A TRUE CALIFORNIAN                      Copyright (C) 1992 Luigi Semenzato

One of the little surprises in my life is having a wife who goes to
business meetings in fancy places, where the spouse (me) is usually
invited.  Last November we spent a week-end in Carmel at the Pebble
Beach Golf Resort.  We stayed at a suite bigger than our apartment in
Berkeley, with a view of the 18th hole and the sea.  I don't golf, but
I had planned in advance to use this trip to be baptized a True
Californian.  For the first time, I was going to surf.

Saturday morning I drove the Miata (another little surprise---I am
really into station wagons) to Monterey with the top down.  There I
rented a large yellow surfboard, put it in the passenger's seat, and
drove back to the Carmel beach.  A few people were out there surfing.
Good, I thought, it must be a good day.  I put my Windskin on,
strapped the safety leash around my ankle, and walked into the water.

I lay on the board, stomach down, and started paddling.  It wasn't
hard except when a breaker came, which unfortunately was rather
frequently.  I tried to keep a head-on position against the waves, but
they would push me back, rotate the board sideways, and flip it over.
I got tired surprisingly quickly.  I was making zero progress, so I
asked someone who had just surfed in: ``How do you do this?''  He
smiled.  ``Keep trying,'' he said.  But I decided to use my head
instead.  I watched the other surfers and noticed that when a wave
arrived they pushed the nose of the board and their head underwater,
and resurfaced right afterwards.  So that was the trick!  I prepared
as the next breaker approached, a rather large one.  I tried to time
the precise moment, and when the roaring foam was almost on me, I
quickly lowered my head WHACK! Ouch! and slammed my face against the
board.  The breaker noticed its advantage and pounded me thoroughly,
keeping me underwater while punishing me with the board.  When I
reemerged, the safety line was wrapped three times around my calves.
I got out of the water and slumped on the beach.

Strength and courage returned in fifteen minutes.  I went back in, and
in a surge of energy, and possibly luck, I got to the outside.  There
I was, in the midst of a small group of cool California natives,
sitting on their boards.  Sitting?  Of course, I should do that too.
Whoa! How do... PLUNGE!  Well, maybe I'll lie down.  Now, why are they
all paddling away?  The wave!  The Wave!

It was coming directly at me, tons of water and no brain.  I turned
the board around, hugged it as tight as I could, and closed my eyes.
It lifted my feet and threw me forward like a pebble in a slingshot.
After one and a half seconds, I was still alive and doing about 90.
Then the wave broke.  For a moment it could not decide if it should
swallow me or splurt me forward.  That was enough to save me.  It
weakened rapidly and pushed me all the way to the shore.  I had tamed
it.  Satisfied, I went back to the car, too tired to take my wetsuit
off, drove to Pebble Beach and arrived just as my wife and her
colleagues were coming out of their meeting.

Amongst my various qualities, I am very honest; too honest to deny
that I had been checking my watch to time my arrival with the end of
the meeting; and that I have gone through the whole experience mostly
for those few minutes of glory.  People surrounded the car, making
praising comments and taking pictures while I described my wave-taming
session, skipping a few irrelevant parts.  In front of their eyes was
a True Californian: turtleneck tan, Japanese sports car, surfboard,
Italian accent for that fashionable touch of European flair; and a
growing bulge on the forehead that I had not noticed yet.
