JONATHAN, WED03JULY2013 MOR

 

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Crew: Bri and Jonathan M.

Conditions: 1-3 FT, consistent, foggy, slightly onshore.

     Jon and I were inseparable at one point. We had both started surfing at the same time. How many other surfers have this similar story about the friend that “used to surf?” The last time we surfed together was September of last year. We all lose surfing friends to something, whether it’s because of relationships, school, work, or drugs.

     I wrote him off a long time ago. I couldn’t accept how my friend had come back a different person after studying abroad. With a newfound wife, he had lost his stoke for surfing.

     Happily married with a baby due in October, he’s meeting me this morning to paddle out.

#

     I’m late driving to Manhattan Beach. Bri’s in the passenger seat next to me. “He’s probably already there,” I say.

     The phone rings, and it’s Jon. “Where are you?” he says. “I just parked.”

     “I’m parking right now,” I say. “Just meet me by the tower, or paddle out there. I’ll meet you out there.”

     I hang up the phone, and Bri looks at me. “You just lied to him,” she says.

     As I make my way down the hill, I look through a slit between the streets and see him warming up. He doesn’t fit into his old wetsuit anymore, so he’s wearing a pair of blue boardshorts, boardshorts that he had special ordered to his size. After changing, Bri and I walk out to the sand and wave at him.

     It’s a perfect day for a beginner or a person who hasn’t surfed in a year. I paddle out to meet him.

     “The water’s nice,” he says.

     God damn. Jon’s changed. I haven’t seen him in a while, and whenever I do he looks different, in this case larger. This is the guy who was a ripped surfer who used to lift weights and do martial arts. Surfer Jon, he’s gone for sure.

     It’s hard for me to write this without sounding like an asshole, but if my writing must be honest then I have no choice. Layers of flab between his chest and armpits lie in folds. I’m trying not to look at them. His eyes are almost as slanted as mine because of the additional meat around his cheeks. Fuck me. What the fuck did his wife do to him? Shit, man . . . I can’t blame her. He’s happy, he sure as fuck hasn’t had the urge to surf since he put that ring on, so who needs who more?

     “I’m gonna try to stay in front of the tower,” I say. “Just watch the current.” I stick to my spot, paddle, and catch small waves. After every ride, I go against the light current to avoid being swept away. Jon is riding the inside. I turn around and motion him to the outside. “It’s breaking out here,” I say.

     “I haven’t surfed in about a year. I’m having a hard time catching waves.”

     “You should bring out your longboard. It would probably be easier.”

     He smiles and says, “Man, I don’t want to ride that thing. It’s a tank. It’s so hard to turn.”

     I pause. Say it politely. “I think that board would be perfect for you right now.”

     “I think I would get winded just carrying that thing.”

     At least he admits it. It’s . . . hard to let go. This is the guy who didn’t show up to his own welcome back surf gathering that I had organized years ago, the flake. How dare he give up surfing? It was our bond, what made us brothers.

     Jon tries to paddle against the current, but sinking his undersized thruster, he gets swept north. Bri catches a couple of waves that brings her close to him.

     They walk together on the sand, heading back towards me and the tower just as a left pops up. It’s a small day, but on this little two footer I crack a small, front-side snap, tossing out a little water over the wave. That’s what you’re missing out on Jon. You should be doing this right now, should’ve been doing this years ago instead of riding the whitewash like it’s your first day of surfing. See what happens when you turn your back to the ocean!

     No sooner than he paddles back out does the current start taking him north again. Bri paddles up to me and says, “He didn’t come here to surf. He can barely paddle.” I keep my gaze on the horizon, feening for the sensation of another wave. “He came here to be with you,” she says.

     I look back over at Jon. Jon . . . you’re in there somewhere underneath your new coat. Is your soul the same? You’re that high school kid that I used to spar against, the guy who dated the master’s daughter. O.G. Pumprider and O.G. Dumprider together at Bay Street, paddling back to the lineup smiling and holding our fingers up, counting how many waves we caught. I visited you in San Diego when you were in college. You brought me to Blacks and Mission Beach for my first time. When I was in Iraq and you were in China, we emailed each other about how much we missed the surf. “Bring a bar of wax with you when you go to Iraq,” you had told me, “smell it when you miss surfing.”

     I paddle up to Jon, letting the current take me with him. “How’s your life, your wife; how’s everything?”

     “We’re gonna have a baby shower at the end of this month,” says Jon. “You and Bri should come!”

     Jon . . . he’s in there. Does he have to surf to be my friend?  His eyes are the same.

#

     After that session, Jon told me that he’d paddle out with me in the morning. “I’ll bring my foam board,” he said.

     The next day, while parked at Manhattan Beach, he shot me a text. Too sore, he said. Won’t be paddling out today. Tomorrow for sure.

     The day after that I received a text that said: Sorry, man. Haven’t surfed in so long. Still sore.

     I haven’t heard from him since, but that’s okay. I can’t let surfing define my friendships.