15 Oct Zé dos Cães
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“Zé dos Cães” was written by Ithaka, in 1993, and published in Water magazine for his column “Fishdaddy Chronicles”, in 2007.
“In 1993, while publishing International Surf I received a manilla envelope from Portugal containing a short surf story by a social expat named Ithaka (aka Darin Pappas). The story, called Ze dos Caes, was poorly typed and much too long to be used in a surf magazine. But it spoke to me, completely original and different from anything else coming through the office at that time. I published an abridged version of the story without hesitation, later receiving several congratulatory letters there at the mag. Only later, when I met Ithaka did I learn this was the first written work he’d ever published. He claimed that having that first story printed fueled him to continue writing nonstop. He has since migrated into songwriting among other forms of written expression. As accidental as it may have been, I’d like to think I had something to do with the evolvement of this storyteller . So here it is almost 15 years later, the story that started it all. Enjoy.” Steve Zeldin
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Five people sardined
into the cab of Duda’s
pickup truck, the back
stuffed to the limit
with all sorts of shit;
sleeping bags, clothes,
snacks, a mountain bike,
six surfboards and wetsuits.
I was ecstatic just
to be on my way out
of Lisbon for a while.
Our destination,
SAGRES:
part of Portugal’s
Algarve region,
at the extreme
southwestern corner
of Continental Europe,
a complex crossroad
of several different
oceanic microclimates.
Henry the Navigator
had created one of the
world’s first maritime
academies in Sagres
nearly six hundred years ago.
Columbus himself studied
there in his mid-twenties.
In modern-day
summers, the area
is a playground for
pink north-Europeans,
flocking to the Algarve
to take advantage of the
low prices and sunshine.
But in winter; desolation,
rural beaches and big,
perfect waves.
Six hours of nighttime,
two-lane highway later,
we arrive at the
old stone house
we’d arranged to rent.
My travel companions
were frequent visitors
to the area and our
arrival in town was
soon spread to the
local surfers
(all six of them),
who drop in
around midnight
to drink beers
and talk story.
Ze’ dos Caes,
(the leader of the
Algarve Underground),
shows up with a brick
of hash the size of
a man’s wallet.
He cuts off a piece,
warms it up with
a lighter and starts
mixing it with
the tobacco of a
Gudang-Gurang
clove cigarette.
Ze’ is a rare character;
a kind of slightly speeded up,
foot-taller version
of Jeff Spicolli.
It’s weird –he’s
never even traveled
outside the homeland,
but barely has a
Portuguese accent
when speaking
his stoner’s English.
He’s a one-man
comedy act…..
Funny as Fuck,
but also seems to
have a much darker
side buried in there
somewhere.
Sometimes he
just stops speaking
mid-sentence
like he’s watching
a film clip on the
inside of his skull,
or having some kind
of war flashback.
On his way out,
he informs us that a
new swell is arriving.
And that he’d be by
in the morning
at a reasonable hour.
____________________
In the depths of predawn,
I’m jolted to full consciousness by a;
BAM ! BAM ! BAM!
on the window, followed
by Ze’ screaming
like a drill sergeant,
Come On, Pappasss !
It’s ten-foot
with east wind.
COME ON !!!
Nobody else even stirs
from their comas,
but after five hours
of trying to hibernate
on a frigid stone floor,
I needed something….
a coffee, beer or some food.
We stop in at an
early-morning
fishermen’s snack bar
for juice and
egg sandwiches.
After we grind, I
go to relieve myself.
And as I’m coming
out of the bathroom,
Ze says in a rush,
Let’s go…
I already paid for you.
But as we’re getting
in the car, the owner
of the snack bar
runs out shouting,
ZE’ !…YOU ‘FORGOT’
TO PAY !…AGAIN !!!!
Maybe later,
he laughs,
forcing the car
into first gear
and powering off….
the proprietor’s
profanities fading away
in the distance.
SMACK ! BANG ! CRACK !
Sixty-miles-an-hour down
a muddy dirt road with
puddles you could drown in
and rocks the size of basketballs.
SMACK ! BANG ! CRASH !
We nail one of
the basketballs head on.
Ze’ gets out to
inspect the damage.
The bumper and grill
are fucked, mangled
beyond repair,
but the tire rod
and radiator
appear undamaged.
He gives it a shrug.
Gets back in the car.
Throws it in reverse.
Does three full
mud-spraying circles
going backwards,
then slams it back in First.
And we continue
our journey…..
flying and bouncing
another ten or so miles
down the road
that ain’t no road,
finally sliding to an abrupt
180-degree psycho stop
just ten feet
from the edge of a
four-hundred foot cliff.
We’d come to a panoramic
view of three surf spots;
On the south end,
was a long outside
left reef-point.
About three-quarters of
a mile to the
north of that,
was a shorter
lesser-quality right slab.
The two reefs being
separated in the middle
by a gnarly looking
beach break.
Ze’ wasn’t bullshitting
about the swell,
it was easily into
the 8-foot PLUS category
with NO ONE, not even
a fisherman around yet.
Wasting no time,
we negotiate
our way down a steep,
EVEN worse road,
leading to the wide
dirt-colored beach below.
It was already
a half-hour after daybreak,
but the cliffs were still casting
a huge shadow about
a mile out into the ocean.
Freezing, we struggle into
our wetsuits and head
out to the left.
Although a dry hair,
deepwater-channel
paddle out, as we
approach the outside
I realize this was not going
to be a cakewalk session.
This was the real shit;
big, COLD, powerful waves,
with violent offshore gusts
and looming sweeper sets.
I was about to discover
the answer to the answer
to my cerebral inquiry:
Can this big, clumsy,
gangly, goofy, hash-toting Algarvian even surf?
Hard to image considering how off-balance he
seemed to be on land,
as if he had just
gotten off a sailboat
after six months;
always stumbling
over curbs, pebbles,
cracks in the sidewalk…..
he even had trouble
getting in and out
of his own car.
It couldn’t all
be hash/alcohol related,
he was just plain
uncoordinated….
at least on dry land.
Ze caught the first
wave of the morning,
a big, slopey mutha
nearly three times
his height.
He took off
so dangerously deep
that the bottom
of the wave at that point
wasn’t even liquid,
just a jagged floor of
barnacle-encrusted boulders.
But he casually
high-lines it above
the rocks, out of the
helter-skelter zone
and into the main section
where it really starts
jacking and picking up
A LOT of speed.
At that point,
most mortals would’ve
been trying to outrun
the wave to safety.
But instead, madman Ze’
fades into a gigantic
arcing backside-cutback
(looking a lot more like
a frontside bottom turn)
heading straight back
toward the pit.
THEN, at the last
feasible millisecond,
does this BIZARRE
hinge-pivot redirect
stall move and is instantly
swallowed up by the massive
but thin-lipped barrel.
Absorbed into
the big foam ball
rolling down
the subway tunnel,
he disintegrates from
my view entirely,
although I’m actually
looking directly
into the tube from
the distance of the channel.
This wave didn’t spit,
It VOMITED…
with it upchucking Ze’,
ALREADY aiming
for the lip.
He continues up
over the edge,
teeter-totters
for a second,
then skates down the
backside of the huge
transparent green cylinder.
HE LANDS IT !
Blasting through
the turbulence
only slightly off balance-
still managing to
carve around
the detonation
and continue his
way down the line.
To this day, one of
the most insane floaters
I’ve ever witnessed;
films, videos,
top pros included.
At this point, his wave
passes me by and
I’ve got the rest
of the set swinging wide,
staring at me from
point-blank range.
I can already see
the second wave
wave getting frothy
and beginning to break.
The only way I can avoid
a serious prison beating
is by snagging
the first one
and getting the hell
out of the there.
The swell begins
to elevator me skyward….
and despite a huge gust,
I still manage to
get to my feet
feeling pretty solid.
Squinting though
the spray from
the top of the
immense textured wall,
I see in the distance;
Ze finishing his ride,
the beach, the cliffs….
and that a couple
of other cars have arrived.
But at that instant
the sun, revealed by
the wave lifting me up
out of the shade,
BLOWTORCHES
directly into my eyes.
I’m completely blinded
floating through the air,
the offshores slowing everything down to a pulse,
my big toes still
connected to board.
Down….down….down…….
Then back to real time:
SLAAAAAMMMM !!!!!!!
That Bertha of a lip
lands on my dome,
followed by
15-seconds of
atomic wash cycle.
Thankfully, I’m able
to come up for a
half gulp of air before
the second wave
dog-piles me…
POWERFUL enough
to drag me most of
the way to the beach,
where I’m bitch-slapped
by six-foot shorebreak.
My limbs exhausted,
but the adrenalin racing,
I stumble onto the beach
with my heart about
to poke a hole through
4mm of neoprene.
Back on the outside,
Ze catches the largest
wave of the next set.
He carves a deep first turn,
drives straight up the face,
bashes the lip MENTAL –
reentering directly
into a grab-rail stall….
just to get devoured
by another huge tube.
He flies out a few seconds
later on a bullet-train
speed run all the
way to the beach.
He gets out.
Nice wave Pappasss,
he says mockingly.
_____________________
A couple of hours later,
after a second session
and an unwelcome change
in wind direction,
we’re speeding through
the pastures again…..
Climbing a small blind hill,
we are road-blocked
on the opposite side by
a herd of two-hundred
cattle grazing. They
don’t move an inch.
But Ze’ just blares the
horn and speeds up
even faster, weaving
slalom-style through
the black, brown
and white beasts.
We clip the horns
of one of the larger bulls-
and (not even stopping
to see if the animal was ok),
continue through
the remainder of the herd.
Past the shepherd dogs.
Past two stone farmhouses.
And then ninety mph
down the straight stretch
of paved road leading to
the Cabo St. Vincente lighthouse.
A small white car
is approaching us
at equally high speed,
but there’s NO room
for passing on either side
and I’m convinced
Ze’ has some kind
of death wish.
SLOW IT DOWN, MAN !
I plead.
Surprisingly, at
the last possible
moment both drivers
abruptly decelerate
and brake, coming
to complete stops
just a few feet apart.
He gets out to talk
to the driver of
the other car.
After a few
exchanged words
and a bro-shake
we’re following
the white car
south toward the
more protected side of
the Sagres peninsula.
Who is that ? I asked Ze’.
Joao Antunes, he says,
The best surfer
in Portugal.
Really ?..
Yesterday you told me
YOU were the best.
I MEANT, he’s the best
BESIDES me…
anyway, he says
Z-Point is about
6-foot and glassy
right now !
With an diabolic grin
plastered across his mug,
Ze’ cranks up the volume
on a Bad Brains cassette
and floors it .
In about
fifteen minutes
we’re at Z-Point,
looking at some
of the most
picturesque waves
I’d seen in a
long, LONG time.
A short,
near-to-shore
right semi-point,
with 12-foot face sets
and just a baby’s breath
of offshore wind.
Big, open, super-clean,
bright green tubes.
Antunes was already
in the water and
the only person out.
And nobody
but Ze’ and I
was on the beach.
The three of us
surfed alone for hours.
Wave after wave after wave.
Tube after tube after tube.
Joao surfing with
radical precision.
Ze’ surfing with
reckless abandon.
And me….
just surfing for survival.
Seven dogs howled
from the beach as Ze’
took off on the biggest
wave of the session.
The wave was
absolutely unmakeable;
an ugly, mutated, close-out.
But Ze’,
seemingly encouraged
by the cries of dog-pack,
hurriedly scratches his way in
from the top, free-falling
down of the past-vertical face,
barely managing to carve off
a juicy filet mignon
bottom-turn before getting
OBLITERATED by the lip.
Half of his board washes up
on the rocks and is
immediately retrieved by
the largest of the dogs,
a dirty-looking
German Shepherd.
Ze had collected
them over the years.
All strays nobody cared about.
He was the only person
who’d ever fed them.
Who’d ever loved them.
They just sit on the beach
and wait for him to come
out of the water,
Antunes told me.
By the time we get back
up to the cars, Ze’ is already
engaged in rolling a big,
fat hash-and-tobacco joint
and listening to the Doors
with his canine crew.
Hey Dude, he says to me,
You’re from Los Angeles.
Do you know
Jim Morrison?
Morrison’s from
Los Angeles.
He’s from NEW MEXICO..
I reprimanded
…don’t you go
to the movies ?…
besides, he’s dead…
isn’t he?
________________________
The next several days,
were repeats of the first
with smaller waves and
a few other variations.
Ze’ came by
every morning
before dawn.
I was the only person
he could find to get
up this early on
gelid mornings
like these.
Like myself,
he was an extremist,
but in a more
self-destructive way.
BAM ! BAM! BAM !
Ze’ pounded on the window
at six am for
our morning surf.
But it wasn’t six,
it was eleven.
And it wasn’t Ze’,
it was Joao.
How are the waves ?
I asked.
HUGE, come on…I need to
show you something.
We drove to
Cabo St. Vincente.
Standing near
a parked police car,
was a single uniformed cop
and several fisherman
looking over the cliff
at what was left of Ze’s
dark blue, sixteen-valve
Volkswagen GTI
laying face down
on the rocks.
The swell had risen
enormously overnight
and was now
at least twenty-five feet.
With the rising tide,
the mountains
of water soon began
pile-driving directly
into the cliff itself,
completely submerging
the car and sending
plumes of spray
almost to the
lighthouse parking lot
hundreds of feet above.
Absolutely nothing
could be done until low tide
when the wreckage could
be more safely inspected.
The cop and fishermen
all split, returning back
to their daily tasks.
That stupid fucker !!…
I yelled angrily
to no one in particular.
Always driving like an idiot and showing off !!!
You think this was an ACCIDENT ?!
Joao asked incredulously.
What do you mean ?? I say.
Look at all these
tire tracks…
Joao explained,
Most of the old ones are
from Ze’ when he was driving stupid,
doing those a hundred-and-eighty
degree slides up to the edge of the cliff
he liked to do…..
but look at these
freshest tracks,
they go STRAIGHT
off the cliff…
SUICIDE ??? I say shocked.
No man, I don’t know
about all that. I think
it was more of a case
that he drove exactly
the way he surfed….
never thought
things through….
whether or not he’d
make it from
Point A to Point B…..
or the consequences
if he didn’t.
Six hours later,
half of Vila do Bispo
came back with
the town cop to see
the wreckage
of the infamous
Ze’ dos Caes,
but no car
was to be seen.
The gigantic swells
had washed the car
completely off the rocks,
across the shallows
of the narrow coastal
shelf and out into
abysmally deep water.
Here in this rural of an
area, no government
official was about to
green-light funding
for proper underwater
equipment to investigate,
“the suicide of a
delinquent drug-addict”.
After the official funeral
the following week,
we all stuck around
a few extra days,
holding our own private
service down at Z-Point…
Ze’s domain.
Everyone
who considered
Ze’ a friend
(and many people
who considered
him a menace)
attended.
We smoked hash-joints
until sunset, watching
Z-Point at its best
as countless,
unridden rights
peeled off the rocks
and seventy-five yards
to the beach.
I’d only known Ze’
a very short time,
but felt in some way
he’d been a kind of
distant brother of mine.
I wondered where his dogs
were at a time like this.
*Inspired by the life and times
of Jose Neves.
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