a fork in the road

By: Pat Steele

“When you come to a fork in the road, take it”- Yogi Berra

There are certain events that impact you for the rest of your life, but at the time seem insignificant. I learned to surf at the beaches west of the L.A. airport. The beaches were dirty and filled with derelicts of all varieties. The older surfers abused groms when they weren’t passed out or hungover. My friends and I were obsessed with surfing. We would study Surfer magazine and marvel at other surf spots.

My friend Steve Ramierez said his older brother’s friend, Jock, was going to take him to San Diego to surf. I begged an invite and so did three other friends. The five of us waited by the curb on a late Friday afternoon. Jock rolled up in an old Chevy sedan. He immediately established himself as the alpha male over us anxious 15-year olds. Jock was 23 and apparently didn’t have any surfing buddies. It became clear why nobody wanted to surf with him. His face had a permanent scowl. He gave us curt and direct orders on how to tie our boards onto his racks. These were the days of longboards, so it was a meticulous process. Jock also made it clear that any indiscretion would mean you were banned for life from any other trips. Surfing was more important than our normal grab ass humor so we were obedient.

Since the freeway wasn’t completed until late 1964, some of the route south was on Hwy. 101. Jock didn’t feel we were important enough to divulge his game plan. We were surprised when he stopped in a parking lot in Laguna Beach and walked into a bar. We sat in the car as the sun went down. Jock came out when the bar closed which was 2 a.m. This would become a ritual on every trip. We slept. I woke up the next morning to an ocean view from a bluff where we had parked.

Paradise! Nirvana!

I was looking at some glassy peaks rolling through the kelp beds, breaking on reefs and crystal-clear water. The surf spot was Beacons. We scrambled down the bluff hooting and hollering. Surf, eat, surf, eat, sleep, and repeat. Compared to the beach ghetto we were used to, this was the promised land. One time we paddled out to the kelp beds which were so thick you could walk on them. The kelp kept the surf clean all day unlike our beaches that blew out every day.

Jock would surf all day only coming in only for water and food. He would sit outside patiently waiting for the best sets. When we were out of the water we would go through his stuff. We could mimic his voice and cadence. He was meticulous about where he stored everything so we had to be careful we put everything back in its rightful place. One afternoon in our endless search, we hit the mother lode. Buried deep in the trunk underneath a mat was his stash of Playboys. We immediately posted a sentry to make sure Jock didn’t get out of the water. We needed enough time to get them back in order, under the mat and all the other gear stacked on top of them. Sometimes we walked down the hill to the country store where the 7/11 is now on Leucadia Blvd. The store had a Myna bird in a cage at the store that greeted everyone with a ‘Hello neighbor!’.

Sometimes we surfed other spots. We were surfing Pipes and Jock invited a couple of surfers he knew to come to our campsite above Boneyards. After a typical dinner of sandwiches, Jock’s buddies, Larry and Jimmy, decided they were going to party in Tijuana. Larry asked to borrow my shoes because he was barefoot, when I hesitated, I got a look from Jock. I handed over my brand-new Hush Puppies. They left their boards with us.

The next morning there was no sign of Larry and Jimmy. We surfed into the afternoon and then started loading up for our trip home. I was bummed Larry still had my shoes. Jock said we weren’t leaving their boards. We already had six boards on the racks adding two more seemed ridiculous. We voiced our displeasure and said we vote to leave their boards. If they were so irresponsible that they couldn’t even come back too bad for them. Jock said with intense conviction, “Load the boards up, NOW!” Sunburnt, hungry, and tired we tied the boards on while grumbling under our breath.

It was night when we got to Steve’s house, his brother came out of the house when we pulled into the driveway. “Larry and Jimmy are dead,” he said.

He told us that they had gotten in a head on collision by Camp Pendleton. Apparently, they had been so drunk they had forgotten their boards and drove past Encinitas and headed home. The three-lane road that went through Camp Pendleton at that time was nicknamed ‘Slaughter Alley’, because of all the fatal accidents. The middle lane was a passing lane and had numerous head on collisions. We were stunned. I was particularly reticent because of all my griping about my Hush Puppies.

Our trips with Jock ended when we got our driving licenses and owned our own cars. We traveled every weekend either North to Rincon area or South to Encinitas. When a tsunami of hard drugs swept through my home town, it decimated friendships and families. My parents were glad when their long-haired rebellious son decided to move out. I hitchhiked to Santa Cruz but it didn’t pan out. In ’69 I landed in Leucadia with a $100.00, suitcase, and a surfboard. The population of Encinitas was 2,900.

51 years later, I’m still here. Met a girl, married for 49 years, raised a family, owned a business and have grandchildren that surf. Even with the obvious strains of more people, North County is still the best place to live and start a family. Thanks, Jock, for introducing me to North County all those years ago.

I came to a fork in the road and took it.

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