Aloha……

This story actually takes place in October of 1965, but Lizzy, the main character was born in England in 1951. The following proceedings occurred in a period of time much like the one I am sitting in now where the good surf from one season has died and there is that in between lull before we start seeing good surf coming from storms in the opposite direction. In this case the summer south swells that brought surging walls of water across Newport's beaches had faded into memory and there was nothing of any consequence yet arriving from the north. The River Jetty, my home break, was an anemic 2'-3'. The boys were getting restless.

It was Friday morning and a bunch of us guys from the Triton Surf Club, a local club in West Newport, were hanging out at the River Jetty after our morning session. Everyone was in the same mood, we needed a change. So what does any good surfer do who has had his drivers license for a whole two years? I decided we needed a ROAD TRIP!!! Well, the grins and frowns of those that could go and those that couldn't lit up the shoreline. On board was Jim Lovell, president of the Tritons, Bob Horne, one of my closest friends and also a member of the Dave Sweet Surf Team, Danny Cayer, Triton team member, and myself. I had the weekend off from managing Dave Sweet's Shop.

Now, this group had been on surfaris many times before and could tell you of beaches, restaurants and bars from Tijuana to Ensenada, but we had never gone as a group to the north. Of course, we had ventured throughout South Bay and up to Malibu. I had just finished my second summer commuting to Santa Monica from Newport to run Dave Sweet's Shop. I still worked there several days a week after my classes at Orange Coast were over and most weekends. I also had recently become a member of Malibu Surfing Association so I was starting to become accustomed to northerly treks as far as Rincon. But none of us had been together beyond that so we decided to head for Santa Barbara and beyond.

At the time I was driving a '55 Speedster, a fine ride indeed, but a lousy comparison to the surf cars my '56 Dodge Wagon had been and my '59 VW camper would be. Bob had a '58 Super 90, Jim an old station wagon, and Danny was car free. He was also carefree. With a wry smile and that silly accent he used, Jim says, "How about Lizzy?" This is short for Queen Elizabeth and was the fond moniker we had laid upon one of my grandfather's cars, a black 1951 Bentley. Lizzy had had racks and boards on her before so we knew she was broken. In fact, because of the slope of the roof, the boards had a nice fin up-nose down rake to them. Yes, four boards on a '51 Bentley is a smile-bringing sight to any surfer. And, as it turned out, quite a few others.

So Bob says, "If we're going to go in Lizzy and we're heading north to uncharted waters, let's take a step further. Let's add some class. Let's dress up." Jim says, "Bloody well right, governor." He has this routine….. Anyway it was voted on and decided. We opted to do our northerly adventure really different, in coats and ties. I had slacks and a blazer and loaned Danny a tie. Bob had a suit and an extra blazer for Danny. Jim had a full blown three piece, with pin stripes. He could not have asked for a better setting for his constant humorous prattle.

So I went to propose my plan to my grandfather. He had raised me since childhood. His daddy was a Breed who traded horses between the reservations and the army in Oklahoma and Texas and who must have passed the genes along because between the late '50s and mid '60s our house was a revolving door of strange vehicles. At least they were strange to us. And, my Gramps never went to a dealer, nor did much money ever change hands. He was a talker and a trader. It started with the Renault (back when it was pronounced ren-alt) which my grandmother hated. Then came the big old white English Rover. This turned into the '57 Mercedes 190Sl, which itself turned into the single most vehicular lemon I have ever run across. Then the Mercedes became the '51 Bentley which is how we got Lizzy.

Lizzy was long and black and built like a tank with smooth power glide. She had 12 cylinders and if you wanted to look under her hood you could choose the left side or the right. She had teak wood interior, gray leather seats, 3 speed on the column, fold-out tables in the back, vanity mirrors, sunroof so we could see the wax on our boards and a new Muntz 8 track. She was big and beautiful……a perfect surf car. Two years prior I had learned to drive a stick with Lizzy on Brookhurst Blvd in Huntington before anyone had dreamed of Fountain Valley. Picture a small two-lane road with bean fields on each side and a large Rolls-Bentley leaping and lurching like an electrocuted bull frog as a young lad tried to learn to coordinate his shift hand with his clutch foot, with my grandfather sitting beside me cringing at the gear noises saying, "Easy does it! Easy! EASY!!!"

Anyway, Gramps said yes and we loaded up. My granny made snacks. We got all spiffed up and at around 1:30 Friday afternoon we were ready to set out on our adventure. I reached under the hood and got the crank… By the way, did you know that British starters have a fair rough time of it when it comes to salt air? Well, Liz's was no exception. And because the cost of replacing the starter ran somewhere in the range of what some new Central American nations were using as yearly budgets my grandfather was still looking for the right trade. Besides Lizzy had a crank… Yes, slightly over three feet of metal evil that once it did its job returned to an inert hunk of steel. But boy, if you were not careful, and fast, when it was starting that bloody car…it bit you. And bit you hard.

Lizzy had that long snout that culminated into a very large chrome smile of a grill. On each side she had two huge eyes which posed as headlights that you would swear turned inward slightly every time I slid that long crank into the hole underneath her grill. If you have never had the pleasure of cranking a car to start it I would like to say that you don't know what you are missing. You crank in a clockwise motion. If you fail to turn the engine over, the crank would sometimes finish a single revolution and stop. If you failed, but almost turned it over the crank would sometimes catch and rip out of your hand and make another violent 1/2 to 3/4 turn while trying to break your wrist which was sometimes still in the way. If the engine succeeded in turning over the crank would continue in a half turn, celebrating while again trying to eat your wrist while you were trying to extricate the crank from the now running Lizzy.

I was fairly well trained in Liz's quirks so I inserted the crank and waited for Jim's inevitable "One time for the Bloody Queen" which became the trips mantra at all start times which is to say that we yelled that silly ritual more than 3 dozen times in the next two days. We were off. Because we were amped with excitement and showin' off we took the coast route armed with Ray Charles, the Byrds, the Temptations, the Ventures and the Tijuana Brass. Something about cruising down PCH in a '51 Bentley with "Tijuana Taxi" blaring out the windows that brought looks of wonderment to many whose paths we crossed.

Bob rode shotgun. He was one of the most accomplished, smoothest goofy-footers that you never heard of. I had gotten him sponsored by Dave about two years earlier. He was studying to become a pilot. In the back to my right was Jim or "Percy" as we called him. Short for Percival, which was short for the British high brow, or butler routine that he regularly entertained us with. He was the president of our small surf club, not for his surfing prowess, but because he was 21 and had his own house where we could meet. He was also our link to alcohol and a very funny guy. Danny lived near me in the trailer park across PCH. He had this deformed chest that stood out and earned him a few unkind chicken comments, but he was a great guy. His surfing was high intermediate. He just never developed the repertoire to become an expert at the sport, but he could handle most situations admirably. This mix of guys had made dozens of shorter trips together. Lizzy was full of good friends and lots of mindless banter. Laughter was the norm.

We drove until it was starting to get late in the afternoon and until all of us agreed that we were far enough north to experience unknown waters. Plus we had eaten all the snacks and were getting a bit antsy to loosen up our ties. We got off the highway at Carpenteria and made our way to the ocean, which brought us to a camp-like beach where we spotted about 8 guys out. The surf was breaking in peaks at about waist-high. Clean. The sun was getting lower in the sky as we got out of the car to check the waves. However, there apparently was enough light for about 12 other locals hanging on the beach to spot our arrival. Their necks must have hurt for weeks due to the whipping motions. We decided it was a go-out. As the beach crowd tried not to look we each made our way into the nearby beach toilet from which we emerged carrying our neatly hung clothes dressed in our various team trunks. We each hung our attire in Lizzy and unhooked our boards. I'm betting the locals thought they were witnessing a group of prep students fresh out of Beverly Hills trespassing upon their empire. At least that's the looks we seemed to get as we walked to the shoreline.

We went out and shredded the place. Well, at least Bob and I shredded the place and the cumulating of the four of us into the mix sort of sent several of the guys who were out to the beach to watch. Bob and I had this thing that we learned at the River Jetty where he would do a right-go-left and I would do a left-go-right on the same peak. We would meet in the middle and crank our turns, then both of us would go to the tip, and he going left me going right. This doesn't leave room for a lot of other surfers on those waves and we did have a tendency for getting more than our share. You must remember that these were the days when the better surfers got the most waves and nobody said boo. We were always promoting Dave Sweet Surfboards and all four of us were riding them. So it was not long before the strangers in the suits and weird car were out in the water by themselves.

We surfed till dusk and then got out to shower and suit up. Some of the local guys came over to ask where we were from and who did we surf for, the usual sniffing, and after mutual intros we were informed of a dance in Santa Barbara that night. Here is where we learned that democracy is a bitch with four people. Jim and Danny weren't much into dancing while Bob and I were Rendezvous Ballroom regulars who could switch from the surfer stomp to the twist with ease and on a good night the mashed potato might appear. So we compromised in that we would go to the dance, Jim and Danny would man Lizzy and watch the boards while Bob and I would venture into a teen dance in a strange town slightly over dressed in comparison with the dance's chaperones. 

We stood out, but at least the lights were low enough so we only stood out in a small area. The place was packed. And who do you think the young lasses were attracted to…the plaid wearing, half-beat slow guys from their high school or these new be- bopping, slightly inebriated outlanders with obvious cultural upbringing. You see, we had the foresight to buy a gallon of Red Mountain wine ($1.49US), along with cheese and crackers, and we would stroll the fair damsels out to the Bentley between numbers for appetizers and libations. Quite impressive, you know. There were only a couple of times when the ambiance was ruffled, such as when Danny and Jim decided to break out the sardines to spread on their biscuits and the scene took on a new odor. But, all in all, a good time was had by all. Only problem, we found girls who wanted to go with us, they found guys with no where to go. After the dance, the four happy musketeers found a quiet place down by the beach, finished the wine and goodies, and peacefully slept in the car…

The next morning, still suited, but not as neatly creased, we headed for our destined campsite, Refugio. We originally thought we would head for Hope Ranch, but none of us had a clue where it was. And you know what? We never really made an honest effort to ask. We just kept adventuring. After convincing the gatekeeper at the camp that we actually wanted to stay there and were not in fact lost he let us in and we found our campsite. Here we pitched a tent that Jim had brought. This was done more for ownership and ritual. I don't think any of us ever used that tent. But once we had established a foothold here we went to the trailer that served as the camp's general store and bought snacks and beer and then turned our journey north.

After you get on the highway and start heading north beyond Refugio the road veers away from the sea and heads for Anderson Split Pea Soup Country. In our infinite wisdom we figured the first major road heading west would lead us to that which we sought…waves. So we turned left. The first problem was that the road wasn't very major and quickly became dirt, which decided to become dusty and full of ruts. So we had to slow Lizzy down…way down. However, as pilot, I was able to employ the magic suspension modifier found on my steering column, which settled our ride to a pleasant jostle. This dirt road went forever and the longer we drove the fewer signs of civilization we saw, which would not have mattered had not Lizzy decided that dust and heat were not good for her cooling system. She decided to overheat.

Here I will not bore you with the sociological processes that democratically choose whom has a suit which is more appropriate to go fetch water in… but I will say that Percy is a bloody good chap and we were able to finally negotiate the road to a beach that, had it not been for a 25 mile an hour cross wind, could have offered good waves. Instead it brought four moderately rumpled well-dressed wave riders into contact with a beach side trailer park that I am guessing had never seen an English car before. The whole town came out and we had a great time opening up Liz's hoods and I can't count how many fun times we showed them the crank and how it worked. They in turn gave us enough water to get back to the highway. We limped back to Refugio, dusted but not daunted. We made the store's day with our dinner purchases and settled into our camp site to talk story and drink ourselves to sleep. Danny slept outside, the rest of us in Lizzy. Nobody used the tent.

The next morning we awoke to perfect 3' waves coming in off the point. You know the kind where you dream that you are 3" tall riding a Popsicle stick. Anyway, we needed the salt in our gills and went out. Quite a few camp dwellers came out and watched as we practiced our tip rides and then riding on each other's boards. We got three guys on one board for about 3 seconds. I was able to pull off some backwards rides that wowed the crowd of onlookers. Later we paddled in, put on our farmer johns and paddled back out with a couple of beers in the armpits. We played here till about noon when we had to check out.

You probably don't need to guess that the suits were now in the boot of the car. This trip wasn't about surfing…we surfed almost every day of our lives. It was about friendship and camaraderie. Dressing up to go surfing was great fun while it lasted, but I doubt if I will ever try it again. Hell, I haven't worn shoes in almost 10 years. I will say that the combo of the suits and car mixed with good surfing seemed to have a positive impact on strangers. We came home in trunks. On the way we were able to catch Oil Piers at a solid 4', perfect shape. Sweet little tube rides. We ripped this place for 2 hours before we decided that we had had enough and had to drive for a while before we found a fresh water shower to wash off in. For the ride home we decided upon a nice bottle of champagne, which we sipped on all the way back to Orange County. When it started getting dark and the lights became too bright from the cars behind I reached up and pulled the rear window curtain knob so my passengers would not be disturbed. Lizzy was playing Take Five by Dave Brubeck.

Everyone showed up the next morning to give her a well-deserved bath… before our morning session. The crank was in place…waiting for the next adventure.

I miss my old buddies. This adventure was way more important than the surf we rode, it was about companions in a lifestyle who shared a moment to be different from the rest of their peers. We had a ball!!! …I have never heard a thing from Bob after my '66 tour to the East Coast. I last saw him on the doorstep of his cabin on Lake Mohawk, New Jersey as I left heading for the Jersey Shore. He was a navigator for United Airlines. Two years ago I received a very weird message from the Virgin Islands informing me that the high order of Lovell was indeed well and running several retail shops on St Thomas selling his precious stones from his Brazilian gem mines. He is still a hoot to talk to. I have never heard from Danny.