NEVER THOUGHT WE’D MEET CLAY MARZO, SAT 17SEPT2011 MOR

Crew: Khang, Dais, Klaude, and a late appearance by Dave
Time: 0900-1200, 3 hrs.
Conditions: 3 ft., occasional 4, fast, pitchy, walls and shoulders, over cast, slight drizzle, slight onshore wind which glassed off later, reasonably thin crowd, mellow, non aggro.



Once Upon a Time in Newport Beach:


    Part of yesterday was spent texting Klaude back and forth for Saturday’s call to surf. We’ve both been busy with school and work, and every break that’s not SW facing wasn’t expecting much. Trestles was my suggestion. Either there, O-side, or up north. Later that night I tex’d Khang who was with Dais at the Dodgers game, and they recommended Newport. As much as I wanted to push for Trestles, I have never surfed there before. “There’s an open spot in the van,” he said. Surf a new spot and I don’t have to drive . . . no brainer. I’d only find out how crucial of a call it was to surf Newport later.

    The van rolls up at about 0715. I notice that we’re a man down, but that’s all right because my seat’s in the rear cargo area, so now there’s more room for me. It’s a gray morning during our commute on the 405 S. Khang’s driving and asks if it’s the 57 or 55 that we need to take to Newport. We’ve passed the 55 by about five miles, so we turn around and get on the right track. Newport’s confusing; I don’t know what to expect. There isn’t a huge metered lot like Porto, or a long, obvious strand of surf mobiles with dozens of people changing. I find that it’s all residential parking with apartments situated tightly side-by-side. “We missed a spot back there,” says Dais. I notice it too, but I shut my mouth so as not to be a backseat driver. Khang doesn’t turn around and keeps cruising for another location. We park and recon the water which is literally one block away. I wonder how the residents of Newport take to the visiting surfers that park next to their homes. I’m weary of localism.

    Once on the sand I see the set up. There’s a break between two small jetties. In fact, there are jetties all along the coast; I had no idea Newport was set up like this. The initial impression is that we’ve been skunked. It’s just past 0830, there are about ten guys towards the jetty to our north, and the peaks are long and fast. Just then, a man walks up behind us to give us a morning welcome. He’s drinking coffee, wears a beanie, and has a gray beard with a huge smile to go with it. He’s animated and radiating so much energy, a little too much for a guy that’s been crammed on the floor of a van for the last forty-five minutes. But his energy is positive, and I just need to shake the sleep off to absorb all this. He notices my Maui Built shirt and asks if I’m from Maui. From there we all talk about the surf, and then he enlightens us about a comet that hit a satellite before hitting the sun, in turn resulting in the satellite heading for a crash landing on earth. He introduces himself as Cosmic John and tells us that he’s staying at the Quikhouse with a renowned pro surfer. He also tells us about his challenges over the recent years which dealt with a traumatic injury, memory loss, and much more. Damn . . . it’s a lot to take in on this gloomy morning. Going back to the pro surfer claim, I’m not sure whether to believe him or not.

    We all walk back in the same direction, as he’s staying near where we parked. While changing, it starts to drizzle. Needing to piss like a racehorse, I tell the fellas that I’ll meet them on the sand. Once there, I manage to sit, yank my wetsuit down, awkwardly pull out the hose, and piss right there on the spot. Since I’m sitting with my legs in front of me, it’s a pretty awkward position. I wonder if any of the homes that are just yards away have view of me. I piss all over myself, but at least it’s not inside my wetsuit. Cosmic John’s back. Klaude stays on the shore to talk to him more, but the rest of us find our respective places in the lineup. Dais and Khang decide to immerse themselves with the pack at the north jetty. I decide to sit at the south jetty by myself. I don’t feel like dealing with a crowd, and I watched a couple waves with shape roll by earlier. The waves are fast and pitchy reminding me of HB. The only problem with today is that the waves aren’t peaky. The peaks are long with fast, racy sections. They are still makeable, but not without some dire effort (especially if you’re a barnie like me). My first couple waves are quick closers, but my next two actually have some shape. I catch a left that allows some fast pumping for a little distance. My next wave is a right that lets me crank a top-turn before closing out. It’s inconsistent, but there’s still a frequency of decent waves. I take my first wipeout of the morning when I pop up late and purl. I don’t realize how shallow the inside is. My back hits the sand, and I’m washed around so much that I can feel sand in my throat. A couple groms witness this from the shore. Oh well . . at least I got that out of the way.

    I’ve been surfing away from the guys, so I join them to enjoy their company. Half way there, Khang starts paddling towards me to try a different spot. The locals have it wired. A couple guys own the jetty, taking off near the rocks for long rides all the way to the inside. Soon Dais approaches and Khang goes back by Klaude. We talk to an older local guy who’s riding a green board. He’s nice, but he tells us his life story without us asking. It turns out that he was in the Wilmas gang from Wilmington when he was younger. He talks about surfing San Pedro with rows of lowriders parked blaring gangster oldies on their stereos. He goes on to talk about surf turf wars against the Palos Verdes locals back in the 70’s, and then he talks about gang life. He says, “We had all the drugs. Venice, East LA, Watts, they all loved us for that. But I’m married now, I have a daughter, I’m settled.” I can only smile and acknowledge with a “hmm” or nod for so long. I paddle away and catch my wave of the day. A good bump is on the horizon. It’s a rare wave because the peak is shorter and defined. I catch it going right, and a smooth, rippable face opens up. I bottom turn and crank my smoothest top turn that I’ve pulled off in a while. It’s too bad I don’t stick my reentry and purl my board sliding back down the face. Either way, that turn felt good. It’s enough to hold me over for a while.

    From my perspective I see Khang get a couple waves, but it’s hard to keep track of everyone. A window opens where the wind goes dead, the water gets glassy, and the waves get more consistent. This only lasts about fifteen-twenty minutes, but it’s more than appreciated despite its brevity. Reaching the third hour, I grow weak. We have the north jetty to ourselves, and I have a shot at some fast, outside waves. Well, I purl my board on one, two, three, four waves in a row. It’s demoralizing, humiliating, and embarrassing. The boys see them all in rapid succession. There’s no excuse. I’m just not on point for this session. Finally, I redeem myself by taking my last wave in, but it’s not as hard as the last four waves.

    Klaude’s relatives come to the beach to visit as well as our DRC member Dave who’s still working on his longboard repair. Back at the van, Cosmic John’s back. Due to matters of respect and privacy, I will omit what’s discussed next, but to paraphrase what happens, he invites Klaude and I up to meet the pro surfer. I’m a little skeptical about Cosmic John until this point. I actually feel ashamed for doubting him, but I guess that’s just my natural reaction from being duped by people so many times before. Klaude enters the apartment first. Once he clears the doorway I see someone sitting on the couch. The young man sitting in shorts, a white T-shirt, and looks like he just woke up is none other than Maui’s own Clay Marzo. Damn . . . yeah, now I know for sure that I’m an idiot for not taking Cosmic John for his word to begin with. I don’t know what Klaude is thinking, but I know what I am: be calm, don’t turn into a giddy groupie, no autographs, close your mouth, look normal, stop shaking, and no stupid questions. Klaude shakes his hand first, introduces himself, and then it’s my turn. We also meet a young man named Sean, and a man named Adam. Adam asks where I’m from on Maui, and I say Napili. It turns out that he’s lived there too. I try to elaborate on my old haunts, what class I graduated, and what I did when I lived there. Honestly, I’m hoping that Clay hearing all of this will maybe engage in some conversation, but he remains pretty calm and relaxed on the couch, politely glancing towards me as I speak. Well, I can’t blame the guy. It’s his Saturday morning, and I’m sure that he didn’t plan on spending it with strangers. None-the-less, Clay, Cosmic John, Adam, and Sean show us nothing but welcoming hospitality and invite us to hang out and relax. I spend more time talking to John, and Klaude gets more face time with Clay. I’m happy for Klaude, happy for us both. I know I’m a fan of Clay. Hell . . . Klaude has been following Clay’s webisodes and been a fan of his surfing longer than I have. I’m so stoked to be there that I’m practically paralyzed, so I can imagine how Klaude feels. I tell Adam that I was just watching Clay’s sequence on Innersections this morning before I got picked up. Adam tells me that he was involved in shooting that, and he provides the video material for Clay’s website. He’s surprised that we are, as he puts it, “into that too.” He tells me to come out to the balcony where Klaude and Clay are. Adam tells us, “I want to show you guys some stuff on the computer.”

    Klaude says, “I have three friends that are waiting for us outside. They are just skating around waiting on us. Is it cool if we invite them up here too?”

    I’m not sure how this is going to go. Clay doesn’t protest, and John and Adam tell Klaude to go ahead. I must commend Klaude for his ability to remain well spoken and put together with what he says next. I can’t remember the exact dialogue, but he expresses our gratefulness as fans to be here, and he says, “We are here for Clay.” I remain stand-offish leaning on the sliding door. Klaude says, “Matt, come on,” as he motions me to add to his chimes.

    “Hey, man,” I say. “I’m cool. I’m just happy that I can be here right now.” What I mean to say is, I don’t want to be the stalker fan to freak Clay out because I want to respect the guy and give him his space. Besides, with thousands of fans across the globe, I’m sure that moments of self time are few and far between. But if the situation was right to address him, I’d tell him how much I’m inspired by his surfing, how the power that he generates when he throws out the tail on his layback snaps are almost humanly impossible, how stoked I am to see a fellow Maui boy make it so far in professional surfing, and how much I look forward to seeing him dominate the ASP in the future. But no, this isn’t the arena for that, at least I don’t feel that it is. One of us doing the talking is enough, that’s Klaude, and he’s doing a fine job. On this random Newport day, first day ever surfing Newport, just by a small chance we meet a free spirit named Cosmic John at the beach, and we’re now here chillin’ with motherfucking Clay fucking Marzo. WHAT THEE FUCK! Forever, I’ll have this story to tell.

    Klaude leaves to get the fellas. While waiting for Klaude to return, John notices that my posture is horrible. “Something wrong with your back?” he asks.

    “Yeah. Slipped disc maybe about . . . four years ago.”

    “Yeah, I can see. Take off your shirt, let me look at your back.” My shirt’s still in my hands when he grabs my shoulders to spin me around. “So much air trapped right here,” he says as he examines my lower back. “Lie down on those pillows.” I look down, and there are three cushions in place specifically for body work. I’m lying face down when the rest of the guys walk in. I only hear voices while I only feel pain.

“Deep breaths,” he says. Everything’s fine until he’s digging into spots on my feet and calves. “Does it hurt here?”

    “YESS!”

    “I don’t see you breathing. . . .”   

    Klaude says, “Relax, Matt, you need to relax.“ Fuckin’ A, the last time I got a massage was in Bali, and that was brutal.

    A voice in the background says, “He’s getting a massage.”

    “This is not a massage!” says John. He calls Dais over to show him what he’s performing. Minutes later, he twists my torso which cracks and releases tension in my upper and lower back. He spends a good ten-fifteen minutes on me, on a stranger that he just met on the sand earlier in the morning, someone he has no obligations to whatsoever. I stand up refreshed, thank him, and join the others to watch more of Clay’s footage. Khang and Klaude ask Clay questions about the footage, in which he replies kindly in return.

    Since we’re starving, and we’ve been here for about forty-five minutes, we thank our gracious hosts and head out the door. When I shake Clay’s hand I do so with both of mine, look him in the eye, thank him again for his hospitality and tell him it’s an honor to meet him.

    Cosmic John walks us back to the van, gives me a hug, and insists that we’ll be in touch. He’s just one of those guys who comes along and leaves an impression on whomever he meets. He’s a beautiful person. 

    We end up eating at one of Dave’s favorite Vietnamese restaurants in Garden Grove where we pour over the day’s events. What luck, what a chance, everything worked out perfectly. We could’ve been there tomorrow and never experienced this, but somehow these paths merged today. Also, it’s revealed that Newport was Dais’s call, which gives more credibility to his nickname Nostra-Daisus.

    Now that I’m home, I’ve looked up Adam’s info. He’s Adam Klevin, Clay’s filmer. His work can be viewed at http://www.claymarzo.com/tag/adam-klevin/. Cosmic John’s full name is John Basehart, and the link to his trailer documentary can be viewed at http://youtu.be/gQx2w_kz0l4. I hope to keep in touch with John. And for the crew, this was just another day surfing which turned into something else. I will never forget this.