo

and I

simultaneously

spun around

to watch IT…

(the being

that had literally

just walked

thru our bodies!)

…disappearing

transparently

into a fortress

of bamboo

shafts.

Deebo

actually

began to

follow Foggy

into the thicket,

but the limits

of his own

mortal body

restricted him

from emulating

the apparition’s

vaporizing act.

In frustration,

he grabbed two

bamboo stalks

shaking them

aggressively

like bars in

a prison cell,

gradually

slowing

in defeat

until he

went still.

He looked

to the sky

with a glazed,

but hopeful

face, finally

turning to me

and declaring,

Pappy,

Its’ a SIGN.

But I wasn’t

buying it.

Man…

I don’t know….

I’m not sure

WHAT it was…..

But I’m pretty

sure it wasn’t

WHO you’re

thinking

it was.

Regardless,

Deebo was

certain…

absolutely

convinced

we had just

witnessed

a modern

day miracle.

I was not

only doubtful,

I was POSITIVE

we had not seen

the Mastermind

of the Universe,

but instead

just some

confused

entity

meandering

about on

a spooky

red tide night.

Besides,

isn’t it

likely that

The Almighty

himself, would

at least partake

in his own

creation.

I mean…

come on…

fun Malibu

with no one out

is hard to find

for anybody

these days,

even for the

one who

made it.

Why walk…

when you

can ride?

Dee-BRO…

I said,

interrupting

my own

skepticisms,

We’re here

to surf….

So let’s SURF.

We rode

predominately

First Point.

TOTAL glass.

Out in the water,

we were actually

shaded from

the full moon

by the

fog’s height,

the main

illumination

landing on the

beach itself.

Regardless,

light and

visibility

were not

an issue.

And in spite

of the odor,

the reflection

of pier lights

off the water

and red tide glow

made the

entire session

(even without

The Fogman

sighting)

completely

surreal.

Paddling back

out after a

long one,

I saw Deebo

racing

down-the-line

from the end

of the point.

As he got

nearer to me

it started

to bowl up

in a shallow spot.

Instead of

aiming for the lip

and blowing

the top off it

like he’d

normally do,

he did a

frontside

under-the-lip

snap,

straight into

a stall move

digging his arm

into the wall

elbow-deep

and getting

about as

shacked

as I’d ever

seen anyone

get at four-foot

Malibu.

Pitted in an

Aurora Borealis

moment, the

glowing lip

was funneling

electrically

around him,

his face

totally illuminated

by the blue-green

phosphorescence.

His expression.

was of such

wonderment

such naïve

childhood

innocence…..

It was the

same look

he’d had

on his mug

when he’d

tried to follow

The Fogman

into the

bamboo

patch.

He released

his arm from

the wall,

glided out the

front door

and bolted

down-the-line,

(periodically

throwing up

big glowing

fantail sprays

over the back

of the wave).

About

fifteen

sets later,

the fog wall,

which had

remained

motionless

a convenient

few hundred

yards offshore

all night,

finally begin

to creep in.

Overall

an EPIC

session, but

it was already

about 6am.

The whole

smokey

scenery

was slowly

beginning

to light up

and there

were several

surfers on

the beach

preparing

to enter

the water.

Fog AND

crowd…

no thanks,

time to call

it a night.

Deebo and I

had barely

spoken the

whole session

and didn’t

speak at all

as we loaded

up the van.

He’d replaced his

his moping over

Lori Pangrati

with pensive

thoughts about

the meaning

of life and

creation.

Or maybe

he was just

too stoked

for words

after his

psychedelic

limelight barrel.

Although

now drizzling,

foggy as hell

and the

beginning

of rush hour,

it was a

smooth run

southbound

on PCH

all the way

until we got to

the California

Incline ramp

where we

were literally

imprisoned in

a monumental

traffic jam.

It wasn’t even

warm out, but

in a typical

Summer of Hate

moment, a

fellow commuter

had taken a shot

at a truck driver

(who’d been

transporting

a haul of

tomatoes

down from

Ventura

County).

The bullet had

entered the

driver’s side

open window.

It completely

missed

the trucker,

but somehow….

ricocheted

off the ceiling

flew out the

cab’s opposite

window

THEN hit a

motorcycle

rider in

the head.

His helmet,

remarkably,

had kept the

bullet from

actually

entering

the skull,

but he’d laid

his bike down

in the middle

of the highway

doing 50 mph.

Unbelievably

he wasn’t

even injured.

And in fact,

was in good

enough condition

to argue with

the cops,

Who the HELL is

gonna pay

for my bike ?!?!

TRUE:

in the same

five-hour

time window

we’d seen a

tall, ethereal

creature

walking

on water.

AND…

a random

biker had

just survived

what seemed

certain death.

Regardless,

I was still

vetoing the

speculation

of any divine

intervention.

But this second

SIGN

only solidified

Deebo’s

conviction.

After that day

he dove

head-on into

The Ministry.

I never

heard from

him anymore.

And the one

time I did get

him on the

phone, he

was rambling

something about

my boozing,

womanizing

ways.

_________________

Since

that night

several

years ago

I have told

of our

Fogman

encounter

(in true

Forest Gump

fashion)

to friends,

friends

of friends

and pretty much

anyone else

who’d listen.

And

EVERYONE

has their

own theory

to what

or who

it could

have been.

From an ET,

to a spirit

of a Chumash

Indian warrior,

to the

ghost of

Merritt

Huntley

Adameson,

(the builder

of the

historical

estate there

on Malibu

lagoon)…..

all the way to;

It was probably

just a wind

pocket pulling

a chunk of fog

out of the

cloud bank.

…uhhhh…

in human form ?

walking ?

turning it’s head ?

…not likely,

but thanks for

the suggestion,

Mom.

I have also

learned

that Deebo

and I are

not the only

people who

have had

experiences

at Surfrider.

From fifty

years ago

until the present,

a small number

of individuals

have reported

seeing

similar things.

It’s unlikely

I’ll ever know

exactly what

we saw

that night.

All I know is

a friend and I

once surfed

quality Malibu

with no

one out.

And even

that in

itself

could be

considered

a kind

of miracle.

2009_shortstory_MiracleAtMalibu

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