Can I bring you home in my suitcase, Mr. Lifeguard? (Topanga Point)

I changed my return ticket for the second time so I could go surf today, thinking I would go to Topanga again. It was the first fully sunny California day, as I was driving there the sun and the music (my favorite 60s psychedelic CD) all came together and it was like, Yes, this is what I came to California for.

Get to the parking lot, suit up with the music on. Down to the sand with the blessing of some guys in the peanut gallery who seemed slightly retarded. Down on the beach and the music stops.

It was totally different from the first two times. About 20 feet of rocks that had been covered by water the day before were now exposed. I swear I could point out the very rock I always landed on. Although I thought I had planned this to arrive near high tide, something was very wrong.

The guys who were out were getting waves and avoiding the newly exposed rocks, but they knew how to turn. I didn’t.

I stood there for a while, finally deciding to wait a couple of hours, at which time the tide, according to Surfline, would be just past high.

I left, telling the retarded guys I’d be back. I got some coffee and drove to Malibu, where the waves were once again small and perfect. I had some fun shooting an amateur surf video (i.e. playing the music loud in my car while shooting surfers with my telephoto lens). Then I went and bought 3 Malibu T shirts. (Rationale: I was at Topanga, which is technically in Malibu, and I “surfed” there as well or better than I ever have in my life, hence I deserved the T shirts.)

When I got back to Topanga, the situation hadn’t improved. What had changed was, the wind had come up and the waves had turned crappy. Had I gone in earlier, I would have caught waves. Now there were only four guys in the water, and in short order they left and I was all alone. I tried, but there was nothing. Nada. Nothing to do but get out. I’d drifted way down the beach so it was a long walk back.

I’d stayed an extra day to surf and now there was no surf. It was too late to go somewhere else; it would be dark in an hour.

I’m feeling so bummed out, and here comes an LA County lifeguard in full regalia---they’ve got these really spiffy red and blue uniforms. He comes up to me, tells me he’s “impressed” with my “stamina”. He’s apparently been watching me today and the last time! I take the comment on stamina in stride, as I do compliments on my paddling, etc. But then he goes on to say that my surfing was good! He might’ve actually used the words “almost got it” as have so many people over the years that I cringe whenever I hear them. But coming from this guy, a good looking guy about my age who is going out of his way to be helpful and encouraging, I don’t mind hearing them again. He tells me my stance is good (good!) and that I wouldn’t fall off if I just stayed down lower. He says not to pop up to full standing because that way there’s more to fall over, which makes sense. He says that if my front foot faces the wrong way as it always does, just turn it. He also says that the only thing holding me back from standing is that the waves don’t have enough push in them.

I don’t exactly believe that, since these little waves have more push than what I usually get in Rockaway, but I spare him the story of how I’ve tried for two and a half years without success, because the sun is shining and it’s my last day in California and this nice man has just handed me the opportunity to end a somewhat discouraging surf trip on a positive note. I’ll take it, the way guys who’ve just had a really good ride on a challenging day will get out after that, because what more could you want really?

His name tag said Bertholet and he didn’t have a wedding ring. Why aren’t there lifeguards like this in New York? Why can’t I find someone like him, an older guy who isn’t bald or fat, who likes to surf and isn’t married? I would like to have taken the handsome M. Bertholet home with me.