One Skateboard, Two Journeys

Since my first Commodore 64, when I programmed in BASIC a database to manage information on my comic book collection, I was obsessed by this digital/traditional divide.  That program I wrote was stored on a cassette tape. That baffled me for some reason. The linear nature of a cassette tape never made sense.

Accessing data was so inefficient.

And, to be completely honest, calling it a database is a stretch. it never really worked like a database, but it had the appearance of one. I remember starting to play around with arrays and get ready to program the 'write' commands that would pull from a separate text file that was generated by a rudimentary GUI (thats "Graphical User Interface" ). I was getting all into it, and then life, as it often does,  took an unexpected turn.

I was 12 when my Grandfather gave me my first 'real' skateboard. It was a Simms with these asymmetrical insets on the bottom of the board that ran the length between the Tracker trucks. That board, always leaned up against the wall in our entry way, like a tombstone marking the death of my early interest in software programming.

Decades later, I met a random local guy, a bit older than me, sitting in the lineup at Big Rock, here in La Jolla. It was a crap day, no agro vibe and no people. We waited in the sun for the infrequent waist high set out of the South and struck up a conversation. We start talking about our long connection to the spot. He had surfed there since the late 70's. I was a young kid on the beach then, as my grandparents house sat on the shore directly in front of the break.

He told me a story of how, so many years ago, his Simms skateboard had been stolen from his stash spot in my grandfathers yard while he was out surfing.

I told him about my gift. I explained how that board changed the entire direction of my childhood and how thankful I was for that. I explained how skateboarding had lead me to street culture and music and graffiti. Early 80's punk and hip hop.

He too believed that that skateboard, and in his case, the theft of it, had a profound impact on his life. He told me how, with his skateboard gone he just surfed that much more, leading to sponsorships, competition, and women. The greatest adventures of a lifetime. Movie star status. Best. Time. Ever.

And from here, the story is quite predictable. All those parties, all those drugs and that alcohol measured by the bottle, all that shit caught up to him and he unraveled. The rest is pretty much textbook from what I remember. The sad and undying struggles of addiction. I marinate on his story in silence for a minute, as we exchange and small nod and a buried smirk.

I finally say something like, "And... yet, here we both are." and we introduced ourselves. I remember he said something profound like "Nice to finally meet you." And then he caught a wave. And I never saw him again.

To this day, his name alludes me. I can't remember his face, but rather his voice - his voice, and the story he told.

On rare occasion, I still surf that wave. I walk my dog there at sunset. I always exchange pleasantries with every person that crosses my path (on the beach, not so much in the lineup). Every once in a while, its an older looking sun baked surfer type. I say my hellos, and wait intently for a response. The greetings come, but that voice I remember never has.