All lyrics for ithaka’s 1995 album :
"Flowers and the Color of Paint"
(except Umbilibus & Erase the Slate of Hate)
Recorded in Lisbon, Portugal for Movieplay records
This album was nominated for 3 BLITZ PREMIOS
(Portuguese grammy's) an was considered one of
the most influencial Portuguese albums of the 1990's
by Jornal Publico (#1 Portuguese newspaper)
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ESCAPE FROM THE CITY OF ANGELS (original version)
Original version from album, Flowers and the Color of Paint (Movieplay Records, 1995) . This is the version that appeared appeared in Colombia Pictures’ feature release, The Replacement Killers (1997). Lyrics: ITHAKA , Music: Pedro Passos, Background vocals: Marta Dias. Recorded at Namouche Studios, Lisbon Portugal. Produced by Joe Fossard.Note: the song was slightly altered lyrically and re-recorded in 1998 with new music written and produced by Joe Fossard. Due to disputes over the original masters, this new recording was released with the title, ESCAPE (Nortesul-EMI records, Portugal).
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People they ask me, Why the hell you wanna leave?
Saying that they’ll miss me, that they’re gonna grieve
This town is number one, we got the Lakers and the sun.
There’s always lots of lovelies, always lots of fun
Why won’t you settle down and stay?
Who in their right mind would ever leave LA?
But I gotta tell you, got to put it straight
still’ve busted out of there busted down the gate
Cuz, I had to get out while there was going to get,
LA was the hunter, California was the net
So I got up, got off of my bucket
Sometimes you gotta say, Well what the hell.? FUCK IT!
Wasn’t around for the riots of the King
But every other night bullets left my ears to ring.
HOSTILITY, the song that LA played
Every single night and every single day.
Walking down the alley, the one behind my house
Came five slang-bangers, it was me they were to roust
They asked me, Where ya going?, said, Not really sure
The next thirty-seconds I remembered in a blur
3x WANT TO GET OUT. HAD TO GET OUT. GOT OUT.
ESCAPE FROM THE CITY OF ANGELS
I tried so hard for years to understand
Why do you find such pleasure in killing another man?
I prefer the simple highs in life
Like a mountain of water, not cuttin’ with a knife
But where I’ve disappeared ain’t confidential
The sky’s still blue, the swells are monumental
And no, I’m not ignoring my heritage
Over the gap, I’m a building a bridge
To learn once and for all that peace can exist
Forgive, forget, bring down the fists
3x-WANT TO GET OUT. HAD TO GET OUT. GOT OUT.
ESCAPE FROM THE CITY OF ANGELS
Five days later, what have I got?
I’m in another place which is sunny and hot
The difference here is that I’m free as a bird
No gun to my head, no blood on the curb
But just then a strange thought overtook my brain
And since that day, it never felt the same
If everybody just put down their arms
To nobody on the planet could ever come harm
3x-WANT TO GET OUT. HAD TO GET OUT. GOT OUT.
ESCAPE FROM THE CITY OF ANGELS
The people of this planet they want explanations
For riots, earthquakes and all “God’s creations”
You got me, I just couldn’t say
I do what I do, I take it day by day.
3x-WANT TO GET OUT. HAD TO GET OUT. GOT OUT.
ESCAPE FROM THE CITY OF ANGELS
Well six weeks later, still don’t know what’s up
Don’t got many friends, still got an empty cup
They speak in tongues I don’t understand
But I look just like ‘em, visually I blend
It’s time to start it up in my new land
Korvorowng’s one and only survival plan
3x-WANT TO GET OUT. HAD TO GET OUT. GOT OUT.
ESCAPE FROM THE CITY OF ANGELS
It took me two years, but now I know for sure
LA ain’t the enemy and goodness will endure
The Seed of Free, my real need
Was right there all the time inside of me
Just a voyage of my mind is what I needed
But now I’m on the other side and deep seeded
LA to LAX in fourteen hours flat.
At home on two shores, but I ain’t living fat
Still plagued by brokenness
It doesn’t disappear when I say, hocus pocus
But grounded for the moment in the city of Lisbon
I’m looking for peace and I’m looking for wisdom
Hooked up with a mastermind named, Grizzly
Formed Ithaka, now we’re rolling busily
3x-WANT TO GET OUT. HAD TO GET OUT. GOT OUT.
ESCAPE FROM THE CITY OF ANGELS
3x-WANT TO GET OUT. HAD TO GET OUT. GOT OUT.
ESCAPE FROM THE CITY OF ANGELS
5x- ESCAPE FROM THE CITY OF ANGELS
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THE PIGEON LADY
(c.1992 ithaka darin pappas
from a series of short texts and stories
called, PEACE, LOVE & PORTUGAL ?)
She only has one arm,
but she has a big heart.
She also has
a pet pigeon
named Zaza,
which she keeps
in a plastic bag
warm and dry
out of the rain.
She always says,
Boa Tarde,
when I pass her
at the square.
And I feel privileged
to have such a wonderful person
like the Pigeon Lady
even acknowledge
my meager existence.
She’s homeless,
she’s old,
but beautiful.
And I hope
she’ll keep me warm
and dry
out of the rain.
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SLEEPDRIVER
SLEEPDRIVER song #11 from album, FLOWERS AND THE COLOR OF PAINT (1995)
lyrics:Ithaka (written 1991) music: Pedro Passos, produced by Joe Fossard.
La to Pheonix in Six hours straight
Is he awake or is he asleep
Drives all night in his GTO
To see a squaw he’s left by a red rock
SLEEPDRIVER, SLEEPDRIVER
Maybe it’s love maybe a death wish
Not sure himself in his state of despair
Fourteen hour days, five days a week
All for a squaw he’s left by a red rock
Sleepdriver drove to be on the big screen
But the star became a grip (non-union)
for not much pay
A little is better than none,
He sends the checks home he sends her to school
SLEEPDRIVER, SLEEPDRIVER
And every Friday by eight
He’s on the Ten heading east…for love and home cooking
But by Sunday at six, he’s on the Ten heading west
He’s got to get back,
he’s got an eight a.m. call
All the way in Valencia
SLEEPDRIVER, SLEEPDRIVER
The Sleepdriver drove back and forth for years
Through dust storms and rain
and degrees of a hundred and eight
The Sleepdriver drove
Dozing off and dozing on
Reflector hypnosis a trance-like state.
SLEEPDRIVER, SLEEPDRIVER
The sleepdriver drove the whole night straight
But one night, he just plain fell asleep.
And he dreamed of his great grandfather
In a feather headband and a pair of moccasins
…young as a buck
And he was in a new land
Even farther from the squaw he’d left
By the red rock
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STONEMOBILE (album version)
Once upon a time a long time ago
I had a slanky slimfish twenty-four years old
Knowing I was wheel-less, she gave me a ride
A junker of a junker Morris 1969
Flat-grey, with plenty of dents and rust
No lights, no mirrors and covered with dust
She said, this is a symbol of my feelings for you.
I know it ain’t your color, but you can paint it blue
Then she split, just like a Stellafly would
Left a hole in my gut, no I wadn’t feeling good
And for a while, I didn’t drive it all
Represented someone kinda pretty, someone kinda tall
Mostly I’d been intrigued by her head
The things she wrote and the things she said
Guess I wasn’t smart enough for her, role
But girl, a brain and worth shit without a heart and a soul
But two months later,I put those thoughts beneath
Felt like taking a drive up to Peniche
But two years since Stonemobile been drove
But stuck a key in her keyhole and off we rode
WE’RE GETTING KINDA STONEY IN THE STONEMOBILE
IT AINT WHERE YOU GOING ITS HOW YOU FEEL
WE’RE GETTING KINDA STONEY IN THE STONEMOBILE
IT AINT WHERE YOU GOING ITS HOW YOU FEEL
Ain’t got the frozen fish, but I got something better
A whole lot of soul with a fucked up fender
It ain’t where ya going, it’s how you gettin’ there
And ya she’s kinda funny-looking and some people stare
But she’s a bucket with class, I drive her with pride
She’s my very own, very special Stonemobile-ride
WE’RE GETTING KINDA STONEY IN THE STONEMOBILE
IT AINT WHERE YOU GOING ITS HOW YOU FEEL
WE’RE GETTING KINDA STONEY IN THE STONEMOBILE
IT AINT WHERE YOU GOING ITS HOW YOU FEEL
She’s called the Stonemobile, because she looks like a rock
Slow and grey, most people would rather walk
Keeping Ithaka as our final destination
A million places no time for hesitation
And yes it’s true she don’t use electricity
I know what Kermit meant, it ain’t easy being green
But most of the time, she don’t leave the driveway
But now she’s got a family and she gets washed daily
WE’RE GETTING KINDA STONEY IN THE STONEMOBILE
IT AINT WHERE YOU GOING ITS HOW YOU FEEL
WE’RE GETTING KINDA STONEY IN THE STONEMOBILE
IT AINT WHERE YOU GOING ITS HOW YOU FEEL
Escape, search, find, we’ll
Got it . Get it. Good. And Free will
WE’RE GETTING KINDA STONEY IN THE STONEMOBILE
IT AINT WHERE YOU GOING ITS HOW YOU FEEL
WE’RE GETTING KINDA STONEY IN THE STONEMOBILE
IT AINT WHERE YOU GOING ITS HOW YOU FEEL
WE’RE GETTING KINDA STONEY IN THE STONEMOBILE
IT AINT WHERE YOU GOING ITS HOW YOU FEEL
WE’RE GETTING KINDA STONEY IN THE STONEMOBILE
IT AINT WHERE YOU GOING ITS HOW YOU FEEL
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SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF GIBRALTAR
Direct live from the miracle mile……
Well I was riding with some brothers Somewhere south of Gibraltar
We didn’t have a plan so there was nothing that could falter
Picked up another brother down at Darbouzza
His name was Akeem he had a sister named Souza
He said to Agadir we should go
We all got ready we got ready to roll
We drove all night, it rained like dogs and cats
We drove all night, there was no turning back
Arrived at Anchor point in the middle of the morn
The sun was shining, the end of the storm.
The Point was reeling, it looked like a painting
Overhead and glassy with lips hollow and spraying
We got out there we carved with all our might
We carved all day ‘til it became night
Our city grime had washed away
Tahgazout our new home, the village where we stayed
Crashed out early we rose before dawn
From this perspective civilization seems wrong
SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF GIBRALTAR
SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF GIBRALTAR
SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF GIBRALTAR
SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF GIBRALTAR
Back out in the lineup of bright blue
Akeem dropped into a big crystal tube
And made an exit without getting wet
While Smiley took off on a two-meter set
He carved off the bottom, he snapped off the top
And disappeared behind the curtain
in the bottom of the trough
And once again, he saw daylight
Everything about this day was going all right
Until I got brave, challenged a thick lip
Got chewed up then spit back out of the grip
My blade was busted down the middle in two
Underestimated Anchor’s power but now I knew
Trigo was the next victim of her assault
Kicked in his butt then flipped a somersault
His blade also, was busted down the middle
It don’t know genius to figure out this riddle
Treat the Lady Anchor with a little respect
Or you will very likely get worked or wrecked
SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF GIBRALTAR
SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF GIBRALTAR
SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF GIBRALTAR
SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF GIBRALTAR
After two days of nonstop laceration
Drove in search of different motivation
To a little village, no village at all
Just ten fisherman and right three meters tall
Strapped a cord to the tail of my six-ten
Took a couple of spills, but wasn’t ready to say when
Then there it was with my name written on it
High blue and steep with a big fat lip
Scratched for shore like a dog does fleas
But this is a drop-in this ain’t no disease
Made the first turn relatively unscathed
But didn’t want to stick around for the aftermath
But then the blueroom enclosed me
A tiny light was all I could see
Wait for me…can’t go any quicker
But fortunately for me that little light got bigger
And I’m out of there into the brightness
No longer feeling the slightest bit of frightness
Euphoria now part of my agenda
The real McCoy not the pretender
After on the shore, I saw the To’of the Dogs
But couldn’t think a word my mind was full of fog.
The old artist told us stories out of his head
Of the visitors there; Jim, Jimmy and The Dead
The Dead brought their blades and tried their liquid luck
But nobody comes around no more, nobody gives a fuck
But I gave a fuck-and the Circle did too
This place was magic and surrounded by blue
SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF GIBRALTAR
SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF GIBRALTAR
SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF GIBRALTAR
SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF GIBRALTAR
Then we headed north toward Casablanca
Stopped off at an ancient city called Essouira
Some Mud was tried, but no sale was made
But a very stoned Joe said it all taste the same
The coast was flat so we headed back
But the lefts at Darbouzza weren’t so great
We wasn’t sure if we should spilt or wait
But at dinner I met a mistress from Paris
I asked her her name but she seemed embarrassed
Ended up hanging at her crib by the shore
We smoked a little something
And we listened to the roar of a new Northwesterly on the increase
Of this addiction my soul won’t release
Slept like a log, No I didn’t mean to bore her
But I needed rest, I couldn’t help but ignore her
Cuz my main girl is brewing up something for me
If you didn’t guess, my best girl is the sea
But she didn’t produce as I’d expected
And I’m feeling aggravated and I’m feeling rejected
The rest of the Circle felt the same as I did
As we was thinking, man,..just about time that we split
Then Akeem that muthafuckin surfing machine
Suggested we visit he town Sale’ to check out the scene
A strange town with a strange name,
a ghetto of a ghetto…in Morocco it’s the same
then a fight broke out down the street
Rocks were thrown, there was the thunder of feet
Clubs were swung, a riot was on
And we was thinking, it’s time to get gone
Packed up our shit, no time for a prayer
Again we headed north we got the fuck out of there
We got the ferry boat back to Spain
It’s was very stormy the sky spilling rain
Passed through Customs, Loreto carried Mud
In my opinion that shit fucking dumb
But with nerves of steel it was ok
There was no bust and we were on our way
All though the night until the next day
Back to Lisboa the town where we stay
Arrived home without escudo or dollar
Just glad to be back
from Somewhere South of Gibraltar;
SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF GIBRALTAR
SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF GIBRALTAR
SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF GIBRALTAR
SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF GIBRALTAR
SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF GIBRALTAR
SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF GIBRALTAR
SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF GIBRALTAR
SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF GIBRALTAR
SOUTH OF GIBRALTAR
SOUTH OF GIBRALTAR
SOUTH OF GIBRALTAR
SOUTH OF GIBRALTAR
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Been Four Years
Been four years. It’s been four years.
Been four years. Since I saw your face.
Been four years. It’s been four years.
Been four years. Since I saw your face.
Met at your Papa’s showing, back in LA.
He’s a twisted brother, must run in the family.
You were kinda bizarre, yeah-you scared me a little.
You was only eighteen, when life is just a riddle.
But I should have known a good thing,
when it slapped me on the face.
But it didn’t seem to me, the right time or the place.
See you was too young, least that was my alibi.
But I was still mindfucked-up over Stellafly.
But it’s four years later, I been to hell and back.
Thank you for your letters, and thank you for your fax.
Cuz sometimes it’s lonely on this side of the pool.
You says you’re gonna visit ‘fore you go back to school.
Been four years. It’s been four years.
Been four years. Since I saw your face.
Been four years. It’s been four years.
Been four years. Since I saw your face.
But whadda know? I gotta go on assignment.
And won’t be in Lisboa when your flight gets in.
But we ain’t got much time, cuz this life is short.
So try to change your ticket, meet me in the garden port.
And you did…you landed gently. And you was looking good.
You brought with me your luck, just like a ladybug would.
Been four years. It’s been four years.
Been four years. Since I saw your face.
The girl I’d known, she’d grown into a woman.
You had yourself together, you knew what you was doing.
No, you never before been to this garden.
No you never heard before of this garden.
But we got along, like the flower and the bee.
No fights, no complaints, not the slightest bit of jealousy
Out on that little garden out in the sea.
I found out who you was. I found out who was me.
Been four years. It’s been four years.
Been four years. Since I saw your face.
But after two weeks, the trip came to an end.
We went our separate ways. We took our separate planes
Back to Brooklyn. Back to Lisboa.
Separate sides of the Atlantic.
You know I’m gonna miss you.
So let’s not let four more years go by
Together we should learn, together we should fly.
To unknown Edens all around this earth.
See you again was like a second birth.
Been four years. It’s been four years.
Been four years. Since I saw your face.
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FISHDADDY
I had a headache my body felt cold
But I was still kinda young, twenty-six years old
Poisons of all sort flowed through my brain
I never felt sorrow and I rarely felt pain
Why did I always wear a frown
What was it? What was getting me down ?
The problem is I ain’t no city-slicker
I dig street sounds, but I ain’t no quick sticker
I like bashing lips of a different kind
If I don’t get wet soon, I’m gonna loose my mind
I closed up shop, I locked my house up tight.
I headed for the ocean in the middle of the night
First by foot, then a bus and a train
I arrived at a lonely beach that had no name.
I waxed up, then I paddled out alone.
But what I saw next almost turned me to stone
A lovely mermaid with snakes for hair.
I was immobilized by her deep, sultry stare
Every word she said was like a little song
This was no hallucination, my mind wasn’t gone.
She said; Excuse me landman, but I want to make a baby
I said; Let me think about it…maybe
But fifteen seconds later, I said all right
And sixteen seconds later is when I saw the light
She began glowing just like a ball of fire
But where the hell had gone my desire?
I didn’t know whether to worship her..or buck
Was I dead, or was this just good luck
She said; Landman, don’t be nervous don’t be shy
But if you don’t give it to me I will probably die
All right, Your Highness…if it’s a matter of life and death
I’ll give you what you ask, I’ll give you my best
Didn’t know much about being a father to a fish
But she’d more than convinced me to do as she wished
We did it upside right and upside down
Under the water and above ground
After twenty-four hours we finished the deed
The she asked me, Now lanman is there anything that you need
I said You sweet fish you there is only one thing that I would like you to do
Take me with you to your underwater world
Cuz I care about you Miss half-fish/Miss half-girl
She said that Posedon wouldn’t like it much
But that she’d try to talk with him today at lunch
To our surprise, Poseidon didn’t dispute a thing
Just said, a brother Greek to be a future king
Me? A fish king in the ocean blue
That sounded all right I needed a life that was new
We go married the very next week
No more cars for me, no more city streets
I learned to breath water, like I used to breath air
Snakes grew from my head where there used to be hair
In a few short months Manta’s belly grew
And not long after that, she became two.
NOW I’M A FISHDADDY
NEVER EVER THOUGHT I’D BE A FISHDADDY
SO VERY GLAD TO BE A FISHDADDY
FOREVER WANT TO BE A FISHDADDY
Big mermaid, little mermaid both so sweet
I spent my days finding them things to eat
Little fish and lulas* sometimes a worm
Life was even sweeter since Baby Manta was born
But when Baby Manta got a little more bigger
She began to develop a lovely mermaid figure
And soon all of the sharks wanted a piece of her ass
Wanted to slam her in the forest of sea grass
Me and Big Manta, we were worried about our baby
Hoped she’d grow up to be a nice mermaid lady
So we decided to move to the Atlantic
But instead of helping her, Baby Manta became frantic.
The Atlantic shraks were just as bad as the rest
All this temptation was putting our baby to the test
I caught her in a cave with shark, Saltwater Jim
Had his jaws on her nipple and was trying to work his fin in
I bit Jim in his back with my knifelike teeth
He robbed Baby’s innocence, soggy sucker was a thief
Daddy, Baby said, Why did you do what you did?
I’m a big fish now, I’m not no fishkid
BUT WHAT’S A FISHDADDY TO DO?
BUT WHAT’S A FISHDADDY TO DO?
Could someone please tell me,
Cuz I ain’t got a clue
BUT WHAT’S A FISHDADDY TO DO?
BUT WHAT’S A FISHDADDY TO DO?
All right Baby, do what you want but be home by one.
Please be careful don’t have too much fun
Oh daddy, you can count on me
I’ll be a good little mermaid, you’ll see
When I got home, I told Manta your daughter is crazy
She said, She’s yours too…as a father you’re lazy
Soon baby manta started dating Perry
He was the porpoise with a purpose.
He worked part-time at the underwater Red Cross Surplus
Perry and Baby Manta got married the tenth of June
Big Manta sang a beautiful ocean tune
The honeymooned in an old shipwreck
The word Los Angeles was painted on the deck
That brought back many things for me to remember
It’d been eighteen years ago last September
When I first met Manta as a lovely young mermaid
Whose beauty alone had left me in a daze
Out in the ocean, front of that no-name beach
I’d gotten wet that day to get off the street
A damn it I’m so very glad I did
I’m a happy fishdaddy with a wife and fishkid
NOW I’M A FISHDADDY
NEVER EVER THOUGHT I’D BE A FISHDADDY
SO VERY GLAD TO BE A FISHDADDY
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Goodcookies
I met her in a funny unusual way
I was in a strange mood
Or I wouldn’t have tried
To get her number through
A friend of a friend of a friend’s
Spoke on the phone two weeks
Without seeing her face
Then one day she called me up
and said…I’m coming over
She showed up
She looked real nice
Had a package in her hand
And said… This is for you
It was a basket full of cookies
Oatmeal chocolate-chip cookies
Been together two weeks a long time for me
And my friends ask me, Why?
She makes good cookies
Tall, brown, funny, crazy and pretty.
Sweeter than maple syrup.
She makes good cookies.
Been together two months
A long time for me.
We fight sometimes.
Sometimes we separate.
But we always get together again.
And my friends ask me, WHY?
And I say, She makes good cookies
Two years later, not nearly as sweet
Always nagging about the mud on my feet,
About my drinking or my card game
But she loves me I know
because she bakes me homemades
She makes good cookies
When I least expect it
Oatmeal chocolate-chip cookies
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RICH GIRL (ketchup love)
I spent the day up in Ericeira
To try to remove my city hysteria
My car broke down in Estoril
I needed gasoline but didn’t have any bills
So I…I took a walk along the road
But no princess here to kiss the toad
I walked up to a great big house
I snuck in the back door quiet as a mouse
And started looking through the drawers for some money
But all I found was the foot of a bunny.
It didn’t bring me no good luck
I couldn’t find a single solitary buck
Then a car pulled up in the driveway
But there was no place for me to hideaway
A beautiful brown girl came through the front door
Just the sight of her made my sweat start to pour
What are you doing here ? She asked a matter-of-fact
I said, I needed a couple of bucks for the drive back
She said, I could call the police but…No
I would rather talk with you before you go
She said, It’s lonely all alone in this great big place
It’s sometimes weeks before I see a single face
She said that her name was Angelia
Hello Angelia, so very nice to meet ya
Would you like a beer? She asked me
Or would you prefer hallucinogenic tea ?
Well…….no tea for me sweet girl
Cuz I think I’m already in another world
Do you like to dance? she asked.
No, not very much…I think I’ll pass
She said, But this is dancing of a different kind
Let me demonstrate, let me change your mind
Then she put on an old soul jam…….
And tried to shake her butt as best as she can
But I was less than impressed by her shaking
She looked like a little rich girl faking
But then she took her clothes off one by one
It was the right place and time to have a little bit of fun
After she was naked she got some ketchup from the kitchen
She put it all over her body then asked me. Guess what’s missing?
I don’t know, What? She said, Just your bean pod
Got out of my clothes faster than a hotrod
Then I took a second to put on a glove
Then we got crazy we made ketchup love
SHE DANCES LIKE A RICH GIRL,
BUT SHE FUCKS LIKE A WHORE
SHE DANCES LIKE A RICH GIRL,
BUT SHE FUCKS LIKE A WHORE
I said..SHE DANCES LIKE A RICH GIRL,
BUT SHE FUCKS LIKE A WHORE
SHE DANCES LIKE A RICH GIRL,
BUT SHE FUCKS LIKE A WHORE
Afterward, I licked her body clean
She said I had the sharpest tongue that she had ever seen
Later we decided to go to the store
We bought so many things, they barely fit through the door
We bought more ketchup and syrup, barbeque sauce and cherries
Whipped cream, honey, butter and strawberries
Then she turned on that same old song
And soon she was dancing with a rhythm that was wrong
Shit, I thought, that girl can’t dance at all
But then she took off her clothes and walked down the hall
She jumped on the bed and spread her wings of a dove
And once again I took a second to put on a glove
Then I dove in like she was swimming pool
I stabbed her deep with my loaded tool
SHE DANCES LIKE A RICH GIRL,
BUT SHE FUCKS LIKE A WHORE
SHE DANCES LIKE A RICH GIRL,
BUT SHE FUCKS LIKE A WHORE
I said..SHE DANCES LIKE A RICH GIRL,
BUT SHE FUCKS LIKE A WHORE
SHE DANCES LIKE A RICH GIRL,
BUT SHE FUCKS LIKE A WHORE
Well after the whomping she still wanted more
She went into the kitchen to get the things from the store
Then went into the bathroom and threw them in the tub
They called to me, Korvorao…you wanna do something dumb?
Sure I said, and put on that same old song
And soon she was shaking with a rhythm that was wrong
My willy went limp fro-m the sight of her wiggle
I closed my eyes and all I heard was her giggle
Then I dove in to her big bathtub
And started doing things that was dumb
Whomping in a tub full of ketchup, syrup,
barbeque sauce and cherries
Whipped cream, honey, butter and strawberries
She was slimy, she was greasy she was slippery when wet
She was the kinkiest girl that I had ever met
SHE DANCES LIKE A RICH GIRL,
BUT SHE FUCKS LIKE A WHORE
SHE DANCES LIKE A RICH GIRL,
BUT SHE FUCKS LIKE A WHORE
I said..SHE DANCES LIKE A RICH GIRL,
BUT SHE FUCKS LIKE A WHORE
SHE DANCES LIKE A RICH GIRL,
BUT SHE FUCKS LIKE A WHORE
It’s a long story but I will make it fast
I never left her house from that day past
We had so much fun with each other
We decided to forever stick together
But first things first, and I took my stance
I sent her to a school to teach her to dance
No more offbeat shaking. No more rich girl faking.
After a few months she learn to groove
She learned to really make her bucket move.
I like to watch her dance with ketchup on her body
She shakes her ass twice and then she’s got me
She asked me so sweetly for my bean pod
I get out of my clothes faster than I hot-*rod
But first I take a second to put on a glove
But then we get crazy we make ketchup love
SHE DANCES LIKE A RICH GIRL,
BUT SHE FUCKS LIKE A WHORE
SHE DANCES LIKE A RICH GIRL,
BUT SHE FUCKS LIKE A WHORE
I said..SHE DANCES LIKE A RICH GIRL,
BUT SHE FUCKS LIKE A WHORE
SHE USED TO DANCES LIKE A RICH GIRL,
BUT SHE DOESN’T ANYMORE
(fortunately for me….she still fucks like a whore)
______________________________________________________________
______________________________________________________________
______________________________________________________________
FLOWERS AND THE COLOR OF PAINT
Drifting across the country
on a pair of tracks.
Don’t know what I’ll find.
Don’t really care.
Cuz…danger isn’t danger
unless you feel fear.
But since you left
don’t feel nothing at all.
Just numb all over,
indifferent to life
I’ll get over you,
I promised me I would.
And start from scratch.
Maybe get happy again.
And laugh a little.
And talk about flowers
and the color of paint
away from what you want
away from what you love
away from what you don’t
away………
but if you show up at my little shack
I’ll be over it and invite you in.
We’ll have tea and laugh.
And we’ll talk about flowers
and the color of paint
away from what you want
away from what you love
away from what from what you don’t
away………
We’ll always be friends.
That what you said.
Wasn’t sure what you meant
Now I finally do.
Sure…you can never have
too many friends.
But love,
now that’s a different story
it’s life’s alarm clock
and without it,
I’d never get up.
Just stay in my bed to rot.
And I’d never laugh.
And I’d never talk about flowers
or the color of paint.
away from what you want
away from what you love
away from what from what you don’t
away………
The adventure is there
for those that don’t fear
to start from scratch,
maybe get happy again.
away from what you know
away from what you love
away from what from what you don’t
away………
But if you plan to visit
my new shack of hope,
bring with you only your laugh,
flower…..and some paint.
away………
STREET LOYALTY
I been poor and brother I have been rich
I’ve sat behind a desk and I’ve dug a ditch
Rode on a skateboard and in a private plane
I’ve been a nobody and I’ve known some fame
I’ve got no loyalty to the street
not a dirt road not Arbor Lane
No matter where I happen to stay
deep inside I’m always feeling the same
I’m at home inside of myself
Either with or without any wealth
Through the years, I have always believed
There’s more to life than money
But sometimes I can also see,
Just cuz a person’s rich don’t mean they got it easy
Don’t be judging ‘less you wanna get judged
Only closed-mind suckers hold a grudge
And I got…..
No loyalty to any street
Not Parker Drive. Not Eighth Street.
Only one place to avoid the commotion.
Safe on a blade, floating around out in the ocean.
I’ve been poor and I’ve been rich
Slept at the Ritz and I slept in a ditch
My finances look like a cardiogram.
My bank account won’t tell you who I am.
Cuz it ain’t no street that made myself me.
Step into my vision and you’ll see.
Live and let live, those words ain’t no joke.
Whether you’re rich or one of the poor folk.
If you’re rich, but you live stressfully,
that don’t say much about your head mentally.
Just calm-out in the zone blue.
Or take a year off and try something new.
Catch a bus and get away.
Go to the eastside find a new place to stay.
No, they won’t like you at first.
For your blood they will probably thirst.
But try to make some peace with your brother.
Everybody on this planet shares a mother.
The mother earth gave us birth.
Not no ‘hood and not no nurse.
Peace to all the classes and the kinds…..
As long as you ain’t got no middleclass mind.
Cuz this kind of mentality
Is a little to much like ‘reality’.
Reality to me..means no imagination
No room for new ideas, new pulses or creations.
NO LOYALTY. NO LOYALTY.
NO LOYALTY.NO LOYALTY.
NO LOYALTY.NO LOYALTY.
I’ve been rich and I’ve been poor.
It’s been up and down since I was about four.
Slept in a garbage can, slept in a big house.
I’ve eaten caviar and I once ate a mouse.
But I didn’t complain when I was down.
My poverty I tried to ignore.
Because you’re only as poor as you feel.
If you’re poor don’t feel that you got a bad deal.
Because there’s people more poor than you don’t fear.
Some people can’t listen because that can’t hear.
If you got a set of speakers don’t bitch and complain.
Cuz music is the food to feed your brain.
I got no loyalty to the street.
Not Eighth Street not Atalaia.
Cuz I’ve been poor and I’ve been rich
Slept at the Ritz and I’ve slept in a ditch.
Rode on a skateboard and in a private plane.
I’ve been nobody and I’ve known a little fame.
But no matter where am at or where I am
I’m always feeling like the very same man.
No loyalty.No loyalty.No loyalty. No loyalty.
No loyalty.No loyalty.No loyalty.No loyalty.
Got hit by a car when I was ten.
But this is now and that was then.
Mommy went broke trying to pay the bills.
Of the ICU down at the hospital.
From then on, we could barely afford to eat.
Now what does that got to do with any street?
Good luck bad luck, the name of the song.
I’ve had more bad luck than King Kong.
But I’ve had a lot of good luck too.
I’ve got a lot of thanks for the ocean blue.
She’s helped me out more than a lot.
Keeping my mind off the have and have-nots.
My loyalty down lie in street in street commotion.
I’ve give my praise to the motion of the ocean.
She kept me out of trouble, she kept me alive.
She kept me off the street away from guns and knives.
When I felt angry, or about to starve.
I dug a rail and began to carve
A liquid piece of the pie.
No longer felt like I wanted to die.
I got no loyalty to the street.
Not a dirt road, not Pasadena Avenue.
Cuz I’ve been poor and I’ve been rich.
I slept at the Ritz and I slept in a ditch.
Slept on a rooftop, slept in the gutter.
Rode in a limousine. And I slept with your mother.
Been invited in. And thrown out of the door.
Out into the rain when it started to pour.
But what does that got to do with the street ?
Cuz it ain’t no street that made myself me.
I got no loyalty to the street.
Not a dirt road, not Curson Ave.
Cuz I’ve been poor I’ve been rich
Slept at the Ritz and slept in a ditch.
Rode on a skateboard and in a private plane.
I’ve been nobody and I’ve known a little fame.
No loyalty.
No loyalty.
No loyalty.
No loyalty.
No loyalty.
No loyalty.
No loyalty.
No loyalty.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
SO GET UP - lyrics
Written & Vocalized by: Ithaka
© Ithaka Darin Pappas 1993
Ravenshark Music/Scion Four Muisc (NY)/ASCAP
"SO GET UP"
.......................................................
THE END OF THE EARTH IS UPON US
PRETTY SOON IT’LL ALL TURN TO DUST
SO GET UP
FORGET THE PAST
GO OUTSIDE
HAVE A BLAST
GO A THOUSAND MILES IN A JET AIRPLANE
GO OUT OF YOUR MIND GO INSANE
TO A PLACE YOU NEVER BEEN BEFORE
EAT ICE CREAM OUR YOU’LL LICK THE FLOOR
CUZ, THE END OF THE EARTH IS UPON US
PRETTY SOON IT’LL ALL TUN TO DUST
GOODBYE MY FRIENDS
GOODBYE WORLD
I’LL SEE YOU IN THE NEXT LIFE
...........................................................
...........................................................
Notes: The poem So Get Up by Ithaka (Ithaka Darin Pappas)
was originally written in early 1993 in Lisbon, Portugal where
he lived and recorded from 1992-1998.
The first recording was live on air for the program Bairro Quatro
on Lisboa's Rádio Comercial.
The 2nd recording was made as a musical demo in March of 1993
Manchester, England.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dW24QOQDPFY
Some months later he was invited to re-record the poem
with the progressive-house music duo called Underground Sound Of Lisbon
This version gained massive popularity internationally
after it was released globally by Tribal/IRS/EMI Records.
In 2013, Cosmic Gate made a new version of the song
using Ithaka's original vocal from '93. It became a massive
dance festival hit, a multiple remixes follwed.
Thru the last 25 years, more than
one-thousand remixes of the song have been made. In 2016, it officially earned the title as The Most Remixed Vocal Acapella In Musical History.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
lyrics for album, Somewhere South of Somalia (2001)
Lyrics for ITHAKA album,
SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF SOMALIA (2001)
courtesy Memory lane Music Group-NY
____________________________________________________________
____________________________________________________________
1.(intro) SO YOU’RE GOING THERE ?
Doctor: I see so you’re going there ?
Ith: Yeah
Doctor: I always ask, strictly in the name of science of course,
to measure the crania of everyone going THERE.
Ith: Why? Have you seen changes?
Doctor: I never see them…IF they come back
Ith: WHaaattttt ???!!!!
Doctor: Beside you know, the changes take place on the inside……
Are you absolutely sure you want to go there ?
Ith: I Gotta
Doctor:…excuse my question, but is there any history of madness in your family?
_________________________________________________________________________________
_________________________________________________________________________________
2. WHATCHA GOTTA DO
Artist(s): ITHAKA (featuring E. BLACK & Don Stryke)
Produced by: Conley Abrams III
Where: from the NBA 2K7 xbox-360 game soundtrack
also appears on Ithaka´s album,
SOMEHWERE SOUTH OF SOMALIA (see ITUNES.com)
lyrics:
I'm out there going for mine
'cause time don't grow on trees
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
GOTTA GET DONE WHATCHA NEED TO GET DONE
'cause SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
(ithaka)
In my spiritual graveyard,
here I'm stuck
Gotta bust out like I was ol' Fin Huck
Gotta slip out the door, explore a little more
It ain't fun no more in the place I was born
Got to get out while there is going to get LA is hunter, Lisbon the net
Want to get out, but gotta fly alone
Ravenshark from two coasts who ain't got a zone
(eric black)
In the zone I stand along handling mine
Coming straight from the town where I had the sky
Bought a first class ticket to the LA town To explore new grounds, Ith hold me down
So I can do what I gotta do for success
You know I want it all, I expect nothing less
The rest will all come together in time
Eric Black, Ithaka and young Stryke on the grind
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA ROLL WHEN YA GOTTA ROLL 'cause SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA MOVE WHEN YOU GOTTA MOVE YOU GOTTA GET DONE WHATCHA NEED TO GET DONE 'cause SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
(ithaka)
Ain't from the old school, ain't from the new
I'm the Fishdaddy from the depths of the pool
Don't need a fly ride, don't need a fat crib
Don't need a woman looking for a 'grip'
Time to hit the road, time for me to roam
I'm tired of seeing the movies, I wanna live my own
Don't play by the book, 'cause you'll get took
Don't play by the book, 'cause you'll get shook
Don't play by the book, 'cause you'll get took
Don't play by the book, 'cause you're gonna get shook
(don stryke)
Times is hard as I walk the yard
My street way of living got me temporarily barred
From kicking it with my folks
So I'm forced to hit the weights and make some brand new yolks
In a situation do or die
Is when I do what I gotta do, tell mamma don't cry
'Cause I might not be coming home
If they keep testing me and making me sharpen my chrome
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA FIGHT WHEN YOU GOTTA FIGHT SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA STRIKE WHEN YOU GOTTA STRIKE 'cause SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
pick a ticket up, pick a ticket up
don't be afraid to ride that bus
pick a ticket up, pick a ticket up
don't be afraid to ride that bus
Ithaka, E. Black, D. Stryke
(ithaka)
Escaped from the place of shadows and devils
The mystery of life I wanted to unravel
(e black)
I had to move away, change my lifestyle
I didn't want to be locked down in the Penal
(stryke)
I feels ya 'Black', I'm in a dark place
I'm still trying to find my way out the maze
(ithaka)
Lisbon, London, Amsterdam, Nairobi
Fish outta water, like Oki from Muscogee
(e black)
I knew I had style, I could do my thing
So I hit the frontier on the quest for finer things
(stryke)
I wish I could hit the highway now
But I gotta hit my cell before the lock down
(ithaka)
Sell your longboard, your Pinto '74
Stick a pin in the map and let the dice roll
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
GOTTA GET DONE WHATCHA NEED TO GET DONE
'cause SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
YOU GOTTA GET DONE WHATCHA NEED TO GET DONE
'cause
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
YOU GOTTA GET DONE WHATCHA NEED TO GET DONE
__________________________________________________________________
_________________________________________________________________
3. MY MIND AND MY BODY
Lyrics By Ithaka -Music: Conley Abrams III
My Mind
and my body
Sometimes drift,
Over the mountains
And across the sea
Looking for someone
And someplace
to believe
________________________________________________
________________________________________________
4. Dugout Canoe
lyrics: ithaka-music: conley Abrams III
You won’t believe it, but it’s true
Rode the barrel of my life in an old canoe
Coast flat like never seen, Not one swell from June 16
Cryin’ shame, reef would’ve formed
Perfect left front of my new home
But a typhoon blew in that night
Ripped the roof off the hut, like it was a kite
By morning the storm had passed us up
Left a lot of damage for us to clean up
Now the waves were huge, surface smooth
But my stick was missing from out my room
Did it blow away in the screaming wind?
Or was it stolen by some thievin’ kid ?
THE WAVES WERE HUGE, SURFACE SMOOTH
BUT MY STICK WAS MISSING FROM OUT MY ROOM
FINALLY GOT SWELL, WE GOT FAT TUBES
BUT I AIN’T GOT A BLADE, ALL I GOT’S A CANOE
Paddled out in that old wood tub
Handcut mango, a.d 31
Through the channel, didn’t even get wet
Then in front appeared a ten-meter set
Paddled with all the juice I could find
Hanging on the lip, spray a-makin’ me blind
Where was Seabra at a time like this?
The kind of day Senhor Phycho don’t miss
Tossed airborn down the face
Laid back coffin-style, but it wadn’t grace
Opened my eyes in tube bigger than a hut
Liquid-lip rollin’ glass cup
Sucked me up, sucked me over
Insane prehistoric El Rollo
THE WAVES WERE HUGE, SURFACE SMOOTH
BUT MY STICK WAS MISSING FROM OUT MY ROOM
FINALLY GOT SWELL, WE GOT FAT TUBES
BUT I AIN’T GOT A BLADE, ALL I GOT’S A CANOE
Landed upright inside of the lip
Should I stay or should I jump ship ?
But no choice, got spit off
Was it a wave, or mighty Neptune’s cough?
Sucked backed over and landed on the reef
Luckily for me landed on my feet
Gashed to the bone, two toes ripped off
When along came Zambizi river shark
Smelled the blood, ready to eat me
Said, I’m Ithaka one of you, let me be
But he didn’t accept me credential
Looking at my limbs like they edible
Saved in the nick by a flying sea turtle
Rescued me up with a single hurdle
On top his iron-like shell I rode
Bleeding everywhere, all the way to the shore
THE WAVES WERE HUGE, SURFACE SMOOTH
BUT MY STICK WAS MISSING FROM OUT MY ROOM
FINALLY GOT SWELL, WE GOT FAT TUBES
BUT I AIN’T GOT A BLADE, ALL I GOT’S A CANOE
Up da beach into cliff side cave
Where Dr. Baboon wait for me to save
A parrot flew in with my toes
Cursing the shark, calling him “foe”
Surgery began without further delay
Put to sleep with anesthesia from stingray
Sewed my toes with coconut twine
Seventy stitches using porky’s pine
With toes back in tack, was left to rest
In the back of a cave near a pirate’s chest
Doctor said, we got this box
Full of gold an’ transparent rocks
We got no use for these worldly things
Take-em away and the trouble they bring
Woke up back in my roofless hut
Looked down to my foot, but it wasn’t even cut
THE WAVES WERE HUGE, SURFACE SMOOTH
BUT MY STICK WAS MISSING FROM OUT MY ROOM
FINALLY GOT SWELL, WE GOT FAT TUBES
BUT I AIN’T GOT A BLADE, ALL I GOT’S A CANOE
_____________________________________________________
____________________________________________________
5. SNAKES IN THE RAFTERS
lyrics: ithaka-music: conley Abrams III
SNAKES IN THE RAFTERS AND RATS ON THE FLOOR
DON’T GOT NO WINDOWS, AIN’T GOT NO FRONT DOOR
MONKEYS JUMPING ON THE ROOF, SPIDERS UNDER THE BED
THERE’S A CAT IN THE CORNER, BUT I THINK IT’S DEAD
A friend of a friend of a friend of a friend
Of yet another friend of another friend
Had rooms to rent, coast-Tanzania
With reef-break bowls style-Polynesia
After weeks in ‘Robi* overdue for some glide
Mombassa Express down to seaside
Mount Kenya on the left, Mount Killy** on the right
Twelve-hour train ride through the African night
Then matatu*** rollin’ snail’s pace
Two more days just to find the place
Found Ali the man in question
Mr. Ali asked me my intention
For cheap rooms a friend sent me
He said, There’s only one, but we got vacancy
SNAKES IN THE RAFTERS AND RATS ON THE FLOOR
DON’T GOT NO WINDOWS, AIN’T GOT NO FRONT DOOR
MONKEYS JUMPING ON THE ROOF, SPIDERS UNDER THE BED
THERE’S A CAT IN THE CORNER, BUT I THINK IT’S DEAD
The price is twelve US Dollars
Twelve-dollars a night? Ali you’re a robber
No, twelve dollars a year-that’s the rent
But you got to get your own mosquito net
Twelve dollars a year ?! Does it have running water ?
No it don’t, but it ain’t that big a bother
Got a well nearby, all the water you need
And gardens of bud, if ya got the need for weed
We got a lotta sun, we got fresh fish
Mangos, coconuts…more things you couldn’t wish
Don’t judge our wealth, but the size of our smiles
Variety of fruit poisonous reptiles
Twelve dollars a year, discount on decade
My sisters be single and live up on the hillside
SNAKES IN THE RAFTERS AND RATS ON THE FLOOR
DON’T GOT NO WINDOWS, AIN’T GOT NO FRONT DOOR
MONKEYS JUMPING ON THE ROOF, SPIDERS UNDER THE BED
THERE’S A CAT IN THE CORNER, BUT I THINK IT’S DEAD
Ali’s sisters brought breakfast to the hut
Both fat n forty never had a husband
Good morning sleep well ? No, slept with a spider
Bit me twenty times, an erotic all-nighter
And that cat in the corner, that WAS dead
Chased rats in circles around the bed
Still could’ve slept if the lion didn’t roar
But when he stopped, monkeys started to snore
Eat this they said and you’ll feel better
Ostrich egg omlet with crocodile gizzards
Today Mzungo**** is your lucky day
Today you choose one of us to marry
SNAKES IN THE RAFTERS AND RATS ON THE FLOOR
DON’T GOT NO WINDOWS, AIN’T GOT NO FRONT DOOR
MONKEYS JUMPING ON THE ROOF, SPIDERS UNDER THE BED
THERE’S A CAT IN THE CORNER, BUT I THINK IT’S DEAD
* ’Robi= Nairobi capital of Kenya
**Mount Killy= Mount Kilamajaro
*** matatu=bus in Swahili
**** mzungo= foreigner in Swahili
______________________________________________________
______________________________________________________
6. Three good shots
words: ithaka
Three shots
One rhino
Three good shots
One big bad dead rhino
_________________________________________________
________________________________________________
7. RANA LINDA (I can make a difference)
lyrics: ithaka – music: conley Abrams III
Met at the film lab on Kigali Road
I took the bus (but) she gave me a ride home
We went back to her little shack of hope
Held together with love and a little bit of rope
Photos on the walls from a hundred trips
All telling stories of endless hardships
Rana Linda from Colorado
At home in mountains, jungles and ghettos
She made rigatoni, told me her life story
Life full of gore, but not a lot of glory
Photographs war and death for a living
She hasn’t been home since last Thanksgiving
I KNOW WHAT I DO AIN’T GOOD FOR MY HEALTH
I KNOW WHAT I DO WON’T BRING ME WEALTH
BUT IS IT NAÏVE TO THINK
THAT I CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE?....
I CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE
Last spring did a story in Rwanda
About perpetrators of local propaganda
The only reporter in war zone
To record raid of a thousand village homes
Just a preview of things to come
A massacre followed, but Rana didn’t run
The pictures, she knew, could save lives
But a boy came to her, blood pouring out his eyes
Should she go ? Or should she stay ?
Or take him to the hospital three hours away ?
Was it wrong or was it right?
Should she have stayed ? Or saved his life?
I KNOW WHAT I DO AIN’T GOOD FOR MY HEALTH
I KNOW WHAT I DO WON’T BRING ME WEALTH
BUT IS IT NAÏVE TO THINK
THAT I CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE?....
I CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE
On TV, it’s easy to believe
Peace is a choice that’s easy to achieve
But I can tell you this, it’s no pantomime
You can only turn your cheek yo so many times
Then you gotta stand up fo’ yo’self
Or be victim to dictators’ wealth
TIME* just called, now I’m off to Zaire
Every trip new terror, every trip new fear
I’m not feeling good about this, it’s easy to see
So if it’s not too much, can you just hold me?
Tomorrow I’ll be on the frontier
But this is NOW, we alive and here
I KNOW WHAT I DO AIN’T GOOD FOR MY HEALTH
I KNOW WHAT I DO WON’T BRING ME WEALTH
BUT IS IT NAÏVE TO THINK
THAT I CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE?....
I CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE
I KNOW WHAT I DO AIN’T GOOD FOR MY HEALTH
I KNOW WHAT I DO WON’T BRING ME WEALTH
BUT IS IT NAÏVE TO THINK
THAT I CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE?....
I CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE
* Time Magazine
____________________________________________________
_____________________________________________________
8. Mr. MOSQUITO
Lyrics: ithaka-music: zeldo (aka steve zeldin)
Down at the coast
Having a good time
Daylight’s trouble free
No stress to the mind
But at sundown
Coming out by the millions
The world’s number one
Killer of civilians
Mr. Mosquito don’t bite me
Don’t make me scratch, don’t make me bleed
Mr. Mosquito don’t bite me
Don’t want to catch your disease
If you don’t mind, can you spare my life ?
I used repellant, won’t you fly on by
I know you want my blood
But you ain’t gonna get it
Try as you must
But you might as well forget it
Mr. Mosquito don’t bite me
Don’t make me scratch, don’t make me bleed
Mr. Mosquito don’t bite me
Don’t want to catch your disease
___________________________________________________
___________________________________________________
9. THE UGLY AMERICAN
lyrics: ithaka – music conley abrams III
Sold the house in LA, apartment New York
Twenty-hour nonstop to Nairobi airport
Bought a deluxe black Range Rover
With tinted windows and cd-sorter
Bought a map, headed for coast
Bought thirty-acres beachfront and brand new boat
Paid natives to burn down trees
Who the hell were they to disagree ?
Needed room for tennis court and swimming pool
In this land too, rich usually rule
Built a house like no house ever seen
Fifteen bedrooms all fit for kings
A year later, palace complete
Bel Aire mansion in the African heat
HE’S PAID HIS DUES
HE’S PAID THE PRICE TWICE
BUT HIS SOUL WILL ROT IN PARADISE
Electric fence, five-meters high
Keep out the crooks, but the monkeys die
But he’s a Man and a man has to protect his land
From thieves and thugs trying to get the upper hand
A satellite dish and internet
Alone he drinks gin at sunset
Out on the veranda overlooking the sea
Indeed he pretends to be pleased
No convenience did he sacrifice
Cuz he’s got the goods, he got the merchandise
He raped his maid, but what can she do ?
Her mama needs medicine, her kids need food
But he’s a Man, bad man, sick man, evil man
But a rich man and rich men rule the land
Killed a rhino while he smoked a cigar
High-powered shot from a moving car
Paid a bribe to the game park ranger
To keep his identity a stranger
HE’S PAID HIS DUES
HE’S PAID THE PRICE TWICE
BUT HIS SOUL WILL ROT IN PARADISE
_________________________________________________
__________________________________________________
10. ONE GOOD SHOT (email to an ex-wife)
Words:ithaka
Dear Hilary,
I love this new world
That I’ve had the luck to discover.
The mountains, the sky and the sea
Are all helping me to recover
From some bad times and some bad years.
Finally forgiven my enemies.
Finally forgotten my fears.
(SHOT!)
ONE SHOT
ONE POACHER
ONE GOOD SHOT
ONE BIG BAD DEAD POACHER
ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ
________________________________________
________________________________________
11.BLACK ROCK
lyrics: ithaka – music: conley abrams III
Pretty Mwanisha, the flower of this coast
On her way back to the village with fish for the roast
Stopped to make a wish under baobab tree
To remain forever happy as she’d been
But in her path, she met the big green mambo*
Who smiled at her and greeted her with, Jambo**
Fangs of death through her young skin
Given by a green slithering assassin
BLACK ROCK, BLACK ROCK SAVE HER LIFE
BITTEN BY THE MAMBO, TIME TO FIND A KNIFE
CUT THE BITE WOUND, OPEN WIDE
PUT THE BLACK ROCK ON AND PRAY SHE DON’T DIE
Found by a Digo*** boy named Bakari
Who knew about black rock sorcery
A magic black stone, dat could pull poison out a bite
And make someone near death suddenly feel all right
He cut through where the snake left its mark
Stuck the stone on and it did its part
Drank all the venom from out of her blood
And when the stone was done, it fell off with a thud
BLACK ROCK, BLACK ROCK SAVE HER LIFE
BITTEN BY THE MAMBO, TIME TO FIND A KNIFE
CUT THE BITE WOUND, OPEN WIDE
PUT THE BLACK ROCK ON AND PRAY SHE DON’T DIE
Isha opened her eyes and saw Bakari’s face
Trying to recall how she got to this place
He helped her up and up to her feet
She thanked him with a kiss then said, time to eat
Invited him back to her family’s hut
Where they roasted the samaki**** with cashew nuts
She said a prayer of thanks to be so blessed
Blessed to be alive, with the fish still fresh
BLACK ROCK, BLACK ROCK SAVE HER LIFE
BITTEN BY THE MAMBO, TIME TO FIND A KNIFE
CUT THE BITE WOUND, OPEN WIDE
PUT THE BLACK ROCK ON AND PRAY SHE DON’T DIE
*Green mambo= one of the most venomous snakes in Africa
** jambo=Swahili for, hello
*** Digo: one of the most prominent tribes in coastal Kenya
**** samaki=Swahili word for fish
_____________________________________________________________
_____________________________________________________________
12. Lapis Lazuli/Mother of Pearl
lyrics: ithaka – music: conley abrams III
Hey, why are you out here ?....Yeah, me too
You know, they say that when the moon
has that rainbow ring thing around it like tonight,
that amazing unusual things can happen
New Year’s party up near Tiwi Reef
I don’t like crowds, stayed out on the beach
And met a lovely, young goddess-like being
Just the moon, the sea, some understanding
We had an instant, spell-like connection
A mixture of attraction and perception
With the smell of magic in the air
Ravenshark and Goddess…unlikely pair
She said, I don’t know you’re name…but let’s walk
Down the beach, ‘til forever we can talk
LET’S KEEP ON WALKING ‘TIL THE END OF THE WORLD
YOU BE MY LAPIS LAZULI, I’LL BE YOUR MOTHER OF PEARL
The sky and the sea became the same blue.
She said, let’s start now our search for truth
LET’S KEEP ON WALKING ‘TIL THE END OF THE WORLD
YOU BE MY LAPIS LAZULI, I’LL BE YOUR MOTHER OF PEARL
Past the last of electrical wires
Past the remnants of tribal fires
Light-bugs glowed all around our heads
Like little magic flowers for some newlyweds
Then…..Come On, she said, taking off her dress
Let’s go for a swim, make a New Year’s wish
Skinny-dipping in a lukewarm see
Holding each other and soul-kissing
Just the dawn, the sea, some understanding
And for the New Year a new beginning
LETS KEEP ON WALKING ‘TIL THE END OF THE WORLD
YOU BE MY LAPIS LAZULI, I’LL BE YOUR MOTHER OF PEARL
The sky and sea became the same blue,
like the honeymoon of Luna and Neptune
LETS KEEP ON WALKING ‘TIL THE END OF THE WORLD
YOU BE MY LAPIS LAZULI I’LL BE YOUR MOTHER OF PEARL
spoken line alternates in later chores after trumpet solo:
The sky and sea became the same blue,
the full moon will be our time capsule
The sky and sea became the same blue,
She said, I don’t know you, but I still love you
_____________________________________________________
_____________________________________________________
13. VISIT WITH PROFESSOR NGAWA
lyrics: ithaka – music: conley abrams III
YOUR PROBLEMS IN LIFE AIN’T JUST BAD LUCK
YOU BEEN CURSED TO MAKE YOU SELF-DESTRUCT
YOU WEAR TUKANA* LIKE A DEATH COLLAR
BUT NGAWA CAN REMOVE FOR A THOUSAND DOLLARS
River Road, Nairobi - Saturday the Eighth
Looking down the streets for a spot to stay
Read a sign, FORTUNE BY NGAWA
At the street door of an old wood tower
Something fun to tell the crew back home
Fortune told by a fake on River Road
Climbed six flights of creaky stairs
Laughing to myself, I’s still unaware
That Ngawa was a voodoo priest
From way down south in Mozambique
Paid a hundred Bob** at the door of his den
Sat on down next to a headless hen
With a fish, sea star and wooden mask
He began from the start to tell me the past
You were a shark in a past life, a raven in another
But followed through time by jealous blood-suckers
YOUR PROBLEMS IN LIFE AIN’T JUST BAD LUCK
YOU BEEN CURSED TO MAKE YOU SELF-DESTRUCT
YOU WEAR TUKANA* LIKE A DEATH COLLAR
BUT NGAWA CAN REMOVE FOR A THOUSAND DOLLARS
Ya Mama’s bit by a spider on birthday morn
The widow’s bite almost left you stillborn
Another close call when you was ten
Hit by a car almost got done in
Left LA to make something of yourself
Left your family alone, you’re feeling selfish
Moved to Athens, then Tokyo
And on to Lisbon, broke no joke
You put out the juice, you dropped the hit
But USL didn’t pay you jack shit
YOUR PROBLEMS IN LIFE AIN’T JUST BAD LUCK
YOU BEEN CURSED TO MAKE YOU SELF-DESTRUCT
YOU WEAR TUKANA* LIKE A DEATH COLLAR
BUT NGAWA CAN REMOVE FOR A THOUSAND DOLLARS
A spell so evil, a spell so cruel
To keep you living like a rat in a dark cesspool
A life of bad luck is what you’re gonna see
And only me, Ngawa can remove this deed
A thousand US Dollars should do the trick
You can pay with cash, you can pay with credit
Ngawa, I said, You know damn well
Ain’t got no curse, you can go to hell
The bad luck I had, I made myself
Along with the good, these cards I’ve delt
Take your hocus-pocus shove it up your ass
I live in the present, the bad was in the past
YOUR PROBLEMS IN LIFE AIN’T JUST BAD LUCK
YOU BEEN CURSED TO MAKE YOU SELF-DESTRUCT
YOU WEAR TUKANA* LIKE A DEATH COLLAR
BUT NGAWA CAN REMOVE FOR A THOUSAND DOLLARS
Now if you’ll excuse me, I got things to see
Drinks to drink, people to meet
Trying to take advantage of mzungo-man***
Rot in hell with your witch doctor scam
You’ll be back, you’ll be back
You’ll be back, you’ll be back
Mzungo-man you’ll be back you’ll see
Mzungo-man no escape Uchawi****
YOU’LL BE BACK, YOU’LL BE BACK
Down I went out of that tower
On to River Road at the midnight hour
YOUR PROBLEMS IN LIFE AIN’T JUST BAD LUCK
YOU BEEN CURSED TO MAKE YOU SELF-DESTRUCT
YOU WEAR TUKANA* LIKE A DEATH COLLAR
BUT NGAWA CAN REMOVE FOR A THOUSAND DOLLARS
•
•
*Tukana: Swahili for curse, black magic, to be cursed
** Bob: slang for Kenyan Schilling $
*** mzungo-man: Swahili for foreigner
**** Uchawi: Swahili for black magic
___________________________________________
___________________________________________
14. UPENDO
lyrics: ithaka – music: conley abrams III
How do you say…how would YOU say…I love you?
UPENDO
Taka-kua manamake
UPENDO
Shikwa na kapenzi
Shikwa na mapenzi
UPENDO
Ucho mahaba
Ashiki halili
UPENDO
Love
UPENDO
I love you
Hawa bembeleza
Tamani Pembeleza
UPENDO
Penda tiba mchumba
Upendo hawa huba
Pendo tiba
UPENDO
Pendo tiba mchumba
UPENDO
Nataka kukua
Penda tiba
UPENDO
Nampemba Mwanamume
Shikwa na mapenzi
UPENDO
Ucho Mahaba
UPENDO
__________________________________________
__________________________________________
15. RIVER ROAD
lyrics: ithaka – music: conley abrams III
THIS IS RIVER ROAD WHERE LIFE IS CHEAP
WHERE YOU CAN GIT YOURSELF KILLED
FOR THE PRICE OF A DRINK
SO IF YOU AIN’T FROM HERE, NO PLACE TO CREEP
CUZ PEOPLE DISAPPEAR FROM HERE WITHOUT A PEEP
Back out on the street paved with broken glass
Feeling fearless and ready to forget my past
People drinking and dancing on every corner
Each and all celebratin’, among them was no mourners
But got held up by a group of River Road kids
Only thirteen years old, but their blades was big
A street whore ran in to the building they ran
Came out five minutes later with my wallet in her hand
She gave it back to me. Believe it or not it’s true
My ID was there and my money too
I’m sorry, she said, but some people have no manners
My name is Esther and I charge by the hour
So let’s go upstairs, let me show you a good time
Cuz there ain’t nothing wrong with a little bump-n-grind
Well thank you dear Esther, but I think I’ll pass
Ain’t got no rubbers and I don’t pay for ass
But if you got the time, let me by you a drink
Well…ok, maybe one, she said with a wink
You’ll get yourself killed on River Road……..
THIS IS RIVER ROAD WHERE LIFE IS CHEAP
WHERE YOU CAN GIT YOURSELF KILLED
FOR THE PRICE OF A DRINK
SO IF YOU AIN’T FROM HERE,AIN’T NO PLACE TO CREEP
CUZ PEOPLE DISAPPEAR FROM HERE WITHOUT A PEEP
Now up some dirty stairs to a bar full of thugs
We drank fresh mnazi* outta giant wooden mugs
Fermented palm sap that’ll make your head spin
‘fore it makes it your stomach, it starts to kick in
Then Esther left the lounge to meet up with a client
Left me with her pimp named, Johnny The Giant
We sat down at a table with some rough-necked dregs
One guy had one eye, another guy had one leg
And there was Dragon-Breath Joseph and Gold-Tooth Jack
And Ngugi-The Kikuya, Nairobi’s mack of all macks
A motley looking crew from start to finish
I listened to their stories of survival of the fittest
Heard a hundred tales of the River Road life
“bout living off their hos, ‘bout living off the night
Selling a little dope and making a little Bob**
But still down and out, eating corn on the cob
THIS IS RIVER ROAD WHERE LIFE IS CHEAP
WHERE YOU CAN GIT YOURSELF KILLED
FOR THE PRICE OF A DRINK
SO IF YOU AIN’T FROM HERE, AIN’T NO PLACE TO CREEP
CUZ PEOPLE DISAPPEAR FROM HERE WITHOUT A PEEP
But the vibe seemed cool story after story
They had a lot of pride for their underground glory
Seven rounds later, I was feeling kinda whacked
Got up to take a whiz, telling ‘em, Be Right Back
Unzipped and let the stream flow
When alongside of me, a young afroed bro
Said: Mzungo*** brother, I speak to you as a friend
Overheard them thugs talking, you’s about to get done in
This is the wrong time, this is the wrong place
Disappear from here, you disappear with no trace
This is River Road, Nairobi where life is cheap
You can get yourself killed for the price of a drink
So take my advice, finish your piss and split
If ya hurry up, maybe you can give ‘em the slip
Paranoia swept over me
I had but one choice and that was to flee
Zipped up, bolted out the door
And down the stairs past a couple of whores
But them mongrels was already on to me
And I didn’t look back as I hit the street
AND THE CHASE WAS ON AT THE BREAK OF DAWN
AND THE CHASE WAS ON AT THE BREAK OF DAWN
AND THE CHASE WAS ON AT THE BREAK OF DAWN
AND THE CHASE WAS ON AT THE BREAK OF DAWN
With people laughing, screaming and cheering
At the long-haired mzungo about to git a skinnin’
THIS IS RIVER ROAD WHERE LIFE IS CHEAP
WHERE YOU CAN GIT YOURSELF KILLED
FOR THE PRICE OF A DRINK
SO IF YOU AIN’T FROM HERE , AIN’T NO PLACE TO CREEP
CUZ PEOPLE DISAPPEAR FROM HERE WITHOUT A PEEP
But kept a lead on ‘em all the way downtown
Hopped into a cab, I was lucky to have found
Cabbie said, Look like they wanted to kill
Yeah, guess I forgot to pay my bill
THIS IS RIVER ROAD WHERE LIFE IS CHEAP
WHERE YOU CAN GIT YOURSELF KILLED
FOR THE PRICE OF A DRINK
SO IF YOU AIN’T FROM HERE, AIN’T NO PLACE TO CREEP
CUZ PEOPLE DISAPPEAR FROM HERE WITHOUT A PEEP
• *mnazi: fermented palm tree beer
• **Bob: slang for Kenyan Schilling $
• *** mzungo: Swahili for foreigner
_________________________________________________________
_________________________________________________________
16. NGAWA’S REVENGE
lyrics: ithaka – music: conley abrams III
Woke up one morning soaked with sweat
Delinquent payment for past karmic debt ?
Nairobi Hospital, urgency area
No need worry, probably malaria
Jab with needle and check the result
Cuz, if you no got it, we no give antidote
An hour later, test read “negative”
They said, Try again later…if you live
But that wasn’t funny, I kept getting sicker
My head burning, my tongue gettin’ thicker
“Negative” again, what had I caught?
In Room 20, I laid waiting to rot
AIN’T FEELING GOOD, CAN’T STOP SWEATING
GOT A TEMPERATURE OF A HUNDRED AND SEVEN
WILL I LIVE ? WILL I DIE ?
WILL I FALL? WILL I FLY ?
PRAYIN’ TO A GOD THAT I DON’T EVEN KNOW
PLEASE FORGIVE EVERYTHING I DONE WRONG
LET ME GO HOME, IF YOU DON’T WANT ME IN HEAVEN
BREAK THIS FEVER OF A HUNDRED AND SEVEN
There I was, six days in the mix
Like a broke watch with no chance of being fixed
No one to ask, nothing to be said
I wondered if others had died in this bed
That night, slept in a tub of ice water
Dreamt all night of my long-deceased father
He said, It ain’t your time, still got life to live
A lesson to respect both Good and Wicked
AIN’T FEELING GOOD, CAN’T STOP SWEATING
GOT A TEMPERATURE OF A HUNDRED AND SEVEN
WILL I LIVE ? WILL I DIE ?
WILL I FALL? WILL I FLY ?
PRAYIN’ TO A GOD THAT I DON’T EVEN KNOW
PLEASE FORGIVE EVERYTHING I DONE WRONG
LET ME GO HOME, IF YOU DON’T WANT ME IN HEAVEN
BREAK THIS FEVER OF A HUNDRED AND SEVEN
You’ll be back You’ll be back
You’ll be back You’ll be back
You’ll be back You’ll be back
You’ll be back You’ll be back
Professor Ngawa, Professor Ngawa
Professor Ngawa, Professor Ngawa
Professor Ngawa, you cursed me it was YOU !
YOU BE THE DEVIL, YOU TOOK ME FOR A FOOL !
Will I live ? Will I die?
Will I fall ? Will I fly?
Will I live ? Will I die?
Will I fall ? Will I fly?
Woke up in the tub with no fever
Free from, Professor Deceiver
Said a prayer to the god I don’t know
Thanking him it wasn’t yet the end of the show
Gonna steer of the twilight
Just wanna live my mortal ravenshark life
AIN’T FEELING GOOD, CAN’T STOP SWEATING
GOT A TEMPERATURE OF A HUNDRED AND SEVEN
WILL I LIVE ? WILL I DIE ?
WILL I FALL? WILL I FLY ?
PRAYIN’ TO A GOD THAT I DON’T EVEN KNOW
PLEASE FORGIVE EVERYTHING I DONE WRONG
LET ME GO HOME, IF YOU DON’T WANT ME IN HEAVEN
BREAK THIS FEVER OF A HUNDRED AND SEVEN
__________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________
17. ENDLESS BUMMER
words: ithaka
Looking out, above the beauty of the land
Hand-sculpted nature by a universal hand
Could the Last Act really be near ?
Why is earth still hunted by man’s own spear ?
Water be rising, ice be melting
Flowers be wilting, sun be pelting
…anyway you wanna look at it;
The endless summer is an endless bummer.
Be worse than having a drum,
Without having a drummer
We will always have love
We will always have hate
But will the birds and bees
and trees evaporate ?
Happiness ain’t no lie
It’s just hard to find
But don’t forget to love the world
When you’re trying to survive
_________________________________________
_________________________________________
18. MWAJUMA
lyrics: ithaka – music: conley Abrams
Born a strong girl under the African sun
Up in the mountains of Kenya, 1951
Grew up poor on her tribal land
Turned sixteen and went to work for The Man
For more than thirty years, she’s made them their tea
Washed their clothes, cooked them their meat
SAY A LITTLE PRAYER FOR ME
DREAM A LITTLE DREAM FOR ME
IT’S BEEN A LOT OF LONG YEARS GONE
SINCE I STOPPED DOING THE DREAMING
One warm Langatta* morning in January
Amidst confusion, she was my sanctuary
I got lost on my way back to town
But instead, a new friend’s what I found
Met her every morning at the market in Karen**
Her forty-five minutes to conversate in freedom
For two months in my life, I had a best friend
She spoke British with Swahili accent
I was her confidante and she was mine
From eight-thirty in the morning, ‘til a quarter after nine
She always smiles, but inside she’s sad
She tested Positive and her kids have no Dad
SAY A LITTLE PRAYER FOR ME
DREAM A LITTLE DREAM FOR ME
IT’S BEEN A LOT OF LONG YEARS GONE
SINCE I STOPPED DOING THE DREAMING
On the Friday morning of my departure
She brought me a single solitary blue flower
Said, Ithaka-we didn’t know each other long
But I love you mzungo***, like you was my own son
I’m glad you had good times in my land
But don’t ever forget, heaven and hell go hand in hand
Lots of love and happiness and a lot of sorrow
Same as yesterday, same as tomorrow
‘member me, Mwajuma in your far away land
Once upon a time, a strong African girl
SAY A LITTLE PRAYER FOR ME
DREAM A LITTLE DREAM FOR ME
IT’S BEEN A LOT OF LONG YEARS GONE
SINCE I STOPPED DOING THE DREAMING
(spoken part)
Since we first met,
she was always trying to fatten me up.
She’s say, “Boy, you’re just skin and bones…
Gotta put a little bit of weight on ya”
And she’d bring me these brown paper bags of food
Down to the open air market where we’d meet up.
And wherever I’d spot her,
she’d always have this big paper sack
sitting on top of her cart
full of cookies or cornmeal or last night’s casserole…
whatever…an it was funny, cuz….
She’s always handed me the bag
in secrecy under the table
when no one else was looking,
like it was some exchange
of highly valuable documents…
something private and special between us…
…and in a way it was….
She always talked about her kids
And how happy she was
That they hadn’t met The Devil.
That’s how she talked
referring to her illness, The Devil.
Then she’d laugh and call Him a son of a bitch.
But I could never tell if she was talking about her illness,
or her dead husband that gave it to her….
SAY A LITTLE PRAYER FOR ME
DREAM A LITTLE DREAM FOR ME
IT’S BEEN A LOT OF LONG YEARS GONE
SINCE I STOPPED DOING THE DREAMING
*Langatta: suburb of Nairobi
** Karen: village outside of Nairobi named after
• legendary writer, Karen Blixen (Out of Africa)
***mzungo: Swahili for foreigner
__________________________________________________________
___________________________________________________________
19. MY MIND AND MY BODY(reprise)
Lyrics By Ithaka -Music: Conley Abrams III
My Mind
and my body
Sometimes drift,
Over the mountains
And across the sea
Looking for someone
And someplace
to believe
SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF SOMALIA (2001)
courtesy Memory lane Music Group-NY
____________________________________________________________
____________________________________________________________
1.(intro) SO YOU’RE GOING THERE ?
Doctor: I see so you’re going there ?
Ith: Yeah
Doctor: I always ask, strictly in the name of science of course,
to measure the crania of everyone going THERE.
Ith: Why? Have you seen changes?
Doctor: I never see them…IF they come back
Ith: WHaaattttt ???!!!!
Doctor: Beside you know, the changes take place on the inside……
Are you absolutely sure you want to go there ?
Ith: I Gotta
Doctor:…excuse my question, but is there any history of madness in your family?
_________________________________________________________________________________
_________________________________________________________________________________
2. WHATCHA GOTTA DO
Artist(s): ITHAKA (featuring E. BLACK & Don Stryke)
Produced by: Conley Abrams III
Where: from the NBA 2K7 xbox-360 game soundtrack
also appears on Ithaka´s album,
SOMEHWERE SOUTH OF SOMALIA (see ITUNES.com)
lyrics:
I'm out there going for mine
'cause time don't grow on trees
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
GOTTA GET DONE WHATCHA NEED TO GET DONE
'cause SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
(ithaka)
In my spiritual graveyard,
here I'm stuck
Gotta bust out like I was ol' Fin Huck
Gotta slip out the door, explore a little more
It ain't fun no more in the place I was born
Got to get out while there is going to get LA is hunter, Lisbon the net
Want to get out, but gotta fly alone
Ravenshark from two coasts who ain't got a zone
(eric black)
In the zone I stand along handling mine
Coming straight from the town where I had the sky
Bought a first class ticket to the LA town To explore new grounds, Ith hold me down
So I can do what I gotta do for success
You know I want it all, I expect nothing less
The rest will all come together in time
Eric Black, Ithaka and young Stryke on the grind
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA ROLL WHEN YA GOTTA ROLL 'cause SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA MOVE WHEN YOU GOTTA MOVE YOU GOTTA GET DONE WHATCHA NEED TO GET DONE 'cause SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
(ithaka)
Ain't from the old school, ain't from the new
I'm the Fishdaddy from the depths of the pool
Don't need a fly ride, don't need a fat crib
Don't need a woman looking for a 'grip'
Time to hit the road, time for me to roam
I'm tired of seeing the movies, I wanna live my own
Don't play by the book, 'cause you'll get took
Don't play by the book, 'cause you'll get shook
Don't play by the book, 'cause you'll get took
Don't play by the book, 'cause you're gonna get shook
(don stryke)
Times is hard as I walk the yard
My street way of living got me temporarily barred
From kicking it with my folks
So I'm forced to hit the weights and make some brand new yolks
In a situation do or die
Is when I do what I gotta do, tell mamma don't cry
'Cause I might not be coming home
If they keep testing me and making me sharpen my chrome
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA FIGHT WHEN YOU GOTTA FIGHT SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA STRIKE WHEN YOU GOTTA STRIKE 'cause SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
pick a ticket up, pick a ticket up
don't be afraid to ride that bus
pick a ticket up, pick a ticket up
don't be afraid to ride that bus
Ithaka, E. Black, D. Stryke
(ithaka)
Escaped from the place of shadows and devils
The mystery of life I wanted to unravel
(e black)
I had to move away, change my lifestyle
I didn't want to be locked down in the Penal
(stryke)
I feels ya 'Black', I'm in a dark place
I'm still trying to find my way out the maze
(ithaka)
Lisbon, London, Amsterdam, Nairobi
Fish outta water, like Oki from Muscogee
(e black)
I knew I had style, I could do my thing
So I hit the frontier on the quest for finer things
(stryke)
I wish I could hit the highway now
But I gotta hit my cell before the lock down
(ithaka)
Sell your longboard, your Pinto '74
Stick a pin in the map and let the dice roll
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
GOTTA GET DONE WHATCHA NEED TO GET DONE
'cause SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
YOU GOTTA GET DONE WHATCHA NEED TO GET DONE
'cause
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA DO WHATCHA GOTTA DO
YOU GOTTA GET DONE WHATCHA NEED TO GET DONE
__________________________________________________________________
_________________________________________________________________
3. MY MIND AND MY BODY
Lyrics By Ithaka -Music: Conley Abrams III
My Mind
and my body
Sometimes drift,
Over the mountains
And across the sea
Looking for someone
And someplace
to believe
________________________________________________
________________________________________________
4. Dugout Canoe
lyrics: ithaka-music: conley Abrams III
You won’t believe it, but it’s true
Rode the barrel of my life in an old canoe
Coast flat like never seen, Not one swell from June 16
Cryin’ shame, reef would’ve formed
Perfect left front of my new home
But a typhoon blew in that night
Ripped the roof off the hut, like it was a kite
By morning the storm had passed us up
Left a lot of damage for us to clean up
Now the waves were huge, surface smooth
But my stick was missing from out my room
Did it blow away in the screaming wind?
Or was it stolen by some thievin’ kid ?
THE WAVES WERE HUGE, SURFACE SMOOTH
BUT MY STICK WAS MISSING FROM OUT MY ROOM
FINALLY GOT SWELL, WE GOT FAT TUBES
BUT I AIN’T GOT A BLADE, ALL I GOT’S A CANOE
Paddled out in that old wood tub
Handcut mango, a.d 31
Through the channel, didn’t even get wet
Then in front appeared a ten-meter set
Paddled with all the juice I could find
Hanging on the lip, spray a-makin’ me blind
Where was Seabra at a time like this?
The kind of day Senhor Phycho don’t miss
Tossed airborn down the face
Laid back coffin-style, but it wadn’t grace
Opened my eyes in tube bigger than a hut
Liquid-lip rollin’ glass cup
Sucked me up, sucked me over
Insane prehistoric El Rollo
THE WAVES WERE HUGE, SURFACE SMOOTH
BUT MY STICK WAS MISSING FROM OUT MY ROOM
FINALLY GOT SWELL, WE GOT FAT TUBES
BUT I AIN’T GOT A BLADE, ALL I GOT’S A CANOE
Landed upright inside of the lip
Should I stay or should I jump ship ?
But no choice, got spit off
Was it a wave, or mighty Neptune’s cough?
Sucked backed over and landed on the reef
Luckily for me landed on my feet
Gashed to the bone, two toes ripped off
When along came Zambizi river shark
Smelled the blood, ready to eat me
Said, I’m Ithaka one of you, let me be
But he didn’t accept me credential
Looking at my limbs like they edible
Saved in the nick by a flying sea turtle
Rescued me up with a single hurdle
On top his iron-like shell I rode
Bleeding everywhere, all the way to the shore
THE WAVES WERE HUGE, SURFACE SMOOTH
BUT MY STICK WAS MISSING FROM OUT MY ROOM
FINALLY GOT SWELL, WE GOT FAT TUBES
BUT I AIN’T GOT A BLADE, ALL I GOT’S A CANOE
Up da beach into cliff side cave
Where Dr. Baboon wait for me to save
A parrot flew in with my toes
Cursing the shark, calling him “foe”
Surgery began without further delay
Put to sleep with anesthesia from stingray
Sewed my toes with coconut twine
Seventy stitches using porky’s pine
With toes back in tack, was left to rest
In the back of a cave near a pirate’s chest
Doctor said, we got this box
Full of gold an’ transparent rocks
We got no use for these worldly things
Take-em away and the trouble they bring
Woke up back in my roofless hut
Looked down to my foot, but it wasn’t even cut
THE WAVES WERE HUGE, SURFACE SMOOTH
BUT MY STICK WAS MISSING FROM OUT MY ROOM
FINALLY GOT SWELL, WE GOT FAT TUBES
BUT I AIN’T GOT A BLADE, ALL I GOT’S A CANOE
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5. SNAKES IN THE RAFTERS
lyrics: ithaka-music: conley Abrams III
SNAKES IN THE RAFTERS AND RATS ON THE FLOOR
DON’T GOT NO WINDOWS, AIN’T GOT NO FRONT DOOR
MONKEYS JUMPING ON THE ROOF, SPIDERS UNDER THE BED
THERE’S A CAT IN THE CORNER, BUT I THINK IT’S DEAD
A friend of a friend of a friend of a friend
Of yet another friend of another friend
Had rooms to rent, coast-Tanzania
With reef-break bowls style-Polynesia
After weeks in ‘Robi* overdue for some glide
Mombassa Express down to seaside
Mount Kenya on the left, Mount Killy** on the right
Twelve-hour train ride through the African night
Then matatu*** rollin’ snail’s pace
Two more days just to find the place
Found Ali the man in question
Mr. Ali asked me my intention
For cheap rooms a friend sent me
He said, There’s only one, but we got vacancy
SNAKES IN THE RAFTERS AND RATS ON THE FLOOR
DON’T GOT NO WINDOWS, AIN’T GOT NO FRONT DOOR
MONKEYS JUMPING ON THE ROOF, SPIDERS UNDER THE BED
THERE’S A CAT IN THE CORNER, BUT I THINK IT’S DEAD
The price is twelve US Dollars
Twelve-dollars a night? Ali you’re a robber
No, twelve dollars a year-that’s the rent
But you got to get your own mosquito net
Twelve dollars a year ?! Does it have running water ?
No it don’t, but it ain’t that big a bother
Got a well nearby, all the water you need
And gardens of bud, if ya got the need for weed
We got a lotta sun, we got fresh fish
Mangos, coconuts…more things you couldn’t wish
Don’t judge our wealth, but the size of our smiles
Variety of fruit poisonous reptiles
Twelve dollars a year, discount on decade
My sisters be single and live up on the hillside
SNAKES IN THE RAFTERS AND RATS ON THE FLOOR
DON’T GOT NO WINDOWS, AIN’T GOT NO FRONT DOOR
MONKEYS JUMPING ON THE ROOF, SPIDERS UNDER THE BED
THERE’S A CAT IN THE CORNER, BUT I THINK IT’S DEAD
Ali’s sisters brought breakfast to the hut
Both fat n forty never had a husband
Good morning sleep well ? No, slept with a spider
Bit me twenty times, an erotic all-nighter
And that cat in the corner, that WAS dead
Chased rats in circles around the bed
Still could’ve slept if the lion didn’t roar
But when he stopped, monkeys started to snore
Eat this they said and you’ll feel better
Ostrich egg omlet with crocodile gizzards
Today Mzungo**** is your lucky day
Today you choose one of us to marry
SNAKES IN THE RAFTERS AND RATS ON THE FLOOR
DON’T GOT NO WINDOWS, AIN’T GOT NO FRONT DOOR
MONKEYS JUMPING ON THE ROOF, SPIDERS UNDER THE BED
THERE’S A CAT IN THE CORNER, BUT I THINK IT’S DEAD
* ’Robi= Nairobi capital of Kenya
**Mount Killy= Mount Kilamajaro
*** matatu=bus in Swahili
**** mzungo= foreigner in Swahili
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6. Three good shots
words: ithaka
Three shots
One rhino
Three good shots
One big bad dead rhino
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7. RANA LINDA (I can make a difference)
lyrics: ithaka – music: conley Abrams III
Met at the film lab on Kigali Road
I took the bus (but) she gave me a ride home
We went back to her little shack of hope
Held together with love and a little bit of rope
Photos on the walls from a hundred trips
All telling stories of endless hardships
Rana Linda from Colorado
At home in mountains, jungles and ghettos
She made rigatoni, told me her life story
Life full of gore, but not a lot of glory
Photographs war and death for a living
She hasn’t been home since last Thanksgiving
I KNOW WHAT I DO AIN’T GOOD FOR MY HEALTH
I KNOW WHAT I DO WON’T BRING ME WEALTH
BUT IS IT NAÏVE TO THINK
THAT I CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE?....
I CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE
Last spring did a story in Rwanda
About perpetrators of local propaganda
The only reporter in war zone
To record raid of a thousand village homes
Just a preview of things to come
A massacre followed, but Rana didn’t run
The pictures, she knew, could save lives
But a boy came to her, blood pouring out his eyes
Should she go ? Or should she stay ?
Or take him to the hospital three hours away ?
Was it wrong or was it right?
Should she have stayed ? Or saved his life?
I KNOW WHAT I DO AIN’T GOOD FOR MY HEALTH
I KNOW WHAT I DO WON’T BRING ME WEALTH
BUT IS IT NAÏVE TO THINK
THAT I CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE?....
I CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE
On TV, it’s easy to believe
Peace is a choice that’s easy to achieve
But I can tell you this, it’s no pantomime
You can only turn your cheek yo so many times
Then you gotta stand up fo’ yo’self
Or be victim to dictators’ wealth
TIME* just called, now I’m off to Zaire
Every trip new terror, every trip new fear
I’m not feeling good about this, it’s easy to see
So if it’s not too much, can you just hold me?
Tomorrow I’ll be on the frontier
But this is NOW, we alive and here
I KNOW WHAT I DO AIN’T GOOD FOR MY HEALTH
I KNOW WHAT I DO WON’T BRING ME WEALTH
BUT IS IT NAÏVE TO THINK
THAT I CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE?....
I CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE
I KNOW WHAT I DO AIN’T GOOD FOR MY HEALTH
I KNOW WHAT I DO WON’T BRING ME WEALTH
BUT IS IT NAÏVE TO THINK
THAT I CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE?....
I CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE
* Time Magazine
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8. Mr. MOSQUITO
Lyrics: ithaka-music: zeldo (aka steve zeldin)
Down at the coast
Having a good time
Daylight’s trouble free
No stress to the mind
But at sundown
Coming out by the millions
The world’s number one
Killer of civilians
Mr. Mosquito don’t bite me
Don’t make me scratch, don’t make me bleed
Mr. Mosquito don’t bite me
Don’t want to catch your disease
If you don’t mind, can you spare my life ?
I used repellant, won’t you fly on by
I know you want my blood
But you ain’t gonna get it
Try as you must
But you might as well forget it
Mr. Mosquito don’t bite me
Don’t make me scratch, don’t make me bleed
Mr. Mosquito don’t bite me
Don’t want to catch your disease
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9. THE UGLY AMERICAN
lyrics: ithaka – music conley abrams III
Sold the house in LA, apartment New York
Twenty-hour nonstop to Nairobi airport
Bought a deluxe black Range Rover
With tinted windows and cd-sorter
Bought a map, headed for coast
Bought thirty-acres beachfront and brand new boat
Paid natives to burn down trees
Who the hell were they to disagree ?
Needed room for tennis court and swimming pool
In this land too, rich usually rule
Built a house like no house ever seen
Fifteen bedrooms all fit for kings
A year later, palace complete
Bel Aire mansion in the African heat
HE’S PAID HIS DUES
HE’S PAID THE PRICE TWICE
BUT HIS SOUL WILL ROT IN PARADISE
Electric fence, five-meters high
Keep out the crooks, but the monkeys die
But he’s a Man and a man has to protect his land
From thieves and thugs trying to get the upper hand
A satellite dish and internet
Alone he drinks gin at sunset
Out on the veranda overlooking the sea
Indeed he pretends to be pleased
No convenience did he sacrifice
Cuz he’s got the goods, he got the merchandise
He raped his maid, but what can she do ?
Her mama needs medicine, her kids need food
But he’s a Man, bad man, sick man, evil man
But a rich man and rich men rule the land
Killed a rhino while he smoked a cigar
High-powered shot from a moving car
Paid a bribe to the game park ranger
To keep his identity a stranger
HE’S PAID HIS DUES
HE’S PAID THE PRICE TWICE
BUT HIS SOUL WILL ROT IN PARADISE
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10. ONE GOOD SHOT (email to an ex-wife)
Words:ithaka
Dear Hilary,
I love this new world
That I’ve had the luck to discover.
The mountains, the sky and the sea
Are all helping me to recover
From some bad times and some bad years.
Finally forgiven my enemies.
Finally forgotten my fears.
(SHOT!)
ONE SHOT
ONE POACHER
ONE GOOD SHOT
ONE BIG BAD DEAD POACHER
ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ
________________________________________
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11.BLACK ROCK
lyrics: ithaka – music: conley abrams III
Pretty Mwanisha, the flower of this coast
On her way back to the village with fish for the roast
Stopped to make a wish under baobab tree
To remain forever happy as she’d been
But in her path, she met the big green mambo*
Who smiled at her and greeted her with, Jambo**
Fangs of death through her young skin
Given by a green slithering assassin
BLACK ROCK, BLACK ROCK SAVE HER LIFE
BITTEN BY THE MAMBO, TIME TO FIND A KNIFE
CUT THE BITE WOUND, OPEN WIDE
PUT THE BLACK ROCK ON AND PRAY SHE DON’T DIE
Found by a Digo*** boy named Bakari
Who knew about black rock sorcery
A magic black stone, dat could pull poison out a bite
And make someone near death suddenly feel all right
He cut through where the snake left its mark
Stuck the stone on and it did its part
Drank all the venom from out of her blood
And when the stone was done, it fell off with a thud
BLACK ROCK, BLACK ROCK SAVE HER LIFE
BITTEN BY THE MAMBO, TIME TO FIND A KNIFE
CUT THE BITE WOUND, OPEN WIDE
PUT THE BLACK ROCK ON AND PRAY SHE DON’T DIE
Isha opened her eyes and saw Bakari’s face
Trying to recall how she got to this place
He helped her up and up to her feet
She thanked him with a kiss then said, time to eat
Invited him back to her family’s hut
Where they roasted the samaki**** with cashew nuts
She said a prayer of thanks to be so blessed
Blessed to be alive, with the fish still fresh
BLACK ROCK, BLACK ROCK SAVE HER LIFE
BITTEN BY THE MAMBO, TIME TO FIND A KNIFE
CUT THE BITE WOUND, OPEN WIDE
PUT THE BLACK ROCK ON AND PRAY SHE DON’T DIE
*Green mambo= one of the most venomous snakes in Africa
** jambo=Swahili for, hello
*** Digo: one of the most prominent tribes in coastal Kenya
**** samaki=Swahili word for fish
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12. Lapis Lazuli/Mother of Pearl
lyrics: ithaka – music: conley abrams III
Hey, why are you out here ?....Yeah, me too
You know, they say that when the moon
has that rainbow ring thing around it like tonight,
that amazing unusual things can happen
New Year’s party up near Tiwi Reef
I don’t like crowds, stayed out on the beach
And met a lovely, young goddess-like being
Just the moon, the sea, some understanding
We had an instant, spell-like connection
A mixture of attraction and perception
With the smell of magic in the air
Ravenshark and Goddess…unlikely pair
She said, I don’t know you’re name…but let’s walk
Down the beach, ‘til forever we can talk
LET’S KEEP ON WALKING ‘TIL THE END OF THE WORLD
YOU BE MY LAPIS LAZULI, I’LL BE YOUR MOTHER OF PEARL
The sky and the sea became the same blue.
She said, let’s start now our search for truth
LET’S KEEP ON WALKING ‘TIL THE END OF THE WORLD
YOU BE MY LAPIS LAZULI, I’LL BE YOUR MOTHER OF PEARL
Past the last of electrical wires
Past the remnants of tribal fires
Light-bugs glowed all around our heads
Like little magic flowers for some newlyweds
Then…..Come On, she said, taking off her dress
Let’s go for a swim, make a New Year’s wish
Skinny-dipping in a lukewarm see
Holding each other and soul-kissing
Just the dawn, the sea, some understanding
And for the New Year a new beginning
LETS KEEP ON WALKING ‘TIL THE END OF THE WORLD
YOU BE MY LAPIS LAZULI, I’LL BE YOUR MOTHER OF PEARL
The sky and sea became the same blue,
like the honeymoon of Luna and Neptune
LETS KEEP ON WALKING ‘TIL THE END OF THE WORLD
YOU BE MY LAPIS LAZULI I’LL BE YOUR MOTHER OF PEARL
spoken line alternates in later chores after trumpet solo:
The sky and sea became the same blue,
the full moon will be our time capsule
The sky and sea became the same blue,
She said, I don’t know you, but I still love you
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13. VISIT WITH PROFESSOR NGAWA
lyrics: ithaka – music: conley abrams III
YOUR PROBLEMS IN LIFE AIN’T JUST BAD LUCK
YOU BEEN CURSED TO MAKE YOU SELF-DESTRUCT
YOU WEAR TUKANA* LIKE A DEATH COLLAR
BUT NGAWA CAN REMOVE FOR A THOUSAND DOLLARS
River Road, Nairobi - Saturday the Eighth
Looking down the streets for a spot to stay
Read a sign, FORTUNE BY NGAWA
At the street door of an old wood tower
Something fun to tell the crew back home
Fortune told by a fake on River Road
Climbed six flights of creaky stairs
Laughing to myself, I’s still unaware
That Ngawa was a voodoo priest
From way down south in Mozambique
Paid a hundred Bob** at the door of his den
Sat on down next to a headless hen
With a fish, sea star and wooden mask
He began from the start to tell me the past
You were a shark in a past life, a raven in another
But followed through time by jealous blood-suckers
YOUR PROBLEMS IN LIFE AIN’T JUST BAD LUCK
YOU BEEN CURSED TO MAKE YOU SELF-DESTRUCT
YOU WEAR TUKANA* LIKE A DEATH COLLAR
BUT NGAWA CAN REMOVE FOR A THOUSAND DOLLARS
Ya Mama’s bit by a spider on birthday morn
The widow’s bite almost left you stillborn
Another close call when you was ten
Hit by a car almost got done in
Left LA to make something of yourself
Left your family alone, you’re feeling selfish
Moved to Athens, then Tokyo
And on to Lisbon, broke no joke
You put out the juice, you dropped the hit
But USL didn’t pay you jack shit
YOUR PROBLEMS IN LIFE AIN’T JUST BAD LUCK
YOU BEEN CURSED TO MAKE YOU SELF-DESTRUCT
YOU WEAR TUKANA* LIKE A DEATH COLLAR
BUT NGAWA CAN REMOVE FOR A THOUSAND DOLLARS
A spell so evil, a spell so cruel
To keep you living like a rat in a dark cesspool
A life of bad luck is what you’re gonna see
And only me, Ngawa can remove this deed
A thousand US Dollars should do the trick
You can pay with cash, you can pay with credit
Ngawa, I said, You know damn well
Ain’t got no curse, you can go to hell
The bad luck I had, I made myself
Along with the good, these cards I’ve delt
Take your hocus-pocus shove it up your ass
I live in the present, the bad was in the past
YOUR PROBLEMS IN LIFE AIN’T JUST BAD LUCK
YOU BEEN CURSED TO MAKE YOU SELF-DESTRUCT
YOU WEAR TUKANA* LIKE A DEATH COLLAR
BUT NGAWA CAN REMOVE FOR A THOUSAND DOLLARS
Now if you’ll excuse me, I got things to see
Drinks to drink, people to meet
Trying to take advantage of mzungo-man***
Rot in hell with your witch doctor scam
You’ll be back, you’ll be back
You’ll be back, you’ll be back
Mzungo-man you’ll be back you’ll see
Mzungo-man no escape Uchawi****
YOU’LL BE BACK, YOU’LL BE BACK
Down I went out of that tower
On to River Road at the midnight hour
YOUR PROBLEMS IN LIFE AIN’T JUST BAD LUCK
YOU BEEN CURSED TO MAKE YOU SELF-DESTRUCT
YOU WEAR TUKANA* LIKE A DEATH COLLAR
BUT NGAWA CAN REMOVE FOR A THOUSAND DOLLARS
•
•
*Tukana: Swahili for curse, black magic, to be cursed
** Bob: slang for Kenyan Schilling $
*** mzungo-man: Swahili for foreigner
**** Uchawi: Swahili for black magic
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14. UPENDO
lyrics: ithaka – music: conley abrams III
How do you say…how would YOU say…I love you?
UPENDO
Taka-kua manamake
UPENDO
Shikwa na kapenzi
Shikwa na mapenzi
UPENDO
Ucho mahaba
Ashiki halili
UPENDO
Love
UPENDO
I love you
Hawa bembeleza
Tamani Pembeleza
UPENDO
Penda tiba mchumba
Upendo hawa huba
Pendo tiba
UPENDO
Pendo tiba mchumba
UPENDO
Nataka kukua
Penda tiba
UPENDO
Nampemba Mwanamume
Shikwa na mapenzi
UPENDO
Ucho Mahaba
UPENDO
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15. RIVER ROAD
lyrics: ithaka – music: conley abrams III
THIS IS RIVER ROAD WHERE LIFE IS CHEAP
WHERE YOU CAN GIT YOURSELF KILLED
FOR THE PRICE OF A DRINK
SO IF YOU AIN’T FROM HERE, NO PLACE TO CREEP
CUZ PEOPLE DISAPPEAR FROM HERE WITHOUT A PEEP
Back out on the street paved with broken glass
Feeling fearless and ready to forget my past
People drinking and dancing on every corner
Each and all celebratin’, among them was no mourners
But got held up by a group of River Road kids
Only thirteen years old, but their blades was big
A street whore ran in to the building they ran
Came out five minutes later with my wallet in her hand
She gave it back to me. Believe it or not it’s true
My ID was there and my money too
I’m sorry, she said, but some people have no manners
My name is Esther and I charge by the hour
So let’s go upstairs, let me show you a good time
Cuz there ain’t nothing wrong with a little bump-n-grind
Well thank you dear Esther, but I think I’ll pass
Ain’t got no rubbers and I don’t pay for ass
But if you got the time, let me by you a drink
Well…ok, maybe one, she said with a wink
You’ll get yourself killed on River Road……..
THIS IS RIVER ROAD WHERE LIFE IS CHEAP
WHERE YOU CAN GIT YOURSELF KILLED
FOR THE PRICE OF A DRINK
SO IF YOU AIN’T FROM HERE,AIN’T NO PLACE TO CREEP
CUZ PEOPLE DISAPPEAR FROM HERE WITHOUT A PEEP
Now up some dirty stairs to a bar full of thugs
We drank fresh mnazi* outta giant wooden mugs
Fermented palm sap that’ll make your head spin
‘fore it makes it your stomach, it starts to kick in
Then Esther left the lounge to meet up with a client
Left me with her pimp named, Johnny The Giant
We sat down at a table with some rough-necked dregs
One guy had one eye, another guy had one leg
And there was Dragon-Breath Joseph and Gold-Tooth Jack
And Ngugi-The Kikuya, Nairobi’s mack of all macks
A motley looking crew from start to finish
I listened to their stories of survival of the fittest
Heard a hundred tales of the River Road life
“bout living off their hos, ‘bout living off the night
Selling a little dope and making a little Bob**
But still down and out, eating corn on the cob
THIS IS RIVER ROAD WHERE LIFE IS CHEAP
WHERE YOU CAN GIT YOURSELF KILLED
FOR THE PRICE OF A DRINK
SO IF YOU AIN’T FROM HERE, AIN’T NO PLACE TO CREEP
CUZ PEOPLE DISAPPEAR FROM HERE WITHOUT A PEEP
But the vibe seemed cool story after story
They had a lot of pride for their underground glory
Seven rounds later, I was feeling kinda whacked
Got up to take a whiz, telling ‘em, Be Right Back
Unzipped and let the stream flow
When alongside of me, a young afroed bro
Said: Mzungo*** brother, I speak to you as a friend
Overheard them thugs talking, you’s about to get done in
This is the wrong time, this is the wrong place
Disappear from here, you disappear with no trace
This is River Road, Nairobi where life is cheap
You can get yourself killed for the price of a drink
So take my advice, finish your piss and split
If ya hurry up, maybe you can give ‘em the slip
Paranoia swept over me
I had but one choice and that was to flee
Zipped up, bolted out the door
And down the stairs past a couple of whores
But them mongrels was already on to me
And I didn’t look back as I hit the street
AND THE CHASE WAS ON AT THE BREAK OF DAWN
AND THE CHASE WAS ON AT THE BREAK OF DAWN
AND THE CHASE WAS ON AT THE BREAK OF DAWN
AND THE CHASE WAS ON AT THE BREAK OF DAWN
With people laughing, screaming and cheering
At the long-haired mzungo about to git a skinnin’
THIS IS RIVER ROAD WHERE LIFE IS CHEAP
WHERE YOU CAN GIT YOURSELF KILLED
FOR THE PRICE OF A DRINK
SO IF YOU AIN’T FROM HERE , AIN’T NO PLACE TO CREEP
CUZ PEOPLE DISAPPEAR FROM HERE WITHOUT A PEEP
But kept a lead on ‘em all the way downtown
Hopped into a cab, I was lucky to have found
Cabbie said, Look like they wanted to kill
Yeah, guess I forgot to pay my bill
THIS IS RIVER ROAD WHERE LIFE IS CHEAP
WHERE YOU CAN GIT YOURSELF KILLED
FOR THE PRICE OF A DRINK
SO IF YOU AIN’T FROM HERE, AIN’T NO PLACE TO CREEP
CUZ PEOPLE DISAPPEAR FROM HERE WITHOUT A PEEP
• *mnazi: fermented palm tree beer
• **Bob: slang for Kenyan Schilling $
• *** mzungo: Swahili for foreigner
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16. NGAWA’S REVENGE
lyrics: ithaka – music: conley abrams III
Woke up one morning soaked with sweat
Delinquent payment for past karmic debt ?
Nairobi Hospital, urgency area
No need worry, probably malaria
Jab with needle and check the result
Cuz, if you no got it, we no give antidote
An hour later, test read “negative”
They said, Try again later…if you live
But that wasn’t funny, I kept getting sicker
My head burning, my tongue gettin’ thicker
“Negative” again, what had I caught?
In Room 20, I laid waiting to rot
AIN’T FEELING GOOD, CAN’T STOP SWEATING
GOT A TEMPERATURE OF A HUNDRED AND SEVEN
WILL I LIVE ? WILL I DIE ?
WILL I FALL? WILL I FLY ?
PRAYIN’ TO A GOD THAT I DON’T EVEN KNOW
PLEASE FORGIVE EVERYTHING I DONE WRONG
LET ME GO HOME, IF YOU DON’T WANT ME IN HEAVEN
BREAK THIS FEVER OF A HUNDRED AND SEVEN
There I was, six days in the mix
Like a broke watch with no chance of being fixed
No one to ask, nothing to be said
I wondered if others had died in this bed
That night, slept in a tub of ice water
Dreamt all night of my long-deceased father
He said, It ain’t your time, still got life to live
A lesson to respect both Good and Wicked
AIN’T FEELING GOOD, CAN’T STOP SWEATING
GOT A TEMPERATURE OF A HUNDRED AND SEVEN
WILL I LIVE ? WILL I DIE ?
WILL I FALL? WILL I FLY ?
PRAYIN’ TO A GOD THAT I DON’T EVEN KNOW
PLEASE FORGIVE EVERYTHING I DONE WRONG
LET ME GO HOME, IF YOU DON’T WANT ME IN HEAVEN
BREAK THIS FEVER OF A HUNDRED AND SEVEN
You’ll be back You’ll be back
You’ll be back You’ll be back
You’ll be back You’ll be back
You’ll be back You’ll be back
Professor Ngawa, Professor Ngawa
Professor Ngawa, Professor Ngawa
Professor Ngawa, you cursed me it was YOU !
YOU BE THE DEVIL, YOU TOOK ME FOR A FOOL !
Will I live ? Will I die?
Will I fall ? Will I fly?
Will I live ? Will I die?
Will I fall ? Will I fly?
Woke up in the tub with no fever
Free from, Professor Deceiver
Said a prayer to the god I don’t know
Thanking him it wasn’t yet the end of the show
Gonna steer of the twilight
Just wanna live my mortal ravenshark life
AIN’T FEELING GOOD, CAN’T STOP SWEATING
GOT A TEMPERATURE OF A HUNDRED AND SEVEN
WILL I LIVE ? WILL I DIE ?
WILL I FALL? WILL I FLY ?
PRAYIN’ TO A GOD THAT I DON’T EVEN KNOW
PLEASE FORGIVE EVERYTHING I DONE WRONG
LET ME GO HOME, IF YOU DON’T WANT ME IN HEAVEN
BREAK THIS FEVER OF A HUNDRED AND SEVEN
__________________________________________________________
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17. ENDLESS BUMMER
words: ithaka
Looking out, above the beauty of the land
Hand-sculpted nature by a universal hand
Could the Last Act really be near ?
Why is earth still hunted by man’s own spear ?
Water be rising, ice be melting
Flowers be wilting, sun be pelting
…anyway you wanna look at it;
The endless summer is an endless bummer.
Be worse than having a drum,
Without having a drummer
We will always have love
We will always have hate
But will the birds and bees
and trees evaporate ?
Happiness ain’t no lie
It’s just hard to find
But don’t forget to love the world
When you’re trying to survive
_________________________________________
_________________________________________
18. MWAJUMA
lyrics: ithaka – music: conley Abrams
Born a strong girl under the African sun
Up in the mountains of Kenya, 1951
Grew up poor on her tribal land
Turned sixteen and went to work for The Man
For more than thirty years, she’s made them their tea
Washed their clothes, cooked them their meat
SAY A LITTLE PRAYER FOR ME
DREAM A LITTLE DREAM FOR ME
IT’S BEEN A LOT OF LONG YEARS GONE
SINCE I STOPPED DOING THE DREAMING
One warm Langatta* morning in January
Amidst confusion, she was my sanctuary
I got lost on my way back to town
But instead, a new friend’s what I found
Met her every morning at the market in Karen**
Her forty-five minutes to conversate in freedom
For two months in my life, I had a best friend
She spoke British with Swahili accent
I was her confidante and she was mine
From eight-thirty in the morning, ‘til a quarter after nine
She always smiles, but inside she’s sad
She tested Positive and her kids have no Dad
SAY A LITTLE PRAYER FOR ME
DREAM A LITTLE DREAM FOR ME
IT’S BEEN A LOT OF LONG YEARS GONE
SINCE I STOPPED DOING THE DREAMING
On the Friday morning of my departure
She brought me a single solitary blue flower
Said, Ithaka-we didn’t know each other long
But I love you mzungo***, like you was my own son
I’m glad you had good times in my land
But don’t ever forget, heaven and hell go hand in hand
Lots of love and happiness and a lot of sorrow
Same as yesterday, same as tomorrow
‘member me, Mwajuma in your far away land
Once upon a time, a strong African girl
SAY A LITTLE PRAYER FOR ME
DREAM A LITTLE DREAM FOR ME
IT’S BEEN A LOT OF LONG YEARS GONE
SINCE I STOPPED DOING THE DREAMING
(spoken part)
Since we first met,
she was always trying to fatten me up.
She’s say, “Boy, you’re just skin and bones…
Gotta put a little bit of weight on ya”
And she’d bring me these brown paper bags of food
Down to the open air market where we’d meet up.
And wherever I’d spot her,
she’d always have this big paper sack
sitting on top of her cart
full of cookies or cornmeal or last night’s casserole…
whatever…an it was funny, cuz….
She’s always handed me the bag
in secrecy under the table
when no one else was looking,
like it was some exchange
of highly valuable documents…
something private and special between us…
…and in a way it was….
She always talked about her kids
And how happy she was
That they hadn’t met The Devil.
That’s how she talked
referring to her illness, The Devil.
Then she’d laugh and call Him a son of a bitch.
But I could never tell if she was talking about her illness,
or her dead husband that gave it to her….
SAY A LITTLE PRAYER FOR ME
DREAM A LITTLE DREAM FOR ME
IT’S BEEN A LOT OF LONG YEARS GONE
SINCE I STOPPED DOING THE DREAMING
*Langatta: suburb of Nairobi
** Karen: village outside of Nairobi named after
• legendary writer, Karen Blixen (Out of Africa)
***mzungo: Swahili for foreigner
__________________________________________________________
___________________________________________________________
19. MY MIND AND MY BODY(reprise)
Lyrics By Ithaka -Music: Conley Abrams III
My Mind
and my body
Sometimes drift,
Over the mountains
And across the sea
Looking for someone
And someplace
to believe
Monday, September 04, 2006
ithaka's FISHDADDY CHRONICLES c.2006
rough draft for ithaka's
surfing-related short story book,
FISHDADDY CHRONICLES
__________________________________________________
Ithaka’s
FISHDADDY
CHRONICLES
c.2006
FISHDADDY CHRONICLES
by Ithaka Darin Pappas
1. STILTS
2.OXYGEN FALLS
3.CARCAVELOS BROWNS
5. ZE DOS CAES
6. PALM TREE REEF
7. MOROCCO IS:
8. ADVENTURES IN ADVERTISING
9. THE FORGOTTEN FOUR
10. MOMENTS OF INSANITY
STILTS
As a grom,
born and bred
in the pristine coastal suburbs,
Brick never imagined
that he was destined
to become an inlander.
Go Back To Pomona !
He’d yell down
to peroxide-haired body boarders
foraging for waves on the north side
of the Manhattan pier.
Both his parents being prominent engineers
in the aerospace trade,
Brick never took into consideration
that not everyone in the world
was dealt a winning hand of cards.
But the L.A. aerospace industry
shriveled up
and both his mom and dad
moved out of state (separately).
Brick was not about to relocate to either
Oklahoma or Arizona.
Eighteen and on his own.
College now out of the question,
employment geographics
forced Brick deep into the depths
of urban Los Angeles….
..that was several years ago.
As he exited his dense,
degregaded East L.A. neighborhood
onto the Santa Monica Freeway,
Go Back To Pomona !,
kept echoing
around the interior of his skull,
Go Back To Pomona !
As usual,
the local news stations had been
over-exaggerating
the storm swells all season.
A High Surf Advisory
Didn’t actually mean BIG waves
It just ensured the following days
would be ridiculously packed.
But for once the predictions
and hype were reputable.
As the 10 Freeway
poured him out onto
Pacific Coast Highway,
he saw the normally flat beach-breaks
a hollow but sloppy five-foot.
He was tempted to park it and surf Chattaugua
(it’d months since he’d
pulled into anything
even resembling a barrel).
But the urge kept him going.
Out past congested, six-foot Topanga
(even the Charthouse had twenty-five people out).
Thru Malibu, also good size but bumpy.
Past Zuma, big and closed out.
And past Leo Carrillo to County Line,
for a coffee at Neptune’s Net.
County Line had size.
but who wants to surf powerless waves
with a hundred human buoys in the water?
SUPERTUBES???????
…the right swell,
the right tide
he was SURE it was on…
but it was almost flat.
Today the on-shores
would probably arrive early
(no time for Rincon or Oxnard).
He slowed back southward
checking out every little cove,
beach and rock pile he knew of.
There was definitely a lot of swell,
missing some stretches, hitting others,
but too north for most of it.
The gas gauge on the Stonemobile
was broken, but he was confident
he had at least enough fuel to
make it back to Santa Monica.
But somewhere south of Solstice Canyon
as he flipped a cassette over
(Hammered, by Motorhead)
the engine died.
He didn’t stress,
just coasted it out
and pulled over next to
a makeshift wooden wall
in front of a construction site.
It was the only opening
in a strip of about forty stilted homes.
Their entrances street level
on Pacific Coast highway
with no gaps for beach access,
while the main volume of the structures
extended over the beach and water
(about fifteen feet below)
on a series of wooden and cement pilings.
He sat in the car,
music still blaring,
but in the brief silence between tracks
he heard the powerful SNAP ! of a wave.
What the HELL ?!
He scaled over the wooden wall for a look.
A short climb put him at water level
at the top of a small semi-point.
A sight that left him in momentary disbelief.
Less than a hundred feet
in front of the homes,
powerful rights were detonating
over a shallow flat reef.
Spinning almost in place
for a couple of seconds,
they momentarily backed off
in a deep spot
before racing sideways
for another five or six houses.
Up the building frame,
over the wall
and back to the Chevy.
The truck was stealth.
Both surfers and non-surfers
had no idea it was a surfer’s car.
It looked more like an immigrant
gardener’s vehicle.
No towel, he bare-balled it
on the house side of the car
to get into his wetsuit.
I’m going to call the police !
a woman yelled down
out of a second-story window.
SO AM I ! he laughed
scrambling over the wall.
After a short slalom course
down thru the beams
and around some jagged boulders,
he was soon muscling his way
into the last wave of an overhead set.
Barely making the drop,
He recovered into
a relaxed tube stance
and in wonderment ,
watched the antiseptically blue funnel
pass him by,
SLAM!!
Like a doctor slapping
a newborn’s butt
to get it to start breathing,
the Pacific-pounding
breathed life back
into Brick’s soul.
He screamed through
the saltwater placenta
with prehistoric adrenalin.
When he surfaced,
there were no waves
behind it waiting to punish him.
Just glassy, kelpy silence.
Looking shoreward,
he saw the underbellies
of the homes
(the structures
did not seem secure).
Then up to the large deck-patios
extending out in front of each of them.
They were all vacant except for one,
where a large-breasted,
red-haired woman
sat in front of an easel
painting the horizon.
Soon more waves arrived,
This day seemingly a gift of the gods
designated specifically for him
and him only.
But after an hour of solo euphoria,
four short-boarders separately
paddled north toward the lineup
(thank god they were short-boarders).
He wondered if there’d be vibes.
Whatever the place was called,
with its tiny take-off slot,
It was not intended
for mass consumption.
A set stacked.
Brick snagged the first one,
Backdooring the section on takeoff .
Momentarily covered up,
the lip released him
onto a steep carveable shoulder.
He heard distant hoots
as he raced it all the way to the rocks.
Returning to the peak,
He saw each of the new riders
snatching up the remaining set waves.
Three regulars and a goofy.
All decent surfers,
but not pros.
And judging from the brand names
of boards they rode,
none of them from the Malibu area.
He was glad they were outsiders.
And they were relieved
that Brick (who looked mean)
was amicable.
With stoke level
running feverishly high,
the five strangers
took turns on the bigger set waves.
Considering the
actual abilities involved,
performance levels
were peaking
(with the tube success ratios
at least 50/50).
Does this place have a name?
asked the kid from SB
riding the Matt Moore board.
Brick, pensive for a moment
trying to make up one
(the kid, thinking he
was reluctant to tell him).
Brick looked toward the vertical
under-supports of the homes.
It’s called, STILTS, he said.
….and that section that always
tries to pinch you at the end
…that’s ENVELOPES.
Although none of them
had ever met before,
the five surfers
began to converse
between sets,
mostly about global travels.
Having never left North America,
Brick could only listen.
But it was hard
for the others to deny
that this was one of
the best days
of isolated perfection
any of them
had EVER experienced ANYWHERE.
It was understood that this
was an extremely rare day,
but none of them could believe
that makeable
barrels of this caliber
could possibly exist
within thirty minutes of Santa Monica.
No cameras.
No videos.
No sponsored riders.
The fact remained, however,
that as good as it was,
size-wise it was just a sideshow
to what breaks in
Palos Verdes, Ventura and beyond
were experiencing at that exact moment.
But nobody here was complaining.
Six-hour session,
the tide now bone-dry.
A few yards of sand had appeared
directly in front of the houses.
Exausted, Brick rock-hopped
out of the water and onto the beach.
Go Home,
it wasn’t shouted
but it was definitely audible
…but from where?
He surveyed the homes
and decks from below.
The woman with the big boobs
still worked on her scenic.
And now, on another terrace,
an elderly couple
was being served breakfast
by a stocky Latina maid.
AND
two twenty-five year old trust-funders
still in their tennis clothes
fresh off the court,
sat on a wooden deck
(cluttered to capacity
with several surfboards,
windsurf boards,
a Zodiac and a jet-ski.
They had their backs
turned toward him,
but he could see them smirking
from the side and could hear
the faint whimper
of their cowardly giggles.
This time the bitches coordinated
their effort in unison,
GO HOME ! ! !
They yelled with both
hands mega-phoned
over their mouths
(still lacking the courage
to face the accused).
The euphoria of the day’s
gelatin-smooth barrels
and camaraderie shared
with four low-key riders faded.
Replaced with annoyance,
anger and distrust.
And a remainder
of who and what
he now was,
an inlander.
He looked back to the punks,
but they still wouldn’t make eye-contact.
What kind of worms play tennis
when the secret spot
in front of their own balcony
is disemboweling itself
as NEVER before?
Brick made mental notes
(the house wouldn’t look
exactly the same
from the street side).
Wooden. Gray with white trim.
Five doors over
from the construction site.
Up the beams
through the work-in-progress
and over the wall.
He easily identified the house
on the PCH side.
In front of its
white-washed garage door
was a brand new red
convertible SAAB
with chrome gansta rims,
white leather seats
(two Baboblat tennis rackets
rested on the passenger side cushion)
and a gold license-plate frame
that read,
PEPPERDINE ALUMNI
with two bumper stickers
on either side of the plate:
MY OTHER CAR IS A SURFBOARD
And , BELL AIR BAY CLUB.
Brick found an empty,
one-gallon plastic milk jug
in the garbage and unrolled the short
hose lying next to the garage door.
He opened the Saab’s gas cap hatch,
No lock.
He shoved one end
of the hose into the tank
and started inhaling on the other,
(almost instantly getting a mouthful
of 91 Octane Premium Unleaded).
He snapped his thumb over the hole
to maintain vacuum,
then released it into the jug.
With the optimum pressure
of a full tank,
the jug filled in seconds.
Thumb back on the opening,
he hesitated a minute…
…momentarily entertaining
fantastical thoughts
of dousing the car in fuel
and torching it.
Naaahhh…not his style.
He wasn’t about to
let those weasels
get the best of him.
GO BACK TO POMONA !
Again circled his cerebrum
like a distant ghost.
Karmic repercussions
of his segregational
suburban upbringing.
He couldn’t believe
this is what
he had come from.
Although this last year
had been good to him
and he could probably afford
to move back to the coast.
Brick remembered what had been
holding him back.
His past.
OXYGEN FALLS
I'd been here fourteen days,
ever since they'd
brought him home
from the hospital.
And for fourteen days in a row
Zeus, Athena and I had walked;
across the cotton field,
through the lemon orchard,
into The Reservation
and along the bank of the canal
until we reached
the base of Oxygen Falls.
The air here was thick with humidity,
the roar of the water threatening.
Haunting and intriguing at the same time.
Three years ago,
he'd been transferred here
from his job at a Los Angeles
aerospace corporation
to their production division
in a rural area outside of Phoenix.
Unfortunately, my trip wasn't
a family social visit,
my Pops was sick.
Terminal they'd called it,
I called it unfair.
KEEP OUT !
SUBMERGED OBSTRUCTIONS!
EXTREME DANGER!
These faded red letters,
on a now rusted-out piece
of white sheet metal,
had been a never ending subject
of controversy and speculation
between Niles, Joe and I
during every holiday
we'd spent together
since Pops and April
had moved here.
The sign was posted
on the first of two parallel,
barbed-wire fences
guarding potential victims
from the hazards
of the falls behind the them.
Oxygen Falls in actuality
was a hundred-foot high
aerator slope
just downstream
from the Red Mountain Dam
on the Saguaro Indian Reservation.
After first corralling
a section of the Salt River
in form of a small lake,
back out through its spillways
and down a descending
eighth-of-a-mile long
boxy, narrowing concrete waterway.
This compressed the river water volume
from an area of about 40-yards wide
into an end width of just twenty-five feet,
quadrupling its velocity.
The water then rocketed
out of its square cement chute
and down the eight-story,
sixty-degree slope
into a churning, chaotic maelstrom
at the bottom.
This process whipped the water
abundantly full of oxygen molecules,
(essential for retarding algae growth
and increasing crop harvests).
Immediately after this frothy,
turbulent area,
the water abruptly tranquilized...
quieting down
into a deeper,
much wider body of water
known as Lower River,
which eventually dissected
itself into several smaller,
slow-flowing canals and ditches,
(providing the
agricultural water supply
of eastern Phoenix).
_________________________________
For fourteen mornings in a row,
I'd stood here with my two friends
and reread the words:
KEEP OUT !
SUBMERGED OBSTRUCTIONS !
EXTREME DANGER ! ,
wondering what exactly it meant.
An old Indian citrus-farmer,
whose land bordered the canal,
had once told my brothers and I
that the submerged obstructions
were in reference to underwater rake-spikes;
sharp, metal, vertical bars
mounted underneath the white water
at the base of the falls
that prevented logs
and other larger debris
that had managed to make its way
through the dam
and down the aerator slope
from continuing any further downstream
(potentially clogging up
the subsequent farming canals
and ditches).
BULLFUCKINGSHIT !!!!!!!!,
that old Red doesn't know shit,
proclaimed my stepbrother Joe,
an ex-marine,
my elder of two years.
No....I think he may be right,
protested Niles,
my other brother,
also two years older
and the brainiest of us three,
...I think I read something
...about something like that ..somewhere.
For the moment
I'd remained undecided on the subject,
but had later asked Pops about it.
He'd said that the underwater rakes
did exist on some dams and aerators,
but on which ones was impossible to tell,
unless the spillways were closed
and the water level low enough
to expose them.
But here at Oxygen Falls,
the water was kept flowing year round,
quenching the thirst
of the area's perpetually arid farmlands.
What do you guys think ?
I asked Zeus and Athena.
WWWWWOOOOOOFFFFFFFF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!,
howled Zeus.
AAAARRRRRRRPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!,
echoed Athena in feminine equivalent.
Zeus and Athena,
brother and sister Rhodesian Ridgebacks
agreed on everything.
I sometimes wondered
if they shared the same brain.
We walked back to the house
where April had been waiting for us.
She had some errands to do in town
and Pops couldn't be left alone
in his condition.
I'll see you in a couple of hours,ok ?
my stepmother said.
Ok...See you later, I said.
I pulled out an old atlas
from the living room bookshelf
and went up to Pop's room.
He was asleep so I began reading.
Are you to take the drop?
asked an unexpected voice.
It was my dad sleep talking.
What?! I asked.
Are you ready to take the drop?,
he repeated.
I wasn't exactly sure what he meant,
but even though he was unconscious
somehow knew that the question
had been directed at me.
Um...yeah...I guess so...what about you?
Yes, he whispered with a slight smile
as he drifted into a deeper sleep...
...a sleep he was never woke from.
He died in a peaceful way
which I suppose is better
than getting run over by a UPS truck
or catching a stray bullet
in a neighborhood drive-by,
but when it's your Pops,
shit like that is of little consolation.
It was about two a.m.
when the last of the neighbors,
the mortician with dad's body
and the rest of the weepers and mourners
(most of whom I'd never even met)
left.
I walked outside,
got into the family mini-van
and flew out onto the Beeline Highway.
My speed rarely dropping below ninety,
as I talked incessantly
to a silent, invisible father
riding in the passenger seat.
The towns sped by;
Fountain Hills, Apache Junction,
Hobokam, Superstition.
In and out of the Tonto Forest,
through Sunflower
and out past twenty or so
smaller settlements....
until there was nothing
but cactus and stars.
I stopped the van, got out,
laid on my back
across the yellow checkered dividing line
and looked directly up.
The biggest shooting star
I'd ever seen
radiated by overhead,
its trail glowing for a full ten-seconds.
It was one of those infrequent,
self-pitying moments
when I will question the purpose
of all existence;
The Earth, The Stars,
Love, Hate, Life, Death....
....it all seems like such
a cruel, heartless joke sometimes.
Exhausted and fatigued,
I arrived home midmorning.
Niles and Joe
had already arrived in Arizona
and were giving me shit
for staying out all night.
April's been worried
out of her fucking mind !!!,
I apologized,
instantly morphing
the vibe more positively.
Although we all lived
within an hour's drive of each other
in California,
we rarely hang out.
But that night we drank beers,
talked about Pops, the old days
back in the South Bay
and about all the trouble
we'd gotten ourselves into.
I was surprised to learn
for the first time that
(on different occasions)
Niles and Joe had both been arrested.
How I'd never found out
remains a mystery.
And my dad, not being one to rat,
had never mentioned anything about it
or the healthy sums of cash
he'd shelled out for their bail bonds.
However, I wasn't being as open
with my older brothers
as they were being with me.
And hoped Pops had been
as equally discreet
about my own personal fuck ups
and had never told them
of my little run in
with a particular young vixen from Lomita.
An incident far more regrettable
and less heroic than getting your ass thrown
in the slammer for a few hours.
__________________________________________
If it is at all possible for a funeral
to be a good thing, Pops' was.
The youngish priest, Father Paul,
had been a good friend
of my dad and April
and spoke to us with his eulogy, not at us.
His message was very personal,
almost completely avoiding
any corny, generic post-death sermonology.
He even played
a from-the-heart Bob Dylanish song
on the acoustic
which he'd written
when his own father had died.
Part of which was;
He was more than just a father,
a teacher, my best friend.
he showed me things
not known to kings
like how to fish
and make a wish
beside the Magic Sea...
...I miss him the old man
Toward the end of the service,
Father Paul had said something that stuck
into my head like a nail.
He'd spoken directly to Niles, Joe and I.
Your father,
being the man that he was,
would want you to go on
with your lives
...living them to the fullest.
On the ride back to Dad and April's crib,
that last part kept playing
and replaying in my head...
...living them to the fullest.
For me, in contrast to the urban hell
I'd inflicted upon myself four years before
(moving from the beach into Hollywood),
living life to the fullest
still meant getting in the ocean regularly,
something I'd been less
than successfully accomplishing lately.
Of my last several attempts;
On one, I'd borrowed
and broken-in-half
a friend's favorite board.
On another,
I contracted a hideous
bacteria-caused
ear infection.
And on my last try.........
at six a.m. speeding west
down the Santa Monica Freeway
(on my to surf what I later heard
was p e r f e c t five-foot Topanga),
I rear-ended a station-wagon
full of Guatemalan cleaning women
on the way to the Beverly Hills mansions
they were to immaculate.
Coincidence maybe,
regardless, I felt that
the almighty Poseidon
had put some kind
of restraining order
on my surfing rights.
I decided to lay low for a while
and had been surviving
strictly on a surf-mag fix.
_____________________________________
When we got back to the house
after the funeral,
I began frantically searching....
the hall closet,
then the garage,
then the tool shed.
And finally found IT
behind the Jacuzzi pump
next to the pool.
I unfolded the yellow, moldy plastic.
A round, inflatable swimming pool raft
about four-feet in diameter
resembling a giant hole less donut
complete with a circle
of bright pink nylon rope
secured around the top of it
(to use as leverage
in case you encountered
any dangerous oceanic conditions
in your chlorinated utopia).
Joe (stoned as usual) came outside.
And after several minutes
of amusedly watching me
trying to inflate the damn thing
with my own breath, offered...
I think there's a compressor
in the garage, bro.
And soon I was running,
(holding the inflated raft
clumsily on top of my head)......
across the cotton field,
through the lemon orchard,
into The Reservation,
along the bank of the canal.
AND up the the long hill
until I was in front
of the double security fences
at the upper backside
of monstrous cement structure.
I frisbeed the raft over the first fence,
climbed it,
then tossed it gently over the second,
(this time barely clearing
above the sharp barbs).
And seconds later,
I was standing above the rushing,
funneling channel of water
leading to the drop.
I prepared to make my jump,
then hesitated.
I set the raft down,
walked along the ridge of the canal
to the top of the falls
and took a long, last look
down to the the bubbling cauldron
of frothy water at the base....
only imagining what actually lay underneath.
In the far distance,
I saw Niles and Joe charging
up the river bank- yelling as they ran,
both armed with about
a mile of safety rope.
As they got closer,
I realized Niles was shouting something
about the rake-spikes
and the possibility of drowning
in the current.
YOU COULD DIE, ASSHOLE !!!!!!!!!!!,
He shouted, barely audible
above the rumble of water.
THAT'S OK.!!!, I yelled back ,
I DON'T GIVE A FUCK !!!
Frenzied, I ran back to the raft.
And grabbing it,
hurled myself the ten feet
off of the vertical embankment
and into the racing
thirty mile-an-hour current below.
Landing on the raft,
but losing hold of the rope
that circumferenced it,
I was violently swept downstream
spinning like a top.
Dizzy and panicked,
I had only one conscious thought,
going STRAIGHT down
as I went over the top…..
or I'd surely be discovering truth
about the rake-spikes headfirst.
At the last second,
I somehow managed to get it together.
Getting hold of the rope,
I was able to stop the spinning
and was able to lift up the nose
and went straight over.......
SHHHHHHHHITTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I shrieked, flying down
what would be comparable
to dropping in at
100-foot Waimea Bay
(on a giant vinyl apple-fritter).
While my stomach was making
an ambitious attempt of escaping
up through my throat……
FFFFFFUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
my velocity was multiplying all the way down…..
SHHHHHIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTT!!!!!!!!!!
Below me somewhere through the spray,
I caught a millisecond glimpse
of Niles and Joe near the base
looking like cowboys
preparing to rope cattle.
By the end of the drop,
I had accelerated to the point
that the raft was not
even really connecting
to the water's surface.
With the point of impact
rapidly approaching,
I strained to make a last effort
to get the front of the raft up
as high as possible and.....
SWWOOOOOSSSSHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Like a ski jump
I blasted right up and over the top
of the bubbling aquatic chaos,
air born for at least fifteen feet
(safely above the submerged spikes)
and then sent skipping another 50 feet
like a thin stone on a still puddle
into the calms of the canal.
Several long seconds later,
my heat began beating again,
my emotion confusingly somewhere
between laughing and crying.
I ignored the rope
Niles and Joe
eventually tossed my direction
and the drone of falling water
began dissipating behind me.
I spent the next several hours
slowly drifting westward
underneath the cobalt Arizona sky;
alongside of citrus farms,
and waving Indian children .
And by cookie-cutter,
suburban track-home neighborhoods,
thinking about......
…what life would be like without Pops.
___________________________________________
Several months later,
I went to visit April, Zeus and Athena.
When I drove over the tiny canal bridge,
signifying the neighborhood's entrance,
I couldn't see ANY water
flowing down the dirt trenches
into the citrus groves.
I immediately got the dogs
and headed up toward
the cotton field trail
leading to the river.
For the first time
since I'd been coming here
Oxygen Falls was under repair,
the spillways shut, the river bed dry.
There were no rake-spikes.
CARCAVELOS BROWNS
I’m deaf now.
Completely deaf.
Except for the sounds
of my jaws chomping
when I eat and the sound
of my bones creaking
when I walk.
And sometimes I hear
a disturbing jingle-jangle
of something metallic.
I’m not sure what…
the coins in my pocket ?
or the BB’s in my brain?
Earlier today,
I was almost hit by a car.
Same as yesterday.
And the day before.
I’ve changed my mind
about liking silent movies.
I hate them now.
I’d once asked a deaf woman,
what it was like
to live in a silent movie
her whole life.
She said she liked it,
you didn’t have to
listen to people’s bullshit.
I realized now, that I really enjoyed
listening to people’s bullshit.
My Shangri-la has betrayed me.
My Utopia is brown not green.
My first impression of paradise
was an illusion created by a photographer,
a journalist and a world famous surfer.
Green Beach is the Portuguese Pipeline !
the article had shouted at me
with text and photos.
That was just twelve years ago,
a first and lasting image;
big, perfect super-green tubes.
Those solitary impressions
marinating around in my brain all this time,
had recently led me to make one of the most
drastic changes in my entire life.
THE MOVE.
The trans-Atlantic move to a town near
those picture-perfect green barrels.
But when I finally arrived
to my dream beach,
I made a sickening discovery.
Although the waves were
just as big, perfect and hollow
as the article had bragged,
the water was dark brown
(not bright green)
and it smelled like shit.
Because it was shit-
mostly raw sewage,
but also;
mud, oil, detergents, plastics, etc…
all whipped together
by the frequent swells
into a kind of bacteria cocktail.
I vowed never to surf there.
Never.
Never to even look at the place.
Instead, I began surfing
the less dramatic and less polluted breaks
north of Carcavelos along the Estoril coast.
But the waves along this stretch
of reefs and coves were generally
inconsistent and powerless.
In the meantime,
the Carcavelos pounders
pounded on and on……
day after day,
moon after moon.
Although I was often tempted,
I never ventured there again
even for a look.
But I knew deep inside
that the powerful tunnels
would eventually
lure me to test my abilities.
Like most riders throughout history,
in my own mind,
I was the best surfer of ALL eternity.
But how many winters
of strength and speed did I have left ?
How many winters
of real waves did I have left?
Ten or fifteen at the most.
No doubt I’d probably
be surfing until the day I died,
but on fat, slow boards
on small, slow waves.
A grandpa with nothing but memories
and an occasional Sunday afternoon surf
on a board big and thick enough
to support a floating hotdog stand.
…And the young punks
(never imagining that they themselves
will someday will be older
than they are
at that moment in time)
will laugh and point
and tell their girlfriends what a kook I am.
Nobody will be there to defend me.
Nobody will be there
to tell the young punks about the day….
A sturdy sixteen year old kid nick-named Granite
was the only person ballsy enough
to surf Resort Point during very biggest swell
California’s famous winter of ’83
(The El Nino year)….
….Or about another day
later in the same winter,
the same kid continued surfing
his home break
even after he’d spotted
the dorsal of a Great White.
But the waves were good,
he had later told the lifeguard
(who’d also spotted the rare visiting shark)
and had pleaded his return to the beach
for more than an hour through his megaphone.
No…the young punks
wouldn’t know about any of that…
…they also wouldn’t know
about the day years later
when Granite had encountered the legendary,
Kalani Jones
in a Kawaii convenience store.
And had later been invited
to surf a private reef break,
a sacred Hawaiian secret
with one of the Kahunas himself.
Just two soul kings,
a half a mile from shore
(before the crowded days of jets skis).
Nobody to impress
but themselves and the gods.
No, the young punks
wouldn’t know about any of that…
not any of it.
One morning, I woke up
hours earlier than normal
with an itch,
a kind of nervous tingling
in my bones.
The rain had stopped,
the sun was shining,
the clothes pins
on the laundry line
outside of my window
were slapping the panes
(this only occurred during an east wind).
I knew what it all meant,
especially the nervousness
inside my bones.
It meant WAVES.
I don’t know why.
I don’t know how
(With no surf reports
in the area existing
at that time to
aid my delusion..).
But with almost
one hundred-percent accuracy,
as if spiritually linked
with the almighty Neptune,
this strange fearful confusion
I sometimes felt
meant that the day, THIS day,
would be one of the few
in three-hundred and sixty-five
that the ocean would rebel;
sink ships, destroy houses, claim lives.
Although I was about to head
straight to the station
to catch a twenty-five minute express train
out to the coast,
I took a cold shower
to regain consciousness,
brushed my teeth.
and put a new leash on Olga.
She was beautiful,
a thin, plain-white 7’10” thruster pin
shaped by Almir Salazar.
A bigger, sleek board
for bigger, hollow waves.
Although it was nearly six months old
I’d only ridden it a couple of times before
(basically just to try it out),
it still looked and smelled new.
The fiber-glass still crack free and un-dented.
The train raced
alongside of the Rio Tejo,
out toward sea
and before we had
even reached the estuary
I could already see
huge rows of whitewater
foaming up the mouth of the river.
The fort-island
was being bombarded
as was the super-tanker
that was attempting to maneuver itself
into the channel and up river.
East wind.
Sunshine.
Deep cobalt-blue sky.
Under other circumstances
It could’ve been an ideal day
for a picnic.
I got off the train at Carcavelos station,
bought a coffee and a chocolate milk
and walked a quarter of a mile
through a still-sleeping suburban neighborhood
until I reached the beach.
Big walls of dark brown water
marched methodically toward shore.
And one after another
they exploded on the shallow
outside sandbar.
The east wind whistled,
suspending their lips mid-air
forming completely round,
mud-colored tunnels,
often blasting clouds of mist
out their side doors.
Water color aside ,
It was an incredible sight.
Horrifying,
but absolutely perfect.
Took my time
getting into the water;
studied breaking patterns
and currents,
inched my wetsuit on,
combed my wax to perfection,
and finally waded waist-deep
into the churning browness.
I began paddling.
It smelled d i s g u s t i n g.
Pollution so severe that
the water-density itself was different.
Less like water, more like soup.
Cream of Hepatitis soup.
Soon I was making my way through
the foaming rows of muck,
(leftovers of waves that had already
expended themselves on the outside bank).
But the bubbles of foam weren’t
of the everyday pea and cherry-sized variety,
some were size of grapefruits
and didn’t immediately pop
after a wave had passed,
possessing all the unique durabilities
that result from the random mixing
of piss, shit, gasoline,
oil, detergents, river mud
AND diluted blood
from a neighborhood slaughterhouse
that frequently took advantage
of the rainy season
to dispose of by-product waste
directly into the sewer system.
It took me forty-five minutes
just to paddle beyond
the endless walls of foam
and into the impact zone
where waves twelve and even fifteen feet
on the face where mercilessly slamming
into the sandbar, just
five feet below the surface.
I felt nauseated,
not only from the pollution,
but from motion sickness.
The swells were rising and falling,
lifting and dropping me
every several seconds.
But none of the waves
seemed approachable,
out-of -control,
with no obvious take-off spots.
I’d been paddling and bobbing
around out there
about an hour and a half
before IT finally came.
It appeared slower than the others
because it was much larger.
Its rise was a steady one, not as jumpy.
By luck, I was in perfect position.
I simply turned around, paddled twice
and slid in.
But suddenly
like a sledge hammer cracking a skull,
the wave hit the shallowest part of the sandbar,
completely concaving from lip to trough
And there I was,
in position for the biggest, best,
shit-brown tube ride of my entire life.
Crouching into an iron-legged hell-stance,
it PITCHED…swallowing me whole
like an aspirin tablet.
Dark in there,
no natural light
coming through the back of the lip,
just smelly opaqueness.
I aimed at the only route of exit,
the small golden light
at the end of the Hershey Highway.
But as it grew closer,
thousands of big, toxic bubbles
came floating up the wave’s face and into my path,
and for a millisecond
my fins lost traction.
Recovered my balance,
but the slide had cost valuable distance
and I was now too deep
to leave the shit tunnel graciously
No choice but to go down with the ship.
The glimmer of illumination
at the end of the colon
flickered, then faded completely.
And in pitch-blackness,
I was hurdled directly
into the calderon
just to get sucked over with the lip
and then obliterated in the impact zone.
The full weight of the wave
compacting directly onto on me.
Eyes closed, I was tossed around and around and around,
upside down in the Devil’s soup bowl
repetitively getting bounced
off the hard-packed sand bank.
Finally I was released from the force,
But where was I ?
Somewhere suspended in the sludge.
Like an idiot, I opened my eyes.
Burning blackness.
Dizzy and panicked, I swam and swam
and swam into nothingness…
finally switched course forty-five degrees,
and banged my head on the bottom
(I’d been swimming horizontally).
Pushing off with my legs,
I instantly surfaced thru
an eighteen-inch thick layer
of freshly blended
sewage-smoothie bubbles.
Gasping for a solid breath of air
I chocked on one and immediately vomited.
Defeated, and exhausted,
I swam for shore.
Olga was long gone,
already waiting for me
on the beach like a loyal dog
amongst a pile
of river garbage and tree branches.
But, except for the broken leash,
no damage done.
I walked up the beach and across the highway
to one of those quiet suburban houses,
turned on a garden hose
and rinsed off the shit and slime.
Changed back into my street clothes,
walked back to the station
and caught the train back to Lisbon,
got off at the last stop
and walked up the hill
toward Bairro Alto;
past bakeries, flower shops, shoe-shiners,
sailors, winos, dusty old hookers, drug dealers,
past the post office at Praca de Camoes.
Past the Brazilian Consulate,
up Rua da Atalaia and into my front door.
Two days later my ears began to hurt.
Two days after that I was deaf.
Stone deaf.
The star of my own silent movie.
_________________________________________
Ps:
It was three-months
and two surgeries later when
(less than half of)
my hearing was finally restored.
An already advanced
case of Exostosis combined
with severe double ear infections,
left one of my eardrums
rotten beyond repair,
described by my surgeon,
as fragile as a burnt curtain.
I eventually re-operated with one of the best
specialists in the US…and even he couldn’t
do much for me.
This was 1993,
and only two years later,
with newly received funds
from the European Union
the municipality of Caiscais County
did a MAJOR upgrade
on the sewer system
on this part of the coast.
It ain’t perfect,
but it’s a massive improvement.
The days of this kind of pollution
are long gone ..hopefully for good.
But the young punks
won’t know about any of this.
They’ll think Carcavelos
was always just the way it is now.
And on warm winter Sundays…
(never imagining that
they’ll ever grow a day older
than they are at that moment) …
…they’ll laugh
and tell their girlfriends
to check out
the kook with
the big thick board and
the waterproof hearing aid.
ZÉ DOS CÃES (Jose of the Dogs)
There were five people
sardined into the cab
of Duda’s pick up truck,
the back stuffed to the limit
with all sorts of shit;
sleeping bags, clothes,
a mountain bike, six surfboards
and wetsuits.
I was ecstatic just to be
on my way
out of Lisbon for a while.
Our destination, Sagres,
the southernmost corner
of continental Europe.
In the summer, a playground
for pink northern-Europeans
who flock to the Algarve
to take advantage of the
low prices and sunshine.
But in the winter, desolation,
rural beaches
and big, perfect waves.
Six hours later,
we arrived at
an old stone house
we’d arranged to rent.
Our arrival in town
was soon spread
to the local surfers
(all six of them),
Who dropped by
to give us an account
of the day’s waves.
Ze dos Caes, the leader
of the Algarve underground,
shows up with a Brick of hash
the size of a man’s wallet.
He cuts a piece off
and starts mixing it up
with the tobacco
of a Gudang-Gurang
clove cigarette.
We smoke and talk for a while.
Ze informs us that a swell
just arrived
and that he’d be by
tomorrow at a reasonable hour.
The next morning during predawn,
BAM ! BAM ! BAM!
On the window.
It’s Ze screaming,
Come on Pappas
it’s twelve to fifteen feet
with east wind..COME ON !!!
Nobody else even stirred
from their comas,
but after six hours
of attempting to sleep on
a ridiculously cold stone floor,
I needed something….
a coffee, a beer or some food.
We stopped at
an early morning
fisherman’s snack bar
for a juice and sandwich.
Afterward, I go to take a piss
and as I’m coming
out of the bathroom,
Ze says,
Let’s go…I already paid for you.
But as we’re getting into the car,
The owner of the snack bar
comes running out and says,
You forgot to pay AGAIN, Ze.
Maybe later,
Says Ze,
jamming the car
into first gear and screeching off.
SMACK ! BANG ! CRACK !
A hundred kilometers-an-hour
down a muddy dirt road
with puddles
you could drown in
and rocks the size of basketballs.
SMACK ! BANG ! CRASH !
We nail one of the them head on.
Ze gets out to inspect the damage.
The bumper and grill are Fucked,
mangled beyond repair.
He gives it a shrug.
Gets back in the car.
Throws it into reverse,
Does three full circles going backwards.
The jams it back into first.
And we fly and bounce
another ten or so kilometers
Down a road that ain’t no road..
Sliding to a hundred
and eighty degree stop
about a meter and a half
from a two-hundred meter vertical cliff.
We’d come upon
a panoramic view
of three surfing breaks.
Ze wasn’t bullshitting about the waves,
it was definitely
in the two-meter PLUS category
a not a soul around.
We wasted no time
negotiating our way down
an even worse road
eventually leading
to the beach below.
It was well past dawn,
but the
high cliffs were still casting
about a kilometer into the ocean.
Freezing,
we struggled into our wetsuits
and paddled out.
I was soon to discover
the answer to my previous night’s question.
Can this big, clumsy, gangly,
goofy, hash-toting
Algarvian even surf?
Ze caught the first wave
of the day,
a mean monster
nearly three times his height.
He took off
so dangerously close
to the rocks designating
the beginning of
this ridiculously long left,
that the bottom of the wave
wasn’t even water,
just a pile of boulders.
Then in a section where
most people would try
to outrun the wave
to the safety of the shoulder,
he cuts back
even deeper into the pit
and redirects himself
into a kitchen-sized barrel.
He gets absorbed by the big foam
Ball chasing him down the tunnel
Disappearing from my view entirely,
although I’m looking straight
into the tube from the channel.
The wave spits,
Ze comes flying out of the tube
not from the bottom
of the trough
where I was half expecting him to,
but up at the top of the concave
and is already skating
over the backside
of the huge green tube.
He lands it,
blasting through the turbulence
only slightly off balance.
To this day the most insane floaters
I ever witnessed (including films and video).
At this point
his wave passes me by
and I’ve got a four meter-set
staring at me right in the face….
(and) I can already see the top
of wave behind it
Getting frothy
and beginning to break.
The only way I can avoid
a serious amount of
violent punishment
is by taking the first one
and escape out of the impact zone.
I whip my board around
(a brand new 7’2”
perfect for conditions like these)
and start paddling
like a motherfucker for shore.
The swell lifts me up
into the sky
higher and higher.
I already on my feet
looking straight down
the huge face
squinting into the offshore wind,
I see Ze finishing his ride,
the beach the cliffs.
But at that instant,
the sun (revealed by the wave
lifting me so high)
comes blazing over the edge
of the cliff and directly
into my eyes.
I’m completely blinded
and floating through the air
with my feet still on my board.
Floating down, down.
The second I landed
in the trough,
that mother of a lip
landed on my head,
a no-mercy pounding
that kept me in
the washing machine
for fifteen-seconds or more.
Luckily, I was able to come up
for one gulp of air
before the second wave hit me…
which was powerful enough
to drag me most of the way
to the shoreline,
where I was assaulted by
two-meter high beach-ponders.
Exhausted, I made it to the beach,
my heart about to poke
a hole through my wetsuit.
On the outside,
Ze catches the first wave
of the next set.
Carves a deep bottom-turn ,
drives straight up the face,
bashes the lip vertically,
landing it weightlessly
just in time to get swallowed
by another huge tube.
After a few seconds
he comes out on
a gravy-train speed run
all the way to the beach.
He gets out.
Nice wave Pappas, he says mockingly.
A couple of hours later,
after a second session,
and unwelcome change
in wind direction,
we’re flying through
the pastures again.
Climbing a small blind hill,
we are road blocked
on the opposite by
a herd of two-hundred
grazing cattle.
They don’t move an inch.
But Ze just blares the horn
and speeds up even faster
weaving a maze
through the black,
brown and white monsters
almost killing us.
We clipped the horn
of one of the bulls,
leaving a new dent on
the already damaged right fender.
And continued
through the remainder
of the herd
Past the shepherd dogs,
past two stone farmhouses and
a hundred-and -forty-kilometers–per-hour
down the straight stretch
of slightly better road.
that led to
the Cabo St. Vincente lighthouse.
A small white car
is approaching us at
equally as fast,
but there is room
for passing on either side
and I’m sure Ze
has some kind of death wish.
Surprisingly at
the last possible safe moment
he abruptly slows it down
coming to a complete halt
and gets out to talk to the driver
of the other car.
After a few exchanged words
and a bro-shake
we’re following the white car
back in the direction of Sagres.
Who is that ? I asked Ze.
Joao Antunes, the best surfer in Portugal.
Oh yeah, yesterday,
you told me YOU were the best in Portugal.
I meant he’s the best BESIDES me…
anyway, he told me that Z-Point
is about two meters and glassy right now.
With an evil smile
plastered across his mug,
Ze cranks up the volume
on a Bad-brains cassette
and in about ten minutes
we’re at Z-Point looking
at some of
the most flawless waves
I’d ever seen.
A right semi-point
with Big, hollow but short,
green mothers
not far off shore- shore
four-meters on the face
with tubes seemingly big enough
to drive a Renault Clio through.
Antunes was already
in the water and
the only person out
and nobody was
on the beach yet.
The three of us
surfed alone for hours.
Wave after wave after wave,
tube after tube after tube.
Joao surfing with radical precision.
Ze surfing with reckless abandoned.
And me just surfing for survival.
Five dogs howled from the beach
as Ze took off on
the biggest wave of the day.
The wave was absolutely unmakeable;
an ugly, mutated, close-out.
But Ze , seemingly encouraged
by the cries of the pack of dogs,
hurriedly scratched his way in from the top,
free-falling down
the past-vertical face,
barely managing
to carve a big fat bottom turn
before getting obliterated by the lip.
Half of his board
washed up on the rocks
and was immediately retrieved by
The largest of the dogs,
a dirty-looking German Shepherd..
Ze had collected them over the years.
All strays that nobody cared about.
Ze was the only person who ever fed them.
They just sit on the beach and wait for him to come out of the water, Antunes told me.
By the time we get back up to the cars,
Ze was already engaged in
rolling a big, fat hash joint
and listening to the Doors
with his dog friends. He says to me;
Hey man, You’re from Los Angeles.
Do you know Jim Morrison?
Morrison’s from Los Angeles
He’s from New Mexico..
don’t you go to the movies ?...
…besides, he’s dead. Isn’t he?
The next several days,
were repeats of the first
with smaller waves
and a few other variations.
Ze came by every morning before dawn
( I was the only person
he could find to get up this early
on frigid mornings like these.
Like myself, he was an extremist,
but in a more destructive way.
BAM ! BAM! BAM !
Ze pounded on the window
at six am for our morning surf.
But it wasn’t six, it was eleven.
And it wasn’t Ze, it was Antunes.
How are the waves ? I asked.
HUGE, he says somberly,
Come on…I need to show you something.
We drove to Cabo St. Vincente.
Where there was a police car parked,
and nearby a cop and
several fisherman looking
over the cliff at what was left of
Ze’s dark blue, sixteen-valve
Volkswagen GTI
laying face down on the rocks.
The swell
had risen enormously overnight
and was now nearly six meters.
With the rising tide,
the mountains of water
soon began smashing directly
into the cliff itself,
completely submerging the car
and sending plumes of spray
almost to the top of the cliff.
Absolutely nothing could be done
until low tide when the wreckage
could be safely inspected.
The cop and the fishermen all split
returning back to their daily tasks.
THAT STUPID FUCKER !!!!,
I screamed to Joao,
ALWAYS DRIVING LIKE AN IDIOT
AND SHOWING OFF !!!!
You think this was an accident ?
he asked incrediously.
What do you mean ??
Look at all these tire tracks…
most of the old ones
are from Ze
when he driving stupid,
doing those
hundred-and-eighty degree slides
up to the edge of the cliff
he liked to do.
But look at these freshest tracks,
They go STRAIGHT of the cliff…
..SUICIDE ??? I said,
I don’t know about all that…
I think it was more
of a case that he drove
exactly the way he surfed.
Never thought things through.
Whether or not
he’d make it
from point A to B
or the consequences
if he didn’t.
Six hours later,
half of Vila of Bispo and Sagres
came back with the town cop
to see the wreckage
of the infamous Ze dos Caes,
but no car was to be seen.
The enormous swells
had washed the car
completely of the rocks
and back into
the abysmally deep water.
Here in this rural of an area,
no government official
was about to OKAY funding
for proper underwater equipment
to investigate
the suicide
of a delinquent
drug-addict.
After the funeral
we all stuck around
a few days
holding our own private service
at Z-Point….Ze’s domain.
Everybody who
considered Ze a friend
(and many people
who considered him a menace)
attended.
We smoked hash-joints
until sunset,
And watch Z-Point at its best,
as endless, unridden waves
peeled off the rocks
and seventy-five yards to the beach.
I’d known Ze
only a very short time,
but had felt in some way
he’d been like
a long lost brother of mine.
I wondered where Ze’s dogs
were at a time like this.
PALM TREE REEF
(portugal-winter ’97-’98)
First time in ten years
that I've lived within
walking distance of the beach.
And not just any beach, CARCAVELOS.
In the summer,
a beautiful, but crowded destination
for working-class Portuguese beachgoers.
The sand is clean and the
surface of the water lake-like.
But in the winter,
the wide belt of golden sand
almost entirely disappears
and is replaced by sea and river trash;
(Oil barrels, logs, hypodermic needles,
plastic tampon applicators,
dead fish and birds,
and the occasional dead dog or dead cow)
that get washed up
with an almost endless
succession of storms.
But more importantly
aside from the unwanted
addition of trash,
these storms
also bring with them
powerful well-shaped waves.
Carcavelos is one
of the best beachbreaks
in Europe.
No, it's not paradise,
but it used to be alot worse
when I first arrived here five years ago.
At that time,
it was polluted not only with junk,
but also raw sewage.
The authorities
have since rerouted
the sewage
(to ease strains on the tourism trade)
to a less accessible part of the coast
so now it's mostly the trash,
junk and dead animals
you've got to deal with.
Like I said, it's not Eden by the Sea,
but it sure as fuck beats
not surfing at all.
To maintain
my own personal equilibrium,
I need both
stimulating urban culture
and close access to rideable surf.
And THIS is as good
as a combination
as I'm likely going to find
anywhere in the world.
I'm a twenty-five minute train away
from the center of Lisbon.
I'm a fifteen-minute train ride from
the record company
(Valentim de Carvalho in Paco de Arcos).
And best of all,
a ten-minute walk
from Carcavelos.
I've even got an ocean view.
I can't actually see the waves
breaking from my window,
there is a small pine forest
(eagerly awaiting to become
apartment complexes)
blocking my vision,
but I can see the swell lines
on the bigger days.
Ritualistically,
I get up around dawn,
spark up some coffee and exit
(with blue ceramic mug in hand).
Elevator from the fifth floor
to the ground level,
cross the corner of the parking lot,
through a tiny park,
across a small road,
through the fields
between the Sao Goncalo Estate
and the N.A.T.O. building,
(this time of year the fields
are covered with a zillion
yellow sour flowers)
and across the coast highway
to see if Atlantida is in a good mood or not.
In Portuguese,
the word OCEAN is masculine,
but I know better than that,
She is PURE female,
a temperamental sugar-bitch.
I love her. I hate her.
She loves and hates me too.
She never lets me get too satisfied.
So I've got choice but to return daily.
Usually a thirty-second check
is all I need
to know if I'm going to ride
or not.
If it's on
I'll walk home,
suit up, wax up
and walk back to the beach.
If it’s no good,
I'll stay in and continue
to pretend being an artist
(like I've been pretending
for a long, long while now):
paint, sculpt, scribe...whatever.
Yesterday was too small to surf
and today was windy and rainy,
so I skipped the morning check altogether
and got to work on some new songs.
But at my big window,
(with pen in one hand
and microphone in the other),
a movement on the distant horizon
caught my attention:
A five-meter peak rolling off
some forgotten sandbank about
a couple of kilometers
out to sea above the tree tops. SHIT!
I get down there to take a look.
It's HUGE, out of control.
Windy and beginning to rain again.
Out of the question.
I stand there a good thirty minutes,
just feeling the ocean's anger,
then walk back on the muddy red trail
through the sour-flower covered fields
back home to the EMBRYO,
my laboratory of illusion.
I have a good day with the pen and mic
and hours disappear,
(a kind of cerebral holiday).
And about five in the afternoon,
I finally complete a rough draft
of a new idea.
For the first time since noon,
I take a good long look
out the window.
The rain had stopped.
The wind had stopped.
The sun shone through
a crack in the black storm clouds
and I had the urge, desire, whatever
to say goodbye, good afternoon, good night
to that bitch, that babe,
my lover, my sister, my mother
my friend, my enemy
my life, my death,
my gain, my loss,
my focus, my distraction,
my sport, my art,
The Ocean.
Back through the mud
with headphones on my dome
(lately, I'm more addicted
to sound than ever before.
If I'm not creating it,
I'm listening to it...CONSTANTLY).
I arrive at my usual check-out spot,
just over the small hill
looking across Marginal .
It's still huge,
but the texture of the surface
is now mirror-like glass.
The swell has somehow organized itself
during the last several hours
and perfect double AND
EVEN TRIPLE overhead rights
are dumping (absolutely SLAMMING!)
on what I call "Palm Tree Reef"
then reeling off into
a deep water channel.
Actually, Palm Tree Reef
is not a reef at all,
but a very sturdy sandbar
that never seems to relocate.
And there are no palm trees
on the beach either,
the palm trees are paintings.
The flat cement seawall protecting
the Marginal Highway (from swells like these)
is covered with
giant block-letter graffiti murals,
mostly from the same crew of artists
and all similar in style and color.
From the water looking back to land,
all the murals bleed together into an enormous
strip of intricately patterned wallpaper
stretching from one end
of the 2km long beach to the other.
And is only interrupted by two,
three-meter high brush-painted palm trees
about three quarters of the way
south of the beach’s center.
Easily visible from three-hundred meters
out in the ocean.
And Palm Tree Reef,
is located directly in front of them.
On days with excessive current,
it's useful to use the palms as a line-up marker
to make sure you'll be over the sandbar
and in position for the sets when they arrive.
Running back to the Embryo,
I slip in an oily-slick mud puddle
and land on my ass,
(drowning my two-week old Discman).
But seventeen-minutes later,
wet-suited,
with a freshly waxed 7'2"under my arm,
I'm back at the water's edge.
I'm anxious and ready to go,
but also weak and tired
from forgetting to eat all day
and downing cup after cup of black coffee.
But fuck it,
I'M OUT THERE.
The first wall of whitewater
rolls over me blasting about twenty liters
of icy Atlantic through my wetsuit
and pushing me back almost all the way
to the beach.
I make a little progress,
then another descends upon me.
Then again and again.
For every five meters of progress,
three meters were automatically deducted
with every coming wave..
ONE wave, TWO waves, THREE waves,
FOUR, FIVE waves,
coming in at about fifteen-second intervals.
But instead of coming in sets like most days,
(with lulls in between),
today they were marching in
one after another.
FIFTEEN.SIXTEEN.SEVENTEEN.
I began calculating the time
using the wave intervals.
EIGHTEEN. NINETEEN. TWENTY waves
(about five minutes, I thought).
Some waves were significantly bigger
than others and dragged me even father back.
And even though my arms
were beginning to feel like pudding,
I persisted.
THIRTY-ONE. THIRTY-TWO.
THIRTY-THREE. THIRTY-FOUR.
Number THIRTY-FIVE was lighter
than those preceding it
and I made double time.
THIRTY-SIX, FORTY-ONE, FORTY-SEVEN.
SIXTY-THREE was a nasty mother
that ripped the board out of my hands
and pushed me three meters
below the surface.
SEVENTY-NINE.
NINETY-FOUR.
ONE-HUNDRED!
One-hundred waves,
about twenty-five minutes I calculated.
My arms completely Jello
at this point,
but not about to quit.
ONE-HUNDRED TEN.
NOW GOING THROUGH THE IMPACT ZONE,
seemed like there was
more time between waves,
but when they landed they EXPLODED.
I lost my board several more times.
Exhausted as I was,
I became concerned for my own safety,
(glad I'd used the heavy-duty leash).
ONE-HUNDRED SEVENTEEN.
I ascended and descended the monster
without taking any water on the head.
Free at last
(sitting two-hundred meters off the beach).
The sun had already gone down
and most of the cars on Marginal
had already begun using their headlights.
I can barely make out the palms on the seawall,
but I can see that I'm about fifty meters
off my mark to the south,
so I start paddling up to the reef.
While I'm still in the safety of deeper water,
a bigger than usual group of waves appears,
stands up to attention,
then on after another
(like missles dropping out of a plane)
the payloads DETONATED onto the sandbar,
transforming millions of liters of water
into contorting black dinosaurs.
Then silence........
There was a long enough lull
to allow me to get situated just right.
But minutes later,
the black walls appeared again,
(the first one beginning
to break much farther out
than I'd predicted).
I scratched for the horizon
barely making it over
and saw the second wave,
slightly smaller,
but still
easily five-meters on the face.
She came right to me.
What could I do?
I RODE.
It was TOO easy.
The drop effortless.
And the water so smooth
my board cut the surface
like a surgeon's scalpel.
There was no tube on this one
but the wall was near-vertical
for the next 70 meters
eventually backing off in the channel,
where it reformed
into a long left across the inside.
This inside section alone
would've been a memorable
wave for me on any other given day.
I didn't offer much of a challenge
to my liquid sister,
just cruised,
letting her to do most of the work.
She took me all the way in.
I stepped off my board directly onto the sand
between an old tire and a dead seagull.
I walked up the seawall stairs
and up into the parking lot.
There were several people
in and outside of their cars
mostly upper middle-classers (betinos).
A couple of them nodded to me,
some smiled and others stared.
I nodded, smiled and stared back accordingly.
Had I met them before?
Were they in awe of my stupidity
(to be only the person
dumb enough to be in the water
on a night like tonight)?.
Had they been watching me
get the shit kicked out of me
by a hundred and seventeen waves
before being rewarded the payback?
Had they been watching too much TV
and seen one of my videos?
I'll never know.
But what I do know,
is that this afternoon was a gift
and mine alone,
a reminder to stick it out.
It's sometimes worth it to take
a hundred and seventeen failures on the head
for a few precious seconds of happiness
and accomplishment.
I crossed Marginal at the street light,
then back through the fields,
across the small road,
and tiny park.
and across
The complex's parking lot.
I tracked mud
through the building's entry way
to the elevator.
But the elevator was broken,
so I tracked mud all the way up
five-flights of stairs too.
(leaving at all of my beloved neighbors’
doorsteps a subtle reminder,
that I was among the living,
a survivor).
Scalding hot shower,
(even washed the mop that I call hair).
I Dressed.
Then split back out the door
to the station
and trained to town.
She met me at the station in Lisbon.
We ate at a restaurant in Cais do Sodre
amongst the druggies and whores.
We'd planned on going to a party
up at Soul Factory after dinner,
but by the time we'd eaten dessert
and had coffees
at Espaco Agora Student Center,
It was already two a.m.
Time passed quickly with her.
"Let's go", she said,
assuming I'd be sleeping over at her place
(I usually did on Sundays,
Monday being her only day off work).
"Can't....I gotta go".
I can see from her face
that she immediately
assumes the worst (another girl).
"I'm gonna surf early", I say,
"It's going to be EPIC".
She understands,
she SAYS, with a forced smile on her face
and walks me back to the station
before taking a cab to her crib.
When I get home,
I make the necessary preparations,
(get all of my shit together
for the dawn patrol):
wetsuit ready,
board waxed,
leash attached,
earplugs and dry towel on standby.
At seven a.m.
no need to check it,
(skip coffee too).
I'm out of the house trotting through the mud.
The wind is light offshore,
the sun is glimmering,
the tide (I know from looking at the chart)
is medium-low coming to high around ten a.m.
Gonna be classic.
My heart is pounding.
Fuck, I hope it didn't get any bigger.
But as I reach the hill I don't see any waves.
Great, (I think naively), there are lulls.
At least it'll be easier to paddle out today.
I wait for the green light
to cross Marginal
and into the parking lot.
I stand there for a few minutes
to survey the best peaks,
but none arrive
and No One is in the water.
But this time,
not to avoid danger,
but because it's dead calm.
LAKE FLAT.
"At least it's a beautiful day"
I say out loud
trying to reassure myself.
THE *%$#%$ ing Bitch !! !
Morocco is:
Morocco is:
The land of endless
right point breaks
Morocco is:
Blue skies, sunshine,
emerald green water,
cactus, palms, rocks, dust,
sand and wild flowers,
golden dawns and
psychedelic sunsets.
Morocco is:
Mint tea with two cubes
of raw sugar
and fresh bread,
bananas, figs and dates.
Morocco is:
Roadside fairs selling
every—thing from fly-covered
lamb carcasses
to Djalabas (the local attire)
and underwear.
Morocco is:
Vast Farmland being tilled
by camel-drawn plows.
Morocco is:
Hearing the ceremonial
Muslim prayers
five times a day
from a loud speaker
of the village mosque.
Morocco is:
Getting sunburned during the day
and getting the chills at night.
Morocco is:
Anxiously awaiting your first plate
of couscous in three years
and having the rest of
your traveling companions
craving burgers
at the new McDonalds’ in Agadir.
Morocco is:
A land without alcohol.
Morocco is:
Bathrooms without toilets.
Morocco is:
Goats that climb trees
and goats that eat garbage
who the get eaten by the people
who feed them the garbage.
Morocco is:
Being religiously careful
to avoid all tap water
and any questionable food;
getting sick anyway,
almost dying and missing
the best waves of the trip.
Morocco is:
Being on the beach of Tagazout
at night while the fishermen
are bringing in a huge haul
of squid
and seeing thousands
of shimmering eyes
still glowing phosphorescently
with life.
Morocco is:
Thinking your clever
for negotiating
the price of a two-pound,
raw turquoise necklace
from eighty dollars down
to fifty dollars
plus three used T-shirts
just to discover your friend
has just bought
an identical necklace
for only two T-shirts and no money.
Morocco is:
Where old shoes,
T-shirts and towels
are worth more than
you could’ve ever imagined.
Morocco is:
Getting hassled by the cops
so frequently you learn
just the right lies
to tell them to avoid problems.
Morocco is:
Getting rocks thrown at you
by angry Safi locals.
Morocco is:
Arriving at a small village,
on the way to the mountains,
and having forty
eager school children
run up to your van –
all with outstretched hands
saying, One Dirim?.
Instead of money,
you hand a couple
of T-shirts into the crowd
almost causing riot,
as they fight over property rights.
Morocco is:
The land of beautiful women
you will never get
a chance to speak to.
Morocco Is:
The native melancholy expression.
Morocco is:
Making friends with the villagers
and getting invited
to a barbeque cave party.
Morocco is: Waiting two hours to use the village’s only phone.
Morocco is:
The land of irregular angles
and glassless windows.
Morocco is:
The inner city labyrinths of Marrakesh.
Morocco is:
Out of the way rock shops
selling giant prehistoric
sea snail fossils
as big around as truck tires.
Morocco is:
Going inland on a small day
and discovering an oasis valley.
Morocco is:
Being on a snow-capped
Atlas peak and looking
down across the desert
all the way to the Atlantic.
Looking down to our feet
in the snow and seeing
thousands of bring red lady bugs
pepper-spotting the area,
freshly brought in
with the dry smelling Sahara winds.
Morocco is:
the land of
endless right point breaks.
ADVENTURES IN ADVERTISING
Part 1: Accidental Purists
Day 1:
It’s bizarre how time
can compress or expand,
depending on circumstances.
A mere micro-second
in the barrel can feel like a minutes.
Waiting for a delayed plane
can feel like weeks.
And for an unlikelycrew
of 29 individuals (ages 15-50),
traveling to mainland Mexico
to shoot the 2003 OP ad campaign,
a week was seemingly transformed
into several months.
For the first couple days,
it was just the seven of us,
a skeleton crew of photographers,
cameramen, art director,
and marketing folk
with the intention
of scouting locations,
and hopefully, surf.
But we’d missed the swell.
Wrong angle...
Wrong tides...
Wrong wind… Wrong coast...
Left as dismal substitutes
were 18-inch
marshmallow crumblers,
staggering drunkenly
across an exacto blade,
lava shelf completely
encrusted with thousands
of baby sea urchins.
And the water was too damn hot,
offering 0% refreshment
from the tropical madness.
Anyone over 95-pounds
was shit out of luck wave-wise,
but the chocolate-skinned
village groms
utilized the impotent dribblers
as a skate park,
each of them with repertoires,
including airs and reverses
(style hopefully will come in time).
One thing was for sure,
this was their break.
Age, ability, and size
were not taken into consideration,
of whom, they rode in front
and behind of.
They snaked all of us
and each other,
over and over again.
No pecking order
of any kind existed,
but up on the beach it
was all bro-shakes and smiles.
We had arrived
just six hours earlier.
An hour and a half, of which,
had been spent trying
to clear100 clothing samples
through customs
(finally achieved with cash bribes,
sweet talking and a couple of pairs
of corduroy walk shorts).
Another two hours
had been burned
digging our rented van
out of bottomless pothole.
And the remaining time
we’d been tap-dancing over urchins.
The trip already seemed doomed.
But at dusk, walking
up the hill to
our luxurious borrowed palace,
the methodical blink
of fireflies
began flickering like
a glimmer of hope
through thick vegetation
on both sides of the path.
I love those little flappers,
someone said,
Yeah,e too. We used to crush‘em
and rub the glow powder all over our faces.......
Yeah...I remember the time..........
Day 2:
More location scouting:
a deep jungle trail boogie,
climaxing with
a wade through a putrid,
mosquito-larvae infested mud pond.
The rewards?
A clean white sand beach
and 2-4 foot glassy but gutless rollers.
Enough scouting -- we surfed.
Once again,
local kids were
on everything in sight.
I wondered if they even realized
that by taking turns
they’d have even more fun.
I was stoked to see,
the campaign’s lead shooter, Colin Finlay,
(who I’d known only by photographic rep
and had no idea was even a surfer),
catch one of the better waves
and milk it to the sand.
New arrivals began trickling in
later that afternoon.
Our final group equivalent
the size of an independent
feature film crew:
7 pro surfers
(an injured Tim Curran among them),
2 swimsuit models
(one of whom, Ana Paula Limez,
wanted to surf just as much
as the contract riders),
2 makeup artists,
2 clothing stylists,
1 designer,
3 photographers,
2 cameramen,
1 art director,
1 V.P. of marketing,
2 marketing coordinators,
2 cooks and our host family,
the Taylors.
In the morning,
our two Californian chefs
drove an hour
out of their way to
the Sam’s Club in Vallarta
to buy 60 pounds of frozen fish.
FROZEN FISH???
Here we were,
located at the goddamn
fisherman’s Bay of Plenty,
and the mofos are driving
to buy fish imported from Chile.
The next few days
could technically
be considered work,
but with cool people
in a beautiful setting,
the atmosphere was not exactly stressful:
shooting film, taking photos,
getting sun burnt,
avoiding giant flying ants,
sweeping scorpions out of our rooms,
scooping beatles
the size of potatoes
out of the pool,
drinking Pacificos
and attempting to find waves.
You tend to talk a lot
on a trip like this,
plenty of down-time,
transport time
and time to hear
people’s own versions
of their own life stories,
(not just what you
have learned through
the grapeweed
or read in surf magazines).
Among us were:
celebrated pros,
big wave hell raisers,
glowing hot upstarts,
underground film makers,
an award winning photojournalist,
and two voluptuous sex symbols.
But considering the talent roster,
egos were at an all time low.
Barriers were broken.
Groms and veterans
had the same rank and file
(and equal opportunity
to ride shotgun
on wave checks).
Lately it seemed,
I ‘d been surrounded day to day
with people who just “talk stuff”,
their whole lives devoted
to the pursuit of material subsidies.
That shit gets old after a while,
downright boring.
But people here
were having real conversions
about real things;
waves, travel, music
and relationships.
(What else is there?).
This was group therapy.
The Breakfast Club,
estilo Juevos Rancheros.
Five days (or was it months)
into this sojourn,
a distant tropical depression
(that we’d barely
been paying attention
to by weather reports)
was now a Category 3 hurricane
a couple of hundred miles
off somewhere.
Enough to send
our pink-bellied cooks
scrambling to the airport
to get the hell out of Dodge.
With empty stomachs,
the rest of us took it all in stride.
But by the next morning,
the system was
now being reported
as a Category 5
and predicted to hit land
in the exact vicinity of
our low-lying adopted village,
Sayulita.
Although not yet
an official evacuation,
it was strongly advised
that we relocate an hour south
to Puerto Vallarta
into the protection
of Bahia de Banderas.
Facing northwest
and protected by high headlands
to the south,
hurricanes had never
entertered the sheltered bay.
Departure was set for eight pm.
With a little light left,
a few of us
snuck down the hill
for a few softies
in front of the village
(the water still too warm, s
till nicking our feet
on the rocks and urchins, a
nd the lineup still infested
with neighborhood kids
demolishing every ripple in sight).
The hurricane warning
had to be a hoax,
the swell had actually decreased.
Sean Taylor’s birthday tonight:
we ate soggy grilled lobsters
and cake and sang
happy birthday
before stockpiling
into four vans.
Most of us had arrived
on separate planes
in phases as strangers,
but we were leaving
as a single tribe
of brothers and sisters.
The southward journey
was a smooth one,
moonlit tropical perfection.
The kind of night made for driving,
we could have kept
going all the way to Guadalajara......
and we should have.
Most of the hotels
were completely booked,
but we eventually ended up
in the Sheraton’s
rock-star marble lobby,
cramming into elevators
en route to our assigned rooms.
Some people crashed early,
but true insomniacs
migrated to the halls.
It was, after all,
Sean’s 18th birthday (
and Holly Beck’s 22nd
was just a couple of days away).
AND we had escaped the storm!
This justified celebration.
Taxis to old town Vallarta,
like a mass of tourists
arriving by cruise boat,
we completely overran
one of the nearly empty
ocean front bars,
(the staff ecstatic at our arrival).
On the ride down,
I’d overheard Sean
ask volumptous model Sarah Stage
what she was giving him
for his birthday.
What do you want?, she asked.
A lap dance, he said.
“Ok”, she responds. “
I’ll buy you one
as soon as we get to town.”
But in the end,
Sarah had her way.
It was Sean
who ended up
giving her the dance
(women rule the universe).
The metallic sounding techno
didn’t vibe well with our crew,
and some people
segregated straight off
to the pool table,
but Jamo Pibram went upstairs
and threatened the DJ,
ensuring bass-heavy,
bumping hip hop joints
for the remainder of the evening.
Two For One drink specials
were rampant,
meaning they just diluted them
twice as much
(but all of us at least grooving
on a psychological buzz).
Pretty OP marketing coordinator,
Nikki Larsen had to fight off
several locals that
were hovering about
trying to stick to her like glue....
(she’d received two separate
marriage proposals
by the end of the evening).
And people
you wouldn’t have expected
to even dance at all,
were throwing down moves
that would’ve made Travolta
sweat with envy.
Filmmakers Mark Jeremias
and Jason Baffa were solid standouts,
but wild man,
Bron Heussenstamm dominated.
Four hours later,
emerging outside into light rain,
I overheard the doorman saying
the hurricane was already
300 kilometers north of us.
We’d survived.
Part 2: The Greatest Show On Earth
We were all up early
considering the near all-nighter
we’d just pulled.
It was still raining,
not a particularly impressive rain,
but now there was wind.
And instead of being lake flat
out in front the hotel,
there was now two-foot shore pound.
It’s starting, prophesized
the shoot’s art director Eric Crane
over orange juice in the lobby bar.
We ignorantly watched
in amusement
as the swell size
and wind velocity
both quadrupled
in about an hour.
On the way back upstairs,
we bumped into North Carolinian
power-styler, Matt Beauchump,
the only person among us
who had ever even been
near a hurricane.......
See those waves, he said,
in about three hours
they’ll be breaking
through the lobby.
Like disbelieving peasants
listening to Noah’s promise
of the great flood,
we disregarded
the information
as pure fantasy.
But minutes later,
the storm was already
kicking the shit
out of the tile rooftops
and palm trees.
And suddenly
the whole thing just snapped!
The waves, wind
and rain seem
to hyper-accelerate
in a single second.
Downpour charged the hotel
in grey opaque blankets
of solid water.
The initial gust of wind
blew out a couple
of 4x6 foot hallway windows.
And like giant liquid teeth
trying to swallow the entire coast,
monster Teahupoo-esque
mud grinders
greedily devoured
the sandy beach away
in a matter of minutes
and were now gnawing
on the cement walkway
leading to the back entrance
of the Lobby.
Surges of muddy white water
rushed up the lawn,
across the pool
and right up
against the building.
This monumental rise
in tide level soon brought
the waves in even closer.
Incredulously we watched
the hotel’s beachfront restaurant
get completely demolished
by a single, three-story wave,
(its fifty foot high palapa
popped like an enormous
palm leaf pimple).
Eight foot walls of whitewash
were now going
right through the hotel’s lobby,
stripping bricks off the walls
and plaster off the ceiling.
And pushing EVERYTHING,
including: sofas, computers,
lawn chairs, refrigerators,
pots and pans, palm trees,
sand, mud, rocks
and garbage
completely through the building
and out the front doors
into the muddy swamp
that used to be the parking lot
and tennis courts.
At this point,
security came through
the corridors instructing
everyone to go up to the 7th floor.
Phone, electricity and water
were long gone.
And we’d also just been informed
there was a gas leak.
The elevators being disabled,
we used the service stairwell.
With horrific sounds
of the flooding taking place
only a couple of floors below,
the walk up the pitch dark stairwell
resembled a scene from
The Poseidon Adventure.
On the 7th level,
we passed an open room
where most of the hotel’s staff
were sitting on the floor
holding hands in a circle
and praying.
This image,
more than anything else,
began to plant seeds
of real fear within our group.
We all packed
into a single room
where trip supervisor,
Michael Marckx, did a head count
and came up a couple people short
(only hours later did we learn
of our friends whereabouts).
Two natural gas containers,
both the size of station wagons,
got ripped off of the roof off
the hotel’s garage (
where they’d been bolted down)
and flew away like balloons.
One punctured on landing,
the pressurized vapor output
spinning it down the street like a giant top.
Because of the hotel’s
diagonal angle to the beach,
it was possible
to watch the storm
from the hallways’, retracted,
windowless balconies.
With the wind rushing sideways
past us at 130 mph,
we still remained in relative safety.
But down below, some of
the outer lower level walls
of the Sheraton’s
pyramid-shaped structure
began crumbling
like graham crackers in wet milk.
No chance of leaving at this point.
And nowhere to leave to.
Debris flying through the air.
The surrounding area totally submerged.
No swimmer on earth
could have survived the water that day.
Although there was no screaming
or hysterical outbursts
among our crew,
we all knew there was
a significant possibility
that the entire hotel could go down.
Built on sand
with low grade cement and bricks,
each gargantuan lip
landing out on the lawn,
set shudders up the building’s spine.
Peoples’ personalities
began to shift under crisis. S
some of the maids and attendants
began freaking out and crying,
others began looting supply cabinets
and guest rooms.
Even the Wonder Grom,
(15 year old, straight-A student,
wave-shredder), Erica Hoessini,
hungry and thinking
it was all over with,
karate kicked (and shattered open)
a glass mini-bar door to retrieve
what she thought was sure
to be her young life’s last Snickers Bar.
Hypnotized by the entire spectacle,
most of us couldn’t
stop staring at the ocean.
This was not the ocean
we had grown to love,
this was an ocean possessed.
When the bigger sets crashed,
warm water spray
from the colossal white explosions
splashed our faces
way up on our seventh floor balcony.
If the high tide
and storm surge continued
to rise and the hotel itself
took the brunt force of even
a single 20 foot set wave,
it would've loosened the building
from the sand it rested
and could have set
the Vallarta Sheraton
teeter-tottering down
into a pile of mud, bricks,
and cheap cement.
But it didn’t !
The extreme tide
began to drop,
slowing
the ceaseless bombardment.
The swell diminished
and the rain and wind lessened.
The once immaculate
poolside flower gardens
began to reappear
as broken trees
and twisted metal,
eventually revealing
the swimming pool
(completely filled to the coping
with sand, stones,
mud and lawn chairs).
The whole entire episode
had lasted no longer
than four hours start to finish,
from 9am orange juice
until the storm
had completely passed us
(heading north
to obliterate the city of San Blas).
Our missing friends
reappeared unscathed.
The sun came out
and clean-up crews
with bulldozers arrived
to begin making
the roads passable again.
And as far as we heard,
there were (unbelievably)
very few human casualties
in the entire area.
Our vans were still half-submerged
in the parking lot,
(all eventually started).
Walking several blocks inland,
we saw familiestrekking
through the mud
with all of their possessions
and animals in tow.
We saw jet skis and boats laying
in the middle of the streets
alongside of logs and rubbish.
We passed a weddingdress shop
that had been flooded
with muddy runoff
and had now completely drained.
The 11 dresses being displayed
on vintage mannequins
were each equally dyed to the hip
with red mud.
We bought snacks
in an air conditioned supermarket
that had survived without a incident
(only 1/2 mile from where we had been).
WE personally had seen
the worst of it all.
Actuall,y as far
as Vallarta was concerned
the destruction was very localized.
Because of the Sheraton’s
severe damage,
we were again forced to relocate
like a band of caravanning gypsies.
But by sunset,
we were all swimming
in a beautiful lapis-tiled pool
and ordering pina-coladas
and smoothies from the sunken bar.
Everything decadently perfect
except for the smell of dead fish.
The storm,
although not visibly damaging
this resort,
had killed most of the fish
in the golf course ponds
and the stench
was beginning to waft its way
over to us,
(the only indication here
that there had been a storm at all).
Had it really even happened?
This morning seemed like a week ago.
Last night seemed like last year.
The longest 24 hours
any of us could remember.
The next day shooting resumed as scheduled.
THE FORGOTTEN FOUR
There are no waves there…
there are no beaches.
Not exactly encouraging,
but in this case considered a lead.
My L.A. neighbor Cristina Casmiro,
telling me this now,
had said exactly the same thing
about her native island Pinheiro
three years ago.
I’d ignored her warning,
gone looking for surf anyway
and ended up SCORING.
This time the inquiry
was not about Pinheiro,
(the main island in the chain of five),
but of the much smaller
“forgotten four”
located a hundred miles to the south.
Two of the islands
were strangely absent
from one of the three world-class atlases
I’d purchased.
And although each
over five miles long,
none of the four
were even individually named,
appearing only as Ilhas Abandonadas.
Cristina was the only person
I’d ever met
who had even seen these islands.
As a teenager,
she’d been there a few times
on her Dad’s fishing boat
and had described them to me as:
Narrow, very mountainous,
with steep, near vertical cliffs
falling directly in the sea…
with NO waves.
But I wasn’t convinced the place
was a complete write-off.
Fourteen hours out of California
and three hours off
the European continent,
I landed on the mother island,
and was now heading
toward the docks
to meet Gustavo,
a forty-something year old fisherman
Cristina had put me in touch
with by internet.
Via-email,
he’d already agreed
to take me to The Forgotten Four
and I’d already agreed to the fee,
but first impressions were not solid.
The guy looked liked a junky…
and his boat even junkier;
an open 15-foot wooden skiff
with a small outboard motor attached.
No cushions. No lifejackets.
Hardly an ocean-worthy vessel.
But hell, the guy had lived this long, right ?
Gustavo wanted to leave at sunset,
but it was still only about 5pm,
Vamos jantar ? (let’s eat ?), he suggested.
We entered a small,
whitewashed restaurant
where he obviously had history
with the toothless girl
behind the counter.
And judging from the way
they goo-goo eyed each other,
that was probably
his basketball in her tummy.
He introduced me
to the girl me as,
Americano
(fucking bastard had already
forgotten my name).
She brought us a huge
ceramic pitcher of red wine
and a cheap three-gallon,
plastic fishing bucket
full of about a hundred rock-barnacle,
snail-type creatures.
Tiny sea-fleas jumped out of the bucket
and on to the table
as my honorable captain
showed me the proper way
to eat live “lapas”
……scrape them out of their shell
using another shell
and throw them down your throat
before they have a chance
to crawl away.
Two strangers playing a kind
of gastronomical version
of Russian Roulette,
competing who could eat the most.
It was pretty sick
to tell you the truth,
the endless supply of wine
making it only slightly more bearable.
But in Pinheiro…do as the Pinheirenses.
As we approached
the bottom of the bucket,
I looked around the small dining room.
Most of the other clients
were eating Lapas too,
except theirs were cooked
and served on blue and white plates
and covered in melted butter,
lime juice and salt.
Gustavo started giggling like a sissy,
with the girl right by his side,
about to have an asthma attack.
Some of the other eaters
were cracking up too.
It wasn’t the first time
they’d played this joke.
Of the four isles,
three had never
even been inhabited.
The fourth (the southernmost)
had supported a fishing village
of about three hundred
and fifty people until 1989
when an earthquake
and following mudslide
killed thirty residents
and buried most of the town.
Most of the survivors left.
Some went north to Pinheiro.
Most migrated to the Americas.
But a core crew of about twenty stayed,
shoveling mud for months,
Surviving on subsistence farming and fishing.
Clear calm night
with about a zillion stars.
For the first couple of hours
we stayed in the swell shadow
of the main island,
then crossed behind
the Abandonadas
where it was even calmer.
Sheet glass.
In the half-moon light
we could see their silhouettes,
all continuing segments
of the same submerged mountain chain,
each separated by
only a couple of hundred yards
mirroring off of the oceans surface.
One of those rare visuals that are
so beautifully real ,
they appear to be false
like a soundstage at a
Hollywood movie studio.
At dawn we chugged
into a small transparent inlet.
Two tiny boats were dry-docked
on the rocks.
Behind them,
a red dirt trail zigzagged
up the mountain,
disappearing into
almost fluorescent green growth.
After ten hours at sea,
Gustavo didn’t even get
out of the boat to rest
or eventake a leak.
The place is cursed
he’d said repititivley .
We’d agreed to meet here
at the cove seven days from today.
What was left of the village
was located on the opposite side
of the island,
a thirty-minute walk.
But thirty-minutes in Gustavo-time
was really two and a half hours
of steep traversing
just to reach the summit.
From the perch off the island,
it felt like standing on the hump
of a colossal sea monster.
Surveying from north to the south,
it was easy to see
both west and east sides
at the same time.
On the east, lake-like calmness.
But on the west…lines.
Not big, but consistent.
Traveling all the way
from the northernmost Atlantic
to be wasted along the base
of a thousand-foot cliff.
But about a third of the way
down the island
was a flat low-lying peninsula
extending out from the cliffs
for five-hundred yards,
(the result of thousands years
of seismic dismantling).
The wind was onshore
and the tide a little too high,
but rolling down opposites sides
of the flat were surfable right
and left point waves.
On the peninsula itself were
the carcasses of about fifty
black, lava-rock houses
that had laid abandoned since 1989.
And about ten other homes
painted in white.
The black ones had no roofs a
nd were all at least half- strangled
by the overgrowth.
But the white houses,
those closest to shore,
had red clay shingles
and were surrounded
by immaculate gardens.
Olaaa! cheered a baritone voice
scaring the shit out of me.
The smiling brown man
with ridiculously large ears
introduced himself as
Antonio, a resident farmer.
I identified myself as
Pappas, a traveling….student.
BEM-VINDO, he greeted
as if I’d been an expected guest,
Vamos almocar ! (let’s lunch!)
he proclaimed.
We arrived at Antonio’s
two-room home
where his wife Luisa
was preparing a communal meal
for all fifteen residents of Atalaia Island,
(the place had a name after all).
Potato soup mixed with red wine
and LIVE lapas !!!
Gustavo
and his prego-bellied accomplice’s joke
hadn’t gone to waste,
it had been training.
Luisa was complaining
that ants that had gotten
into the bread dough.
Are there ants on the mainland,
young man ?, she asked me.
Believe it or not, s
he’d never been to the mainland,
or even up to Pinheiro.
With my new friends
looking on in approval,
I casually downed about twenty
of the biggest lapas on the table
(bridging both the language barrier
and generation gap in a single sitting).
Hadn’t slept in days
and was about to drop.
Prepared to camp,
but they weren’t haven’t it,
insisting that I stay in the large stone shed
that had once housed the island’s padre.
______________________________________
In the nocturnal depths of delusion,
the lapas were breeding
in my stomach,
Trying to take over my body
from the inside out…
Whack !!!
The first shot rang.
Whack !!!
I was on my feet.
WhackK !!!
What the….???
WHACK !!!!!!!
Sounded like a Texas-style hail storm.
I inched the door open.
The storm was coming
in from the East.
WHACKK !!!!!
Whizzing by in a vacoom,
fist sized raindrops were
exploding like small water balloons.
In addition, the wind was carrying
small stones off the top of the cliff
and a quarter of a mile down to my roof top.
When it rains here, it rains rocks too.
But by daybreak
both wind and rain had stopped.
And by lunchtime,
the right was doing
a pretty decent impersonation
of overhead Swami’s…..
(with no other surfer or surfboard
around for a hundred miles).
It’s always freaky surfing
somewhere where no one surfs.
No one’s around to tell you
where to get in and out of the water,
which tides will kill you
or warn you of any antagonistic sea life.
I tried paddling out at the micro- cove
just south of the village
and was violently swept farther south
toward the cliffs.
From there the only way
too get out would’ve been
paddling down the entire length
of the island,
around the tip and back up
to the boat cove on the other side.
Six miles with current.
Fuck that.
I took the foam straight back to the rocks,
walked up a quarter of a mile
to the beginning of the left,
paddled through an assault of white water
and found myself being pulled
into good position for the right.
A few ceiling high waves
came through.
I snagged one thinking
it would be an easy down- the line run
and got slammed.
A LOT faster than it looked.
Makeable, but not
from the absolute outside.
Paddled down a-ways,
found my groove and started gettin’ busy.
A year’s worth of quality waves
in a single afternoon.
The next morning,
I rode the middle left
in front of the salt pond.
Softer-shouldered
but connecting all the way to the inside.
Unfortunately, the wind
kept shifting directions.
Offshore. Onshore. Side shore.
Offshore. Onshore. Side shore.
I’d be ready to get out of the water
and then it’d switch offshore again
or go glass.
I’d been ignorantly assuming
That the primary swell direction
this time of year was always from the North,
but this swell filling in definitely
had southern orgins.
And the following,
the right revealed it’s hidden personality.
Meaty and bowling hard.
The waves now launched you
down the point like a catapult.
Felt myself going faster than I had
in a long, long time
with little effort of my own.
For this reason, it was difficult
to stay deep enough
to get really barreled.
A couple of nice slots though,
got slaughtered on a few too.
Saturday: small
(the swell window
is really small here).
Up on Pinheiro,
these 24-hour swells were actually three-dayers and
probably twice the size.
New arrivals today
from the main island;
a family that had left after the
earthquake-now back
for their annual vacation along with their kids
(the daughter, an exotic twenty year old).
Because the shore
was too steep and jagged
for beach-going,
the spot to hang
was a fifty-foot strip
of black sand
on the village side of the salt pond.
One of the most euphoric days
in my life…eating fish
and gulping down wine
and firewater
with nineteen kindred souls
in the Garden of Eden.
I never return to places
I’ve experienced real magic.
And after only a couple of days
on Atalaia,
I already knew I’d never
be going back there.
You never know if it’s the place itself
that’s incredibly special,
or that small envelope in time
you spend there.
You walk around through life
with these amazing Technicolor memories
(it’s all we really have in the end)
and if you go back
and it’s not the same,
it’s destroys everything preceding.
The sun disappeared
and a big fire was lit.
Expecting someone to fetch a guitar,
I was amazed
when four large African jimbaes
appeared out of old Mr. Campos’ hut.
The men drummed.
And Luisa, Mrs. Campos,
the newcomer wife
and her babe daughter
hauntingly sang to all
who had been lost at sea.
Looking like voodoo goddesses
under a silver moon,
these were Ulysses’s sirens reincarnated.
Being in old dialect,
I didn’t understand
many of the words,
but it was enough
to get my spine tingling.
MOMENTS OF INSANITY: PART 1
(Jan 3, 2006)
Woke up this early morning (Tuesday)
to check the surf as usual.
There were no waves.
It's summer in Rio de Janeiro,
not totally surprising.
But there was also no sun,
the sky dark with cloud cover
and only about seventy degrees outside
(a huge drop from
yesterday's blistering Ninety-Five).
I'd actually been waiting
for a day like this since moving
here from California
about four weeks ago.
I walked up the street
to Sendas supermarket
and bought three big
bottles of water,
went home,
put a package
of sesame-seed crackers
and some of ripe pears
into a couple of zip-lock bags,
tossed them into an old backpack,
got my surfboard
and walked the three blocks back to the beach.
I counted seventeen women along the way
(two were beautiful).
I began to paddle
from Lifeguard Tower 11 in Leblon
all the way out to the first of the Cagarras,
a cluster of uninhabited islands,
located several miles out in front of Rio.
One of the reasons,
this excursion had to happen
midweek was because
on summer weekends
several cruise boats a day
passed through this exact body of water
between the islands
and the beaches
of Ipanema and Leblon.
I doubted very seriously
in my ability to outrun one
or even get out of the way
of one if I had to.
Once in a rare while,
I'd see one pass by during the week too,
but those were odds I could live with.
I'd already predicted it
to be a long-ass haul
and had expected it to be
a lot farther than it looked,
but it ended up being
infinitely farther than even that.
Took two-and-half hours
of straight, open-ocean paddling
just to get out there.
Like I said, there wasn't much
swell activity today,
but the southern flowing current
was significant enough
that I kept having to readjust my aim
to avoid missing the islands altogether
and drifting out to sea
(The next dry land mass
being the Africa Continent,
thirty-eight hundred miles away).
At about the halfway point
I passed an area that was
literally a minefield
of grapefruit size
(and colored) jellyfish.
The water looked almost black,
reflecting off
the darkly overcast sky and
the orange invertebrates
seemed electrically illuminated.
As gingerly as I maneuvered
through them,
I still ended up brushing up
against three or four,
but for whatever reason I wasn't stung.
Sporadically,
yard-long barracudas
(being chased by who knows what?)
would rocket out of the water
and fly five or six feet
before noisily splashing down,
adding further to
the illusionary frontline ambient.
There was also an abundance
of freshwater plants
floating around that had been
flushed out to sea
from recent violent rains
providing even further tactical difficulties.
After making it through the war zone,
the sea current started
pulling much stronger
but was now going northward
in the opposite direction.
I had to change my general overview
several more times just to stay on course.
In the end,
I was really grateful
I had waited for a day
without much undulation
to attempt this voyage
for the first time.
Ten big, sinister-looking, black,
skin-headed vultures
started flying circles
about thirty-feet above me.
Was I really that out of shape
that I was already
looking like dinner to these bastards ?
I started paddling faster
and screaming at them in defiance
when my right hand
slammed into MEAT !!!
Big and heavy
it was either a dead dolphin..
or HUMAN
(too smooth-skinned for be a shark).
I was too freaked out
to stop and investigate,
I got the hell out of there!
And was thankful to discover
that the vultures
were definitely
more interested in it,
whatever it was,
than me.
Every several minutes,
I'd look back shoreward.
Where I'd see commercial airliners
appearing and disappearing behind
Bored Jesus Mountain
on their way to and from
Galeao Airport in Zone North.
And police helicopters
constantly transiting back and forth
from between the city center
and the general area
the Rocinha and Vidigal ghettos.
High-caliber,
leftover New Year's Eve fireworks
were periodically being detonated
from different parts of the city,
billowing plumes of contrasting white smoke silhouetted by charcoal gray
cloud cover,
their audibility
gradually fading away
into the distance along with the
visibility of city details.
Getting closer to my destination,
I began to realize that,
in terms of average height
and circumference,
the size of palm trees
on the opposite sides of the island
did not match up,
although they appeared
to be of the same species.
All these weeks
I had thought that
the closest island in the group
was mostly long and flat
with a single high peak on one side
covered by significant vegetation.
But what I'd actually been observing
was two different islands,
a long and flat one
being visually montaged (by distance)
behind the smaller, but taller more lush one.
The other five islands,
were separated by greater distances
and were obviously independent
of each other.
I realigned my aim
for the hundredth time that day
to guarantee arrival on
my now smaller target.
About two-hundred yards out
I passed through an area
of much clearer, colder water.
FIFTEEN degrees colder!
FULLSUIT COLD.
Summer in Brazil?....weird.
Finally,
with my head pounding out
a little melody
(trace brain damage from
my-first-New-Year's-Eve-
in-Rio-de-Janeiro-hangover
a full two days earlier)
and my arms burning
with new found soreness,
I arrived to my own private paradise.
I later learned
that all seven of these islands
had individual names,
but had actually been told
the exact opposite by one local resident
a few days earlier.
This island, MY ISLAND, was called PALMAS.
The longer and flatter one,
a half mile behind it
(that I'd mistaken as part of this one)
is ILHA COMPRIDA
or in Gringo language, Long Island.
Palmas is about a ¾-of-a-mile-around
seemingly solid granite oval dome
capped with lush tropical jungle,
hosting about a thousand Royal Palms.
How long it took for enough dirt to collect
on top of a smooth protruding surface
for even a single insignificant plant to take root
and kick off the whole soil making process
.who the hell knows?
I once read that
something like a trillion pounds
of dust a year
gets kicked up into the stratosphere
by windstorms in the Sahara
and eventually transmigrate
over the Atlantic and get peppered
down onto Amazonia
courtesy of daily rainfall.
We are at least two-thousand miles
south of those wind patterns
but maybe a couple of dozen ounces
managed to make their way
down here over the course
of say 65,000 years
and began compacting
on the top PALMAS
and its six immediate island neighbors;
COMPRIDA, ROTUNDA,
MATIAS, PRACA ONZE, CAGARRA
and FILHOTE DE CAGARRA.
Guess that's as good as explanation
as I have to dwell on
for the short -term.
The shore was really steep
And in my delirious state,
I had a difficult enough time
just getting myself out of the water.
But making things
even more pleasurable,
I nicked my knee on a pincushion
of submerged sea urchin spines.
After three or four attempts
I finally managed to crawl up over
the thousands of dormant dry barnacles
and stand up straight.
With my arms victoriously raised
high above my head
I let out a hideously loud
master-of-the-universe Tarzan yell
that was probably heard as far away as Copacabana.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Then silence.
I chugged
a liter-and-a-half bottle of water,
chomped down two pears
and swallowed some crackers,
but my famine still hadn't been extinguished.
I'd seen sea urchins
on the menus of several
sushi bars but had never indulged.
Why not now ? I thought,
they're abundant here.
I grabbed a purple,
baseball-sized urchin
from just under the surface
of the crystalline water
and SMASHED it down on the rocks.
There wasn't a whole lot of flesh in there,
but there was some eggy-looking orange stuff
that at least looked kind of edible.
I picked out the pieces
of broken shell and spine
and ate a small quantity
(swallowing it without really chewing).
IIIICCCCKKKKK !!!!!!!
Obviously my culinary skills
weren't up to Shinjuku standards.
Even with my high-tolerance for grossness,
this was the single nastiest substance
I'd ever tasted,
I barely avoided vomiting.
Next time I'll bring
wasabe and soy sauce.
I left the board and backpack
near the water
and began exploring.
It was extremely difficult to get around,
not only because of the incline
but because the rock face
itself was not that smooth.
Up close it was finitely sharp
and jagged
(and like an idiot,
I hadn't even thought about bringing shoes).
I tried to climb straight over
the highest area of the island
(about two-hundred feet at it's tallest),
but once I got past the granite slab
and the wall started leveling off on top
giving way to vegetation,
the jungle itself was guarded
by a twenty-foot deep barrier
of ground-crawling cactus shafts.
Impossible to attempt without
at least pair of army boots and a machete.
There were a couple
of random seagulls
hanging around chasing crabs
back into crevices on the rocks
and some prehistoric looking insects,
but the island's most prevalent,
visible animal life
were the black-headed
vampiresque vultures.
They were everywhere;
flying around,
walking on the rocks,
taking shits
and standing on limbs
of shrubs and trees.
Not even moving
when I'd get close to them
(no fear whatsoever).
A mini Komodo Dragon
came out of the cactus patch
and laid right in front of me
for about fifteen minutes,
not at all annoyed by my presence.
It's very possible that in his young life
he'd never even seen a human personally
and had yet to learn from his parents
that they are all enemies of the natural world.
Me, of course,
being no exception to the rule whatsoever.
Don't know what he was exactly,
some sturdy, exotic-looking,
triangle-headed,
black and yellow iguana
about three-feet long.
If I'd been stranded on Palmas for real,
he'd have been made into
several excellent protein-rich meals.
Being as naïve as he was,
he didn't look too difficult to hunt.
One rock on the head
would've probably been sufficient.
I descended the incline
and began crawl-climbing
the granite face
clockwise around the island
Maintaining my altitude
At only about forty feet
above the water.
I found six-to eight inch
horizontal step-grooves
inbetween sedimentary
layers of granite
randomly glittered with quartz.
On these little ledges, I kept my feet
as flat as possible while constantly
palming the stone wall with a hands
on either side of my body.
But some parts were nearly totally vertical.
I'm no free climber.
And the potentiality of falling thirty feet
And getting my head split open on a rock ledge
only to be gluttonously devoured by a bunch
of greedy, arrogant vultures
was probably not as amusing as it sounded.
I opted to come down to shore,
dive into the water
and swim around the cliffs
until I could climb up again..
On these brief immersions
I saw one sea turtle
and some beautiful,
fluorescent blue and yellow fish.
Wish I'd brought a mask,
a spear gun, a machete
shoes, waterproof camera
and MORE FOOD.
Next time…..(if there is one).
It took about an hour and a half
to negotiate my all the way around the island.
And although I tried to repetitively,
I never found a user-friendly enough spot
to penetrate the jungle zone.
Nature at its wildest.
There were all kinds
of chaotic insect sounds
rhythmically cocktailing
around in there
with melodic symphony accents
supplied by different species
of unseen song birds.
Everyone had their part
and no one missed a beat.
Beautiful. I was hypnotized.
Very tribal.
But occasionally,
a random gangster-vulture
would spoil it all by shrieking jealously,
(as if protesting his own
lack of songwriting ability)
They were always out of tune
and always off rhythm.
I hated them even more now,
and apparently it was mutual.
As I made my way
around the last corner
of the island,
they started reacting
more aggressively toward me.
Flying nearer to me
and squawking harassingly.
I'd overstayed my welcome.
They could have easily killed me
if they'd wanted to gang up on me,
but the vibe was more like,
Visiting hours are over kid,
now get the #%$@ out of here!
Back at camp
I had to throw rocks
at the six vultures
bickering with each other
over what was left
of my Japanese Blue Plate Special
(the urchin)
just to get near my stuff.
Although much smaller
than a condor
or some other
bigger buzzard species,
even this variety
with their five
and six-foot wingspans,
could've flown off
with my surfboard single-handedly
without much effort.
I ate the rest of my rations
and drank another bottle of water,
trying to hydrate as much as possible
pre-visioning the minute possibility
of being lost at sea.
My feet were now raw
and bleeding selectively
from micro-cuts caused by barnacles
and other surface irregularities.
And unfortunately at my exit point,
below the ring of razor-sharp barnacles
that had been located
just above the waters edge
all the way around the island
the descending tide had eventually exposed
a six-foot horizontal band of
black muscles and urchins
that I had to tiptoe over just to get back to
the water.......
I was in pain, not just my feet
But also my shoulders from the paddle,
and now I had to do it all over again.....
Thankfully the cool water
numbed away most of my suffering.
And I was on my way.
The view of Rio
from this far out
was absolutely spectacular.
The city is completely surrounded
by forest-covered mountains.
They say the Tijuca Forest is the largest
urban forest in the world
and believe it or not
it was one of the world's first
major environmental projects.
These mountains were bare in 1850
resulting from four-hundred years
of over-ambitious timber industry.
The claim is that this entire area
was replanted by only eighteen slaves
who together planted
eighty-thousand indigenous trees.
My view was south
from the Grumari reserve
all the way north to Niteroi,
forty miles at least.
There are other groups of islands
in both directions.
(I'd experienced only
one of the state of Rio's
four-hundred-and-something islands).
Predicting the same dual currents
I'd encountered
on the way over,
I steered toward the general
direction of the Corcovado Jesus Statue
(Bored Jesus)
I knew if I aimed there
that I'd first be dragged
about a half mile even farther north
and then 2nd fase of current
would eventually carry me about
a mile and a half in the opposite direction
depositing on the far south side
of the beach in Leblon,
(hopefully not far from my street,
Bartolomeu Mitre).
I took a long LONG time to get back
and making it worse
it started raining heavily
as I was going thru thejellyfish field...
COLOSSAL bolts of lighting
shot across the sky from behind me toward
Jesus on the mountain.
A boat full of fisherman,
rushing to get back to harbor in the storm,
took a short detour to motor past me
to see if I was alright.
I gave them a thumbs up
...that I was "ok"
And they were on their way.
Curiously, two other boats
passed me a half hour later
and hadn't even
bother to investigate...
(that's brotherly love for ya).
Eventually I could start seeing
individual people on the beach,
tourists no
doubt
Cariocas usually don't stay
on the beach
when it's raining.
The weather is
Near-perfect here
4-5 days a week..
(Why would they bother?)
And before long,
I could even hear
the cars and busses on "PCH".
The swell had increased
a little throughout the day,
which toward the end
started helping me
not hindering me,
giving me a gentle
tail-push toward shore.
When I got about
a hundred feet off the beach
a solitary two-foot glassy
left appeared behind me.
I caught it almost effortlessly
butI was so exhausted,
I barely had the energy
to stand up especially
with the extra weight
of a now water-filled backpack
burdening me.
But I managed to force myself
to my feet
and regally rode it to shore.
Like a Hawaiian king
I waved to my loyal subjects
lining the shore of Leblon
anticipating my arrival.
One thing had become
embarrassingly obvious to me
during the course of the day,
I am slowly, but most definitely
loosing my mind..
My fins hit bottom.
When I put my feet
on the warmish sand,
I could feel the new pulsating
pillow-blisters painfully
de-numbing and coming
back to life on of the
bottom of my feet.
I limped the three blocks
back to my apartment
counting eighty-two women
along the way,
thirty-seven of them beautiful
(but only the uglier ones smiled back at me).
It was still only early evening,
but I took a shower
and slept
for the next sixteen hours.
_____________________________
Four days later
A dead body washed up
On the beach at Leblon,
a shooting victim of drug wars
at the Vidigal favela located a mile away
Good chance it was him
that I hit on my paddle to the Palmas.
surfing-related short story book,
FISHDADDY CHRONICLES
__________________________________________________
Ithaka’s
FISHDADDY
CHRONICLES
c.2006
FISHDADDY CHRONICLES
by Ithaka Darin Pappas
1. STILTS
2.OXYGEN FALLS
3.CARCAVELOS BROWNS
5. ZE DOS CAES
6. PALM TREE REEF
7. MOROCCO IS:
8. ADVENTURES IN ADVERTISING
9. THE FORGOTTEN FOUR
10. MOMENTS OF INSANITY
STILTS
As a grom,
born and bred
in the pristine coastal suburbs,
Brick never imagined
that he was destined
to become an inlander.
Go Back To Pomona !
He’d yell down
to peroxide-haired body boarders
foraging for waves on the north side
of the Manhattan pier.
Both his parents being prominent engineers
in the aerospace trade,
Brick never took into consideration
that not everyone in the world
was dealt a winning hand of cards.
But the L.A. aerospace industry
shriveled up
and both his mom and dad
moved out of state (separately).
Brick was not about to relocate to either
Oklahoma or Arizona.
Eighteen and on his own.
College now out of the question,
employment geographics
forced Brick deep into the depths
of urban Los Angeles….
..that was several years ago.
As he exited his dense,
degregaded East L.A. neighborhood
onto the Santa Monica Freeway,
Go Back To Pomona !,
kept echoing
around the interior of his skull,
Go Back To Pomona !
As usual,
the local news stations had been
over-exaggerating
the storm swells all season.
A High Surf Advisory
Didn’t actually mean BIG waves
It just ensured the following days
would be ridiculously packed.
But for once the predictions
and hype were reputable.
As the 10 Freeway
poured him out onto
Pacific Coast Highway,
he saw the normally flat beach-breaks
a hollow but sloppy five-foot.
He was tempted to park it and surf Chattaugua
(it’d months since he’d
pulled into anything
even resembling a barrel).
But the urge kept him going.
Out past congested, six-foot Topanga
(even the Charthouse had twenty-five people out).
Thru Malibu, also good size but bumpy.
Past Zuma, big and closed out.
And past Leo Carrillo to County Line,
for a coffee at Neptune’s Net.
County Line had size.
but who wants to surf powerless waves
with a hundred human buoys in the water?
SUPERTUBES???????
…the right swell,
the right tide
he was SURE it was on…
but it was almost flat.
Today the on-shores
would probably arrive early
(no time for Rincon or Oxnard).
He slowed back southward
checking out every little cove,
beach and rock pile he knew of.
There was definitely a lot of swell,
missing some stretches, hitting others,
but too north for most of it.
The gas gauge on the Stonemobile
was broken, but he was confident
he had at least enough fuel to
make it back to Santa Monica.
But somewhere south of Solstice Canyon
as he flipped a cassette over
(Hammered, by Motorhead)
the engine died.
He didn’t stress,
just coasted it out
and pulled over next to
a makeshift wooden wall
in front of a construction site.
It was the only opening
in a strip of about forty stilted homes.
Their entrances street level
on Pacific Coast highway
with no gaps for beach access,
while the main volume of the structures
extended over the beach and water
(about fifteen feet below)
on a series of wooden and cement pilings.
He sat in the car,
music still blaring,
but in the brief silence between tracks
he heard the powerful SNAP ! of a wave.
What the HELL ?!
He scaled over the wooden wall for a look.
A short climb put him at water level
at the top of a small semi-point.
A sight that left him in momentary disbelief.
Less than a hundred feet
in front of the homes,
powerful rights were detonating
over a shallow flat reef.
Spinning almost in place
for a couple of seconds,
they momentarily backed off
in a deep spot
before racing sideways
for another five or six houses.
Up the building frame,
over the wall
and back to the Chevy.
The truck was stealth.
Both surfers and non-surfers
had no idea it was a surfer’s car.
It looked more like an immigrant
gardener’s vehicle.
No towel, he bare-balled it
on the house side of the car
to get into his wetsuit.
I’m going to call the police !
a woman yelled down
out of a second-story window.
SO AM I ! he laughed
scrambling over the wall.
After a short slalom course
down thru the beams
and around some jagged boulders,
he was soon muscling his way
into the last wave of an overhead set.
Barely making the drop,
He recovered into
a relaxed tube stance
and in wonderment ,
watched the antiseptically blue funnel
pass him by,
SLAM!!
Like a doctor slapping
a newborn’s butt
to get it to start breathing,
the Pacific-pounding
breathed life back
into Brick’s soul.
He screamed through
the saltwater placenta
with prehistoric adrenalin.
When he surfaced,
there were no waves
behind it waiting to punish him.
Just glassy, kelpy silence.
Looking shoreward,
he saw the underbellies
of the homes
(the structures
did not seem secure).
Then up to the large deck-patios
extending out in front of each of them.
They were all vacant except for one,
where a large-breasted,
red-haired woman
sat in front of an easel
painting the horizon.
Soon more waves arrived,
This day seemingly a gift of the gods
designated specifically for him
and him only.
But after an hour of solo euphoria,
four short-boarders separately
paddled north toward the lineup
(thank god they were short-boarders).
He wondered if there’d be vibes.
Whatever the place was called,
with its tiny take-off slot,
It was not intended
for mass consumption.
A set stacked.
Brick snagged the first one,
Backdooring the section on takeoff .
Momentarily covered up,
the lip released him
onto a steep carveable shoulder.
He heard distant hoots
as he raced it all the way to the rocks.
Returning to the peak,
He saw each of the new riders
snatching up the remaining set waves.
Three regulars and a goofy.
All decent surfers,
but not pros.
And judging from the brand names
of boards they rode,
none of them from the Malibu area.
He was glad they were outsiders.
And they were relieved
that Brick (who looked mean)
was amicable.
With stoke level
running feverishly high,
the five strangers
took turns on the bigger set waves.
Considering the
actual abilities involved,
performance levels
were peaking
(with the tube success ratios
at least 50/50).
Does this place have a name?
asked the kid from SB
riding the Matt Moore board.
Brick, pensive for a moment
trying to make up one
(the kid, thinking he
was reluctant to tell him).
Brick looked toward the vertical
under-supports of the homes.
It’s called, STILTS, he said.
….and that section that always
tries to pinch you at the end
…that’s ENVELOPES.
Although none of them
had ever met before,
the five surfers
began to converse
between sets,
mostly about global travels.
Having never left North America,
Brick could only listen.
But it was hard
for the others to deny
that this was one of
the best days
of isolated perfection
any of them
had EVER experienced ANYWHERE.
It was understood that this
was an extremely rare day,
but none of them could believe
that makeable
barrels of this caliber
could possibly exist
within thirty minutes of Santa Monica.
No cameras.
No videos.
No sponsored riders.
The fact remained, however,
that as good as it was,
size-wise it was just a sideshow
to what breaks in
Palos Verdes, Ventura and beyond
were experiencing at that exact moment.
But nobody here was complaining.
Six-hour session,
the tide now bone-dry.
A few yards of sand had appeared
directly in front of the houses.
Exausted, Brick rock-hopped
out of the water and onto the beach.
Go Home,
it wasn’t shouted
but it was definitely audible
…but from where?
He surveyed the homes
and decks from below.
The woman with the big boobs
still worked on her scenic.
And now, on another terrace,
an elderly couple
was being served breakfast
by a stocky Latina maid.
AND
two twenty-five year old trust-funders
still in their tennis clothes
fresh off the court,
sat on a wooden deck
(cluttered to capacity
with several surfboards,
windsurf boards,
a Zodiac and a jet-ski.
They had their backs
turned toward him,
but he could see them smirking
from the side and could hear
the faint whimper
of their cowardly giggles.
This time the bitches coordinated
their effort in unison,
GO HOME ! ! !
They yelled with both
hands mega-phoned
over their mouths
(still lacking the courage
to face the accused).
The euphoria of the day’s
gelatin-smooth barrels
and camaraderie shared
with four low-key riders faded.
Replaced with annoyance,
anger and distrust.
And a remainder
of who and what
he now was,
an inlander.
He looked back to the punks,
but they still wouldn’t make eye-contact.
What kind of worms play tennis
when the secret spot
in front of their own balcony
is disemboweling itself
as NEVER before?
Brick made mental notes
(the house wouldn’t look
exactly the same
from the street side).
Wooden. Gray with white trim.
Five doors over
from the construction site.
Up the beams
through the work-in-progress
and over the wall.
He easily identified the house
on the PCH side.
In front of its
white-washed garage door
was a brand new red
convertible SAAB
with chrome gansta rims,
white leather seats
(two Baboblat tennis rackets
rested on the passenger side cushion)
and a gold license-plate frame
that read,
PEPPERDINE ALUMNI
with two bumper stickers
on either side of the plate:
MY OTHER CAR IS A SURFBOARD
And , BELL AIR BAY CLUB.
Brick found an empty,
one-gallon plastic milk jug
in the garbage and unrolled the short
hose lying next to the garage door.
He opened the Saab’s gas cap hatch,
No lock.
He shoved one end
of the hose into the tank
and started inhaling on the other,
(almost instantly getting a mouthful
of 91 Octane Premium Unleaded).
He snapped his thumb over the hole
to maintain vacuum,
then released it into the jug.
With the optimum pressure
of a full tank,
the jug filled in seconds.
Thumb back on the opening,
he hesitated a minute…
…momentarily entertaining
fantastical thoughts
of dousing the car in fuel
and torching it.
Naaahhh…not his style.
He wasn’t about to
let those weasels
get the best of him.
GO BACK TO POMONA !
Again circled his cerebrum
like a distant ghost.
Karmic repercussions
of his segregational
suburban upbringing.
He couldn’t believe
this is what
he had come from.
Although this last year
had been good to him
and he could probably afford
to move back to the coast.
Brick remembered what had been
holding him back.
His past.
OXYGEN FALLS
I'd been here fourteen days,
ever since they'd
brought him home
from the hospital.
And for fourteen days in a row
Zeus, Athena and I had walked;
across the cotton field,
through the lemon orchard,
into The Reservation
and along the bank of the canal
until we reached
the base of Oxygen Falls.
The air here was thick with humidity,
the roar of the water threatening.
Haunting and intriguing at the same time.
Three years ago,
he'd been transferred here
from his job at a Los Angeles
aerospace corporation
to their production division
in a rural area outside of Phoenix.
Unfortunately, my trip wasn't
a family social visit,
my Pops was sick.
Terminal they'd called it,
I called it unfair.
KEEP OUT !
SUBMERGED OBSTRUCTIONS!
EXTREME DANGER!
These faded red letters,
on a now rusted-out piece
of white sheet metal,
had been a never ending subject
of controversy and speculation
between Niles, Joe and I
during every holiday
we'd spent together
since Pops and April
had moved here.
The sign was posted
on the first of two parallel,
barbed-wire fences
guarding potential victims
from the hazards
of the falls behind the them.
Oxygen Falls in actuality
was a hundred-foot high
aerator slope
just downstream
from the Red Mountain Dam
on the Saguaro Indian Reservation.
After first corralling
a section of the Salt River
in form of a small lake,
back out through its spillways
and down a descending
eighth-of-a-mile long
boxy, narrowing concrete waterway.
This compressed the river water volume
from an area of about 40-yards wide
into an end width of just twenty-five feet,
quadrupling its velocity.
The water then rocketed
out of its square cement chute
and down the eight-story,
sixty-degree slope
into a churning, chaotic maelstrom
at the bottom.
This process whipped the water
abundantly full of oxygen molecules,
(essential for retarding algae growth
and increasing crop harvests).
Immediately after this frothy,
turbulent area,
the water abruptly tranquilized...
quieting down
into a deeper,
much wider body of water
known as Lower River,
which eventually dissected
itself into several smaller,
slow-flowing canals and ditches,
(providing the
agricultural water supply
of eastern Phoenix).
_________________________________
For fourteen mornings in a row,
I'd stood here with my two friends
and reread the words:
KEEP OUT !
SUBMERGED OBSTRUCTIONS !
EXTREME DANGER ! ,
wondering what exactly it meant.
An old Indian citrus-farmer,
whose land bordered the canal,
had once told my brothers and I
that the submerged obstructions
were in reference to underwater rake-spikes;
sharp, metal, vertical bars
mounted underneath the white water
at the base of the falls
that prevented logs
and other larger debris
that had managed to make its way
through the dam
and down the aerator slope
from continuing any further downstream
(potentially clogging up
the subsequent farming canals
and ditches).
BULLFUCKINGSHIT !!!!!!!!,
that old Red doesn't know shit,
proclaimed my stepbrother Joe,
an ex-marine,
my elder of two years.
No....I think he may be right,
protested Niles,
my other brother,
also two years older
and the brainiest of us three,
...I think I read something
...about something like that ..somewhere.
For the moment
I'd remained undecided on the subject,
but had later asked Pops about it.
He'd said that the underwater rakes
did exist on some dams and aerators,
but on which ones was impossible to tell,
unless the spillways were closed
and the water level low enough
to expose them.
But here at Oxygen Falls,
the water was kept flowing year round,
quenching the thirst
of the area's perpetually arid farmlands.
What do you guys think ?
I asked Zeus and Athena.
WWWWWOOOOOOFFFFFFFF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!,
howled Zeus.
AAAARRRRRRRPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!,
echoed Athena in feminine equivalent.
Zeus and Athena,
brother and sister Rhodesian Ridgebacks
agreed on everything.
I sometimes wondered
if they shared the same brain.
We walked back to the house
where April had been waiting for us.
She had some errands to do in town
and Pops couldn't be left alone
in his condition.
I'll see you in a couple of hours,ok ?
my stepmother said.
Ok...See you later, I said.
I pulled out an old atlas
from the living room bookshelf
and went up to Pop's room.
He was asleep so I began reading.
Are you to take the drop?
asked an unexpected voice.
It was my dad sleep talking.
What?! I asked.
Are you ready to take the drop?,
he repeated.
I wasn't exactly sure what he meant,
but even though he was unconscious
somehow knew that the question
had been directed at me.
Um...yeah...I guess so...what about you?
Yes, he whispered with a slight smile
as he drifted into a deeper sleep...
...a sleep he was never woke from.
He died in a peaceful way
which I suppose is better
than getting run over by a UPS truck
or catching a stray bullet
in a neighborhood drive-by,
but when it's your Pops,
shit like that is of little consolation.
It was about two a.m.
when the last of the neighbors,
the mortician with dad's body
and the rest of the weepers and mourners
(most of whom I'd never even met)
left.
I walked outside,
got into the family mini-van
and flew out onto the Beeline Highway.
My speed rarely dropping below ninety,
as I talked incessantly
to a silent, invisible father
riding in the passenger seat.
The towns sped by;
Fountain Hills, Apache Junction,
Hobokam, Superstition.
In and out of the Tonto Forest,
through Sunflower
and out past twenty or so
smaller settlements....
until there was nothing
but cactus and stars.
I stopped the van, got out,
laid on my back
across the yellow checkered dividing line
and looked directly up.
The biggest shooting star
I'd ever seen
radiated by overhead,
its trail glowing for a full ten-seconds.
It was one of those infrequent,
self-pitying moments
when I will question the purpose
of all existence;
The Earth, The Stars,
Love, Hate, Life, Death....
....it all seems like such
a cruel, heartless joke sometimes.
Exhausted and fatigued,
I arrived home midmorning.
Niles and Joe
had already arrived in Arizona
and were giving me shit
for staying out all night.
April's been worried
out of her fucking mind !!!,
I apologized,
instantly morphing
the vibe more positively.
Although we all lived
within an hour's drive of each other
in California,
we rarely hang out.
But that night we drank beers,
talked about Pops, the old days
back in the South Bay
and about all the trouble
we'd gotten ourselves into.
I was surprised to learn
for the first time that
(on different occasions)
Niles and Joe had both been arrested.
How I'd never found out
remains a mystery.
And my dad, not being one to rat,
had never mentioned anything about it
or the healthy sums of cash
he'd shelled out for their bail bonds.
However, I wasn't being as open
with my older brothers
as they were being with me.
And hoped Pops had been
as equally discreet
about my own personal fuck ups
and had never told them
of my little run in
with a particular young vixen from Lomita.
An incident far more regrettable
and less heroic than getting your ass thrown
in the slammer for a few hours.
__________________________________________
If it is at all possible for a funeral
to be a good thing, Pops' was.
The youngish priest, Father Paul,
had been a good friend
of my dad and April
and spoke to us with his eulogy, not at us.
His message was very personal,
almost completely avoiding
any corny, generic post-death sermonology.
He even played
a from-the-heart Bob Dylanish song
on the acoustic
which he'd written
when his own father had died.
Part of which was;
He was more than just a father,
a teacher, my best friend.
he showed me things
not known to kings
like how to fish
and make a wish
beside the Magic Sea...
...I miss him the old man
Toward the end of the service,
Father Paul had said something that stuck
into my head like a nail.
He'd spoken directly to Niles, Joe and I.
Your father,
being the man that he was,
would want you to go on
with your lives
...living them to the fullest.
On the ride back to Dad and April's crib,
that last part kept playing
and replaying in my head...
...living them to the fullest.
For me, in contrast to the urban hell
I'd inflicted upon myself four years before
(moving from the beach into Hollywood),
living life to the fullest
still meant getting in the ocean regularly,
something I'd been less
than successfully accomplishing lately.
Of my last several attempts;
On one, I'd borrowed
and broken-in-half
a friend's favorite board.
On another,
I contracted a hideous
bacteria-caused
ear infection.
And on my last try.........
at six a.m. speeding west
down the Santa Monica Freeway
(on my to surf what I later heard
was p e r f e c t five-foot Topanga),
I rear-ended a station-wagon
full of Guatemalan cleaning women
on the way to the Beverly Hills mansions
they were to immaculate.
Coincidence maybe,
regardless, I felt that
the almighty Poseidon
had put some kind
of restraining order
on my surfing rights.
I decided to lay low for a while
and had been surviving
strictly on a surf-mag fix.
_____________________________________
When we got back to the house
after the funeral,
I began frantically searching....
the hall closet,
then the garage,
then the tool shed.
And finally found IT
behind the Jacuzzi pump
next to the pool.
I unfolded the yellow, moldy plastic.
A round, inflatable swimming pool raft
about four-feet in diameter
resembling a giant hole less donut
complete with a circle
of bright pink nylon rope
secured around the top of it
(to use as leverage
in case you encountered
any dangerous oceanic conditions
in your chlorinated utopia).
Joe (stoned as usual) came outside.
And after several minutes
of amusedly watching me
trying to inflate the damn thing
with my own breath, offered...
I think there's a compressor
in the garage, bro.
And soon I was running,
(holding the inflated raft
clumsily on top of my head)......
across the cotton field,
through the lemon orchard,
into The Reservation,
along the bank of the canal.
AND up the the long hill
until I was in front
of the double security fences
at the upper backside
of monstrous cement structure.
I frisbeed the raft over the first fence,
climbed it,
then tossed it gently over the second,
(this time barely clearing
above the sharp barbs).
And seconds later,
I was standing above the rushing,
funneling channel of water
leading to the drop.
I prepared to make my jump,
then hesitated.
I set the raft down,
walked along the ridge of the canal
to the top of the falls
and took a long, last look
down to the the bubbling cauldron
of frothy water at the base....
only imagining what actually lay underneath.
In the far distance,
I saw Niles and Joe charging
up the river bank- yelling as they ran,
both armed with about
a mile of safety rope.
As they got closer,
I realized Niles was shouting something
about the rake-spikes
and the possibility of drowning
in the current.
YOU COULD DIE, ASSHOLE !!!!!!!!!!!,
He shouted, barely audible
above the rumble of water.
THAT'S OK.!!!, I yelled back ,
I DON'T GIVE A FUCK !!!
Frenzied, I ran back to the raft.
And grabbing it,
hurled myself the ten feet
off of the vertical embankment
and into the racing
thirty mile-an-hour current below.
Landing on the raft,
but losing hold of the rope
that circumferenced it,
I was violently swept downstream
spinning like a top.
Dizzy and panicked,
I had only one conscious thought,
going STRAIGHT down
as I went over the top…..
or I'd surely be discovering truth
about the rake-spikes headfirst.
At the last second,
I somehow managed to get it together.
Getting hold of the rope,
I was able to stop the spinning
and was able to lift up the nose
and went straight over.......
SHHHHHHHHITTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I shrieked, flying down
what would be comparable
to dropping in at
100-foot Waimea Bay
(on a giant vinyl apple-fritter).
While my stomach was making
an ambitious attempt of escaping
up through my throat……
FFFFFFUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
my velocity was multiplying all the way down…..
SHHHHHIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTT!!!!!!!!!!
Below me somewhere through the spray,
I caught a millisecond glimpse
of Niles and Joe near the base
looking like cowboys
preparing to rope cattle.
By the end of the drop,
I had accelerated to the point
that the raft was not
even really connecting
to the water's surface.
With the point of impact
rapidly approaching,
I strained to make a last effort
to get the front of the raft up
as high as possible and.....
SWWOOOOOSSSSHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Like a ski jump
I blasted right up and over the top
of the bubbling aquatic chaos,
air born for at least fifteen feet
(safely above the submerged spikes)
and then sent skipping another 50 feet
like a thin stone on a still puddle
into the calms of the canal.
Several long seconds later,
my heat began beating again,
my emotion confusingly somewhere
between laughing and crying.
I ignored the rope
Niles and Joe
eventually tossed my direction
and the drone of falling water
began dissipating behind me.
I spent the next several hours
slowly drifting westward
underneath the cobalt Arizona sky;
alongside of citrus farms,
and waving Indian children .
And by cookie-cutter,
suburban track-home neighborhoods,
thinking about......
…what life would be like without Pops.
___________________________________________
Several months later,
I went to visit April, Zeus and Athena.
When I drove over the tiny canal bridge,
signifying the neighborhood's entrance,
I couldn't see ANY water
flowing down the dirt trenches
into the citrus groves.
I immediately got the dogs
and headed up toward
the cotton field trail
leading to the river.
For the first time
since I'd been coming here
Oxygen Falls was under repair,
the spillways shut, the river bed dry.
There were no rake-spikes.
CARCAVELOS BROWNS
I’m deaf now.
Completely deaf.
Except for the sounds
of my jaws chomping
when I eat and the sound
of my bones creaking
when I walk.
And sometimes I hear
a disturbing jingle-jangle
of something metallic.
I’m not sure what…
the coins in my pocket ?
or the BB’s in my brain?
Earlier today,
I was almost hit by a car.
Same as yesterday.
And the day before.
I’ve changed my mind
about liking silent movies.
I hate them now.
I’d once asked a deaf woman,
what it was like
to live in a silent movie
her whole life.
She said she liked it,
you didn’t have to
listen to people’s bullshit.
I realized now, that I really enjoyed
listening to people’s bullshit.
My Shangri-la has betrayed me.
My Utopia is brown not green.
My first impression of paradise
was an illusion created by a photographer,
a journalist and a world famous surfer.
Green Beach is the Portuguese Pipeline !
the article had shouted at me
with text and photos.
That was just twelve years ago,
a first and lasting image;
big, perfect super-green tubes.
Those solitary impressions
marinating around in my brain all this time,
had recently led me to make one of the most
drastic changes in my entire life.
THE MOVE.
The trans-Atlantic move to a town near
those picture-perfect green barrels.
But when I finally arrived
to my dream beach,
I made a sickening discovery.
Although the waves were
just as big, perfect and hollow
as the article had bragged,
the water was dark brown
(not bright green)
and it smelled like shit.
Because it was shit-
mostly raw sewage,
but also;
mud, oil, detergents, plastics, etc…
all whipped together
by the frequent swells
into a kind of bacteria cocktail.
I vowed never to surf there.
Never.
Never to even look at the place.
Instead, I began surfing
the less dramatic and less polluted breaks
north of Carcavelos along the Estoril coast.
But the waves along this stretch
of reefs and coves were generally
inconsistent and powerless.
In the meantime,
the Carcavelos pounders
pounded on and on……
day after day,
moon after moon.
Although I was often tempted,
I never ventured there again
even for a look.
But I knew deep inside
that the powerful tunnels
would eventually
lure me to test my abilities.
Like most riders throughout history,
in my own mind,
I was the best surfer of ALL eternity.
But how many winters
of strength and speed did I have left ?
How many winters
of real waves did I have left?
Ten or fifteen at the most.
No doubt I’d probably
be surfing until the day I died,
but on fat, slow boards
on small, slow waves.
A grandpa with nothing but memories
and an occasional Sunday afternoon surf
on a board big and thick enough
to support a floating hotdog stand.
…And the young punks
(never imagining that they themselves
will someday will be older
than they are
at that moment in time)
will laugh and point
and tell their girlfriends what a kook I am.
Nobody will be there to defend me.
Nobody will be there
to tell the young punks about the day….
A sturdy sixteen year old kid nick-named Granite
was the only person ballsy enough
to surf Resort Point during very biggest swell
California’s famous winter of ’83
(The El Nino year)….
….Or about another day
later in the same winter,
the same kid continued surfing
his home break
even after he’d spotted
the dorsal of a Great White.
But the waves were good,
he had later told the lifeguard
(who’d also spotted the rare visiting shark)
and had pleaded his return to the beach
for more than an hour through his megaphone.
No…the young punks
wouldn’t know about any of that…
…they also wouldn’t know
about the day years later
when Granite had encountered the legendary,
Kalani Jones
in a Kawaii convenience store.
And had later been invited
to surf a private reef break,
a sacred Hawaiian secret
with one of the Kahunas himself.
Just two soul kings,
a half a mile from shore
(before the crowded days of jets skis).
Nobody to impress
but themselves and the gods.
No, the young punks
wouldn’t know about any of that…
not any of it.
One morning, I woke up
hours earlier than normal
with an itch,
a kind of nervous tingling
in my bones.
The rain had stopped,
the sun was shining,
the clothes pins
on the laundry line
outside of my window
were slapping the panes
(this only occurred during an east wind).
I knew what it all meant,
especially the nervousness
inside my bones.
It meant WAVES.
I don’t know why.
I don’t know how
(With no surf reports
in the area existing
at that time to
aid my delusion..).
But with almost
one hundred-percent accuracy,
as if spiritually linked
with the almighty Neptune,
this strange fearful confusion
I sometimes felt
meant that the day, THIS day,
would be one of the few
in three-hundred and sixty-five
that the ocean would rebel;
sink ships, destroy houses, claim lives.
Although I was about to head
straight to the station
to catch a twenty-five minute express train
out to the coast,
I took a cold shower
to regain consciousness,
brushed my teeth.
and put a new leash on Olga.
She was beautiful,
a thin, plain-white 7’10” thruster pin
shaped by Almir Salazar.
A bigger, sleek board
for bigger, hollow waves.
Although it was nearly six months old
I’d only ridden it a couple of times before
(basically just to try it out),
it still looked and smelled new.
The fiber-glass still crack free and un-dented.
The train raced
alongside of the Rio Tejo,
out toward sea
and before we had
even reached the estuary
I could already see
huge rows of whitewater
foaming up the mouth of the river.
The fort-island
was being bombarded
as was the super-tanker
that was attempting to maneuver itself
into the channel and up river.
East wind.
Sunshine.
Deep cobalt-blue sky.
Under other circumstances
It could’ve been an ideal day
for a picnic.
I got off the train at Carcavelos station,
bought a coffee and a chocolate milk
and walked a quarter of a mile
through a still-sleeping suburban neighborhood
until I reached the beach.
Big walls of dark brown water
marched methodically toward shore.
And one after another
they exploded on the shallow
outside sandbar.
The east wind whistled,
suspending their lips mid-air
forming completely round,
mud-colored tunnels,
often blasting clouds of mist
out their side doors.
Water color aside ,
It was an incredible sight.
Horrifying,
but absolutely perfect.
Took my time
getting into the water;
studied breaking patterns
and currents,
inched my wetsuit on,
combed my wax to perfection,
and finally waded waist-deep
into the churning browness.
I began paddling.
It smelled d i s g u s t i n g.
Pollution so severe that
the water-density itself was different.
Less like water, more like soup.
Cream of Hepatitis soup.
Soon I was making my way through
the foaming rows of muck,
(leftovers of waves that had already
expended themselves on the outside bank).
But the bubbles of foam weren’t
of the everyday pea and cherry-sized variety,
some were size of grapefruits
and didn’t immediately pop
after a wave had passed,
possessing all the unique durabilities
that result from the random mixing
of piss, shit, gasoline,
oil, detergents, river mud
AND diluted blood
from a neighborhood slaughterhouse
that frequently took advantage
of the rainy season
to dispose of by-product waste
directly into the sewer system.
It took me forty-five minutes
just to paddle beyond
the endless walls of foam
and into the impact zone
where waves twelve and even fifteen feet
on the face where mercilessly slamming
into the sandbar, just
five feet below the surface.
I felt nauseated,
not only from the pollution,
but from motion sickness.
The swells were rising and falling,
lifting and dropping me
every several seconds.
But none of the waves
seemed approachable,
out-of -control,
with no obvious take-off spots.
I’d been paddling and bobbing
around out there
about an hour and a half
before IT finally came.
It appeared slower than the others
because it was much larger.
Its rise was a steady one, not as jumpy.
By luck, I was in perfect position.
I simply turned around, paddled twice
and slid in.
But suddenly
like a sledge hammer cracking a skull,
the wave hit the shallowest part of the sandbar,
completely concaving from lip to trough
And there I was,
in position for the biggest, best,
shit-brown tube ride of my entire life.
Crouching into an iron-legged hell-stance,
it PITCHED…swallowing me whole
like an aspirin tablet.
Dark in there,
no natural light
coming through the back of the lip,
just smelly opaqueness.
I aimed at the only route of exit,
the small golden light
at the end of the Hershey Highway.
But as it grew closer,
thousands of big, toxic bubbles
came floating up the wave’s face and into my path,
and for a millisecond
my fins lost traction.
Recovered my balance,
but the slide had cost valuable distance
and I was now too deep
to leave the shit tunnel graciously
No choice but to go down with the ship.
The glimmer of illumination
at the end of the colon
flickered, then faded completely.
And in pitch-blackness,
I was hurdled directly
into the calderon
just to get sucked over with the lip
and then obliterated in the impact zone.
The full weight of the wave
compacting directly onto on me.
Eyes closed, I was tossed around and around and around,
upside down in the Devil’s soup bowl
repetitively getting bounced
off the hard-packed sand bank.
Finally I was released from the force,
But where was I ?
Somewhere suspended in the sludge.
Like an idiot, I opened my eyes.
Burning blackness.
Dizzy and panicked, I swam and swam
and swam into nothingness…
finally switched course forty-five degrees,
and banged my head on the bottom
(I’d been swimming horizontally).
Pushing off with my legs,
I instantly surfaced thru
an eighteen-inch thick layer
of freshly blended
sewage-smoothie bubbles.
Gasping for a solid breath of air
I chocked on one and immediately vomited.
Defeated, and exhausted,
I swam for shore.
Olga was long gone,
already waiting for me
on the beach like a loyal dog
amongst a pile
of river garbage and tree branches.
But, except for the broken leash,
no damage done.
I walked up the beach and across the highway
to one of those quiet suburban houses,
turned on a garden hose
and rinsed off the shit and slime.
Changed back into my street clothes,
walked back to the station
and caught the train back to Lisbon,
got off at the last stop
and walked up the hill
toward Bairro Alto;
past bakeries, flower shops, shoe-shiners,
sailors, winos, dusty old hookers, drug dealers,
past the post office at Praca de Camoes.
Past the Brazilian Consulate,
up Rua da Atalaia and into my front door.
Two days later my ears began to hurt.
Two days after that I was deaf.
Stone deaf.
The star of my own silent movie.
_________________________________________
Ps:
It was three-months
and two surgeries later when
(less than half of)
my hearing was finally restored.
An already advanced
case of Exostosis combined
with severe double ear infections,
left one of my eardrums
rotten beyond repair,
described by my surgeon,
as fragile as a burnt curtain.
I eventually re-operated with one of the best
specialists in the US…and even he couldn’t
do much for me.
This was 1993,
and only two years later,
with newly received funds
from the European Union
the municipality of Caiscais County
did a MAJOR upgrade
on the sewer system
on this part of the coast.
It ain’t perfect,
but it’s a massive improvement.
The days of this kind of pollution
are long gone ..hopefully for good.
But the young punks
won’t know about any of this.
They’ll think Carcavelos
was always just the way it is now.
And on warm winter Sundays…
(never imagining that
they’ll ever grow a day older
than they are at that moment) …
…they’ll laugh
and tell their girlfriends
to check out
the kook with
the big thick board and
the waterproof hearing aid.
ZÉ DOS CÃES (Jose of the Dogs)
There were five people
sardined into the cab
of Duda’s pick up truck,
the back stuffed to the limit
with all sorts of shit;
sleeping bags, clothes,
a mountain bike, six surfboards
and wetsuits.
I was ecstatic just to be
on my way
out of Lisbon for a while.
Our destination, Sagres,
the southernmost corner
of continental Europe.
In the summer, a playground
for pink northern-Europeans
who flock to the Algarve
to take advantage of the
low prices and sunshine.
But in the winter, desolation,
rural beaches
and big, perfect waves.
Six hours later,
we arrived at
an old stone house
we’d arranged to rent.
Our arrival in town
was soon spread
to the local surfers
(all six of them),
Who dropped by
to give us an account
of the day’s waves.
Ze dos Caes, the leader
of the Algarve underground,
shows up with a Brick of hash
the size of a man’s wallet.
He cuts a piece off
and starts mixing it up
with the tobacco
of a Gudang-Gurang
clove cigarette.
We smoke and talk for a while.
Ze informs us that a swell
just arrived
and that he’d be by
tomorrow at a reasonable hour.
The next morning during predawn,
BAM ! BAM ! BAM!
On the window.
It’s Ze screaming,
Come on Pappas
it’s twelve to fifteen feet
with east wind..COME ON !!!
Nobody else even stirred
from their comas,
but after six hours
of attempting to sleep on
a ridiculously cold stone floor,
I needed something….
a coffee, a beer or some food.
We stopped at
an early morning
fisherman’s snack bar
for a juice and sandwich.
Afterward, I go to take a piss
and as I’m coming
out of the bathroom,
Ze says,
Let’s go…I already paid for you.
But as we’re getting into the car,
The owner of the snack bar
comes running out and says,
You forgot to pay AGAIN, Ze.
Maybe later,
Says Ze,
jamming the car
into first gear and screeching off.
SMACK ! BANG ! CRACK !
A hundred kilometers-an-hour
down a muddy dirt road
with puddles
you could drown in
and rocks the size of basketballs.
SMACK ! BANG ! CRASH !
We nail one of the them head on.
Ze gets out to inspect the damage.
The bumper and grill are Fucked,
mangled beyond repair.
He gives it a shrug.
Gets back in the car.
Throws it into reverse,
Does three full circles going backwards.
The jams it back into first.
And we fly and bounce
another ten or so kilometers
Down a road that ain’t no road..
Sliding to a hundred
and eighty degree stop
about a meter and a half
from a two-hundred meter vertical cliff.
We’d come upon
a panoramic view
of three surfing breaks.
Ze wasn’t bullshitting about the waves,
it was definitely
in the two-meter PLUS category
a not a soul around.
We wasted no time
negotiating our way down
an even worse road
eventually leading
to the beach below.
It was well past dawn,
but the
high cliffs were still casting
about a kilometer into the ocean.
Freezing,
we struggled into our wetsuits
and paddled out.
I was soon to discover
the answer to my previous night’s question.
Can this big, clumsy, gangly,
goofy, hash-toting
Algarvian even surf?
Ze caught the first wave
of the day,
a mean monster
nearly three times his height.
He took off
so dangerously close
to the rocks designating
the beginning of
this ridiculously long left,
that the bottom of the wave
wasn’t even water,
just a pile of boulders.
Then in a section where
most people would try
to outrun the wave
to the safety of the shoulder,
he cuts back
even deeper into the pit
and redirects himself
into a kitchen-sized barrel.
He gets absorbed by the big foam
Ball chasing him down the tunnel
Disappearing from my view entirely,
although I’m looking straight
into the tube from the channel.
The wave spits,
Ze comes flying out of the tube
not from the bottom
of the trough
where I was half expecting him to,
but up at the top of the concave
and is already skating
over the backside
of the huge green tube.
He lands it,
blasting through the turbulence
only slightly off balance.
To this day the most insane floaters
I ever witnessed (including films and video).
At this point
his wave passes me by
and I’ve got a four meter-set
staring at me right in the face….
(and) I can already see the top
of wave behind it
Getting frothy
and beginning to break.
The only way I can avoid
a serious amount of
violent punishment
is by taking the first one
and escape out of the impact zone.
I whip my board around
(a brand new 7’2”
perfect for conditions like these)
and start paddling
like a motherfucker for shore.
The swell lifts me up
into the sky
higher and higher.
I already on my feet
looking straight down
the huge face
squinting into the offshore wind,
I see Ze finishing his ride,
the beach the cliffs.
But at that instant,
the sun (revealed by the wave
lifting me so high)
comes blazing over the edge
of the cliff and directly
into my eyes.
I’m completely blinded
and floating through the air
with my feet still on my board.
Floating down, down.
The second I landed
in the trough,
that mother of a lip
landed on my head,
a no-mercy pounding
that kept me in
the washing machine
for fifteen-seconds or more.
Luckily, I was able to come up
for one gulp of air
before the second wave hit me…
which was powerful enough
to drag me most of the way
to the shoreline,
where I was assaulted by
two-meter high beach-ponders.
Exhausted, I made it to the beach,
my heart about to poke
a hole through my wetsuit.
On the outside,
Ze catches the first wave
of the next set.
Carves a deep bottom-turn ,
drives straight up the face,
bashes the lip vertically,
landing it weightlessly
just in time to get swallowed
by another huge tube.
After a few seconds
he comes out on
a gravy-train speed run
all the way to the beach.
He gets out.
Nice wave Pappas, he says mockingly.
A couple of hours later,
after a second session,
and unwelcome change
in wind direction,
we’re flying through
the pastures again.
Climbing a small blind hill,
we are road blocked
on the opposite by
a herd of two-hundred
grazing cattle.
They don’t move an inch.
But Ze just blares the horn
and speeds up even faster
weaving a maze
through the black,
brown and white monsters
almost killing us.
We clipped the horn
of one of the bulls,
leaving a new dent on
the already damaged right fender.
And continued
through the remainder
of the herd
Past the shepherd dogs,
past two stone farmhouses and
a hundred-and -forty-kilometers–per-hour
down the straight stretch
of slightly better road.
that led to
the Cabo St. Vincente lighthouse.
A small white car
is approaching us at
equally as fast,
but there is room
for passing on either side
and I’m sure Ze
has some kind of death wish.
Surprisingly at
the last possible safe moment
he abruptly slows it down
coming to a complete halt
and gets out to talk to the driver
of the other car.
After a few exchanged words
and a bro-shake
we’re following the white car
back in the direction of Sagres.
Who is that ? I asked Ze.
Joao Antunes, the best surfer in Portugal.
Oh yeah, yesterday,
you told me YOU were the best in Portugal.
I meant he’s the best BESIDES me…
anyway, he told me that Z-Point
is about two meters and glassy right now.
With an evil smile
plastered across his mug,
Ze cranks up the volume
on a Bad-brains cassette
and in about ten minutes
we’re at Z-Point looking
at some of
the most flawless waves
I’d ever seen.
A right semi-point
with Big, hollow but short,
green mothers
not far off shore- shore
four-meters on the face
with tubes seemingly big enough
to drive a Renault Clio through.
Antunes was already
in the water and
the only person out
and nobody was
on the beach yet.
The three of us
surfed alone for hours.
Wave after wave after wave,
tube after tube after tube.
Joao surfing with radical precision.
Ze surfing with reckless abandoned.
And me just surfing for survival.
Five dogs howled from the beach
as Ze took off on
the biggest wave of the day.
The wave was absolutely unmakeable;
an ugly, mutated, close-out.
But Ze , seemingly encouraged
by the cries of the pack of dogs,
hurriedly scratched his way in from the top,
free-falling down
the past-vertical face,
barely managing
to carve a big fat bottom turn
before getting obliterated by the lip.
Half of his board
washed up on the rocks
and was immediately retrieved by
The largest of the dogs,
a dirty-looking German Shepherd..
Ze had collected them over the years.
All strays that nobody cared about.
Ze was the only person who ever fed them.
They just sit on the beach and wait for him to come out of the water, Antunes told me.
By the time we get back up to the cars,
Ze was already engaged in
rolling a big, fat hash joint
and listening to the Doors
with his dog friends. He says to me;
Hey man, You’re from Los Angeles.
Do you know Jim Morrison?
Morrison’s from Los Angeles
He’s from New Mexico..
don’t you go to the movies ?...
…besides, he’s dead. Isn’t he?
The next several days,
were repeats of the first
with smaller waves
and a few other variations.
Ze came by every morning before dawn
( I was the only person
he could find to get up this early
on frigid mornings like these.
Like myself, he was an extremist,
but in a more destructive way.
BAM ! BAM! BAM !
Ze pounded on the window
at six am for our morning surf.
But it wasn’t six, it was eleven.
And it wasn’t Ze, it was Antunes.
How are the waves ? I asked.
HUGE, he says somberly,
Come on…I need to show you something.
We drove to Cabo St. Vincente.
Where there was a police car parked,
and nearby a cop and
several fisherman looking
over the cliff at what was left of
Ze’s dark blue, sixteen-valve
Volkswagen GTI
laying face down on the rocks.
The swell
had risen enormously overnight
and was now nearly six meters.
With the rising tide,
the mountains of water
soon began smashing directly
into the cliff itself,
completely submerging the car
and sending plumes of spray
almost to the top of the cliff.
Absolutely nothing could be done
until low tide when the wreckage
could be safely inspected.
The cop and the fishermen all split
returning back to their daily tasks.
THAT STUPID FUCKER !!!!,
I screamed to Joao,
ALWAYS DRIVING LIKE AN IDIOT
AND SHOWING OFF !!!!
You think this was an accident ?
he asked incrediously.
What do you mean ??
Look at all these tire tracks…
most of the old ones
are from Ze
when he driving stupid,
doing those
hundred-and-eighty degree slides
up to the edge of the cliff
he liked to do.
But look at these freshest tracks,
They go STRAIGHT of the cliff…
..SUICIDE ??? I said,
I don’t know about all that…
I think it was more
of a case that he drove
exactly the way he surfed.
Never thought things through.
Whether or not
he’d make it
from point A to B
or the consequences
if he didn’t.
Six hours later,
half of Vila of Bispo and Sagres
came back with the town cop
to see the wreckage
of the infamous Ze dos Caes,
but no car was to be seen.
The enormous swells
had washed the car
completely of the rocks
and back into
the abysmally deep water.
Here in this rural of an area,
no government official
was about to OKAY funding
for proper underwater equipment
to investigate
the suicide
of a delinquent
drug-addict.
After the funeral
we all stuck around
a few days
holding our own private service
at Z-Point….Ze’s domain.
Everybody who
considered Ze a friend
(and many people
who considered him a menace)
attended.
We smoked hash-joints
until sunset,
And watch Z-Point at its best,
as endless, unridden waves
peeled off the rocks
and seventy-five yards to the beach.
I’d known Ze
only a very short time,
but had felt in some way
he’d been like
a long lost brother of mine.
I wondered where Ze’s dogs
were at a time like this.
PALM TREE REEF
(portugal-winter ’97-’98)
First time in ten years
that I've lived within
walking distance of the beach.
And not just any beach, CARCAVELOS.
In the summer,
a beautiful, but crowded destination
for working-class Portuguese beachgoers.
The sand is clean and the
surface of the water lake-like.
But in the winter,
the wide belt of golden sand
almost entirely disappears
and is replaced by sea and river trash;
(Oil barrels, logs, hypodermic needles,
plastic tampon applicators,
dead fish and birds,
and the occasional dead dog or dead cow)
that get washed up
with an almost endless
succession of storms.
But more importantly
aside from the unwanted
addition of trash,
these storms
also bring with them
powerful well-shaped waves.
Carcavelos is one
of the best beachbreaks
in Europe.
No, it's not paradise,
but it used to be alot worse
when I first arrived here five years ago.
At that time,
it was polluted not only with junk,
but also raw sewage.
The authorities
have since rerouted
the sewage
(to ease strains on the tourism trade)
to a less accessible part of the coast
so now it's mostly the trash,
junk and dead animals
you've got to deal with.
Like I said, it's not Eden by the Sea,
but it sure as fuck beats
not surfing at all.
To maintain
my own personal equilibrium,
I need both
stimulating urban culture
and close access to rideable surf.
And THIS is as good
as a combination
as I'm likely going to find
anywhere in the world.
I'm a twenty-five minute train away
from the center of Lisbon.
I'm a fifteen-minute train ride from
the record company
(Valentim de Carvalho in Paco de Arcos).
And best of all,
a ten-minute walk
from Carcavelos.
I've even got an ocean view.
I can't actually see the waves
breaking from my window,
there is a small pine forest
(eagerly awaiting to become
apartment complexes)
blocking my vision,
but I can see the swell lines
on the bigger days.
Ritualistically,
I get up around dawn,
spark up some coffee and exit
(with blue ceramic mug in hand).
Elevator from the fifth floor
to the ground level,
cross the corner of the parking lot,
through a tiny park,
across a small road,
through the fields
between the Sao Goncalo Estate
and the N.A.T.O. building,
(this time of year the fields
are covered with a zillion
yellow sour flowers)
and across the coast highway
to see if Atlantida is in a good mood or not.
In Portuguese,
the word OCEAN is masculine,
but I know better than that,
She is PURE female,
a temperamental sugar-bitch.
I love her. I hate her.
She loves and hates me too.
She never lets me get too satisfied.
So I've got choice but to return daily.
Usually a thirty-second check
is all I need
to know if I'm going to ride
or not.
If it's on
I'll walk home,
suit up, wax up
and walk back to the beach.
If it’s no good,
I'll stay in and continue
to pretend being an artist
(like I've been pretending
for a long, long while now):
paint, sculpt, scribe...whatever.
Yesterday was too small to surf
and today was windy and rainy,
so I skipped the morning check altogether
and got to work on some new songs.
But at my big window,
(with pen in one hand
and microphone in the other),
a movement on the distant horizon
caught my attention:
A five-meter peak rolling off
some forgotten sandbank about
a couple of kilometers
out to sea above the tree tops. SHIT!
I get down there to take a look.
It's HUGE, out of control.
Windy and beginning to rain again.
Out of the question.
I stand there a good thirty minutes,
just feeling the ocean's anger,
then walk back on the muddy red trail
through the sour-flower covered fields
back home to the EMBRYO,
my laboratory of illusion.
I have a good day with the pen and mic
and hours disappear,
(a kind of cerebral holiday).
And about five in the afternoon,
I finally complete a rough draft
of a new idea.
For the first time since noon,
I take a good long look
out the window.
The rain had stopped.
The wind had stopped.
The sun shone through
a crack in the black storm clouds
and I had the urge, desire, whatever
to say goodbye, good afternoon, good night
to that bitch, that babe,
my lover, my sister, my mother
my friend, my enemy
my life, my death,
my gain, my loss,
my focus, my distraction,
my sport, my art,
The Ocean.
Back through the mud
with headphones on my dome
(lately, I'm more addicted
to sound than ever before.
If I'm not creating it,
I'm listening to it...CONSTANTLY).
I arrive at my usual check-out spot,
just over the small hill
looking across Marginal .
It's still huge,
but the texture of the surface
is now mirror-like glass.
The swell has somehow organized itself
during the last several hours
and perfect double AND
EVEN TRIPLE overhead rights
are dumping (absolutely SLAMMING!)
on what I call "Palm Tree Reef"
then reeling off into
a deep water channel.
Actually, Palm Tree Reef
is not a reef at all,
but a very sturdy sandbar
that never seems to relocate.
And there are no palm trees
on the beach either,
the palm trees are paintings.
The flat cement seawall protecting
the Marginal Highway (from swells like these)
is covered with
giant block-letter graffiti murals,
mostly from the same crew of artists
and all similar in style and color.
From the water looking back to land,
all the murals bleed together into an enormous
strip of intricately patterned wallpaper
stretching from one end
of the 2km long beach to the other.
And is only interrupted by two,
three-meter high brush-painted palm trees
about three quarters of the way
south of the beach’s center.
Easily visible from three-hundred meters
out in the ocean.
And Palm Tree Reef,
is located directly in front of them.
On days with excessive current,
it's useful to use the palms as a line-up marker
to make sure you'll be over the sandbar
and in position for the sets when they arrive.
Running back to the Embryo,
I slip in an oily-slick mud puddle
and land on my ass,
(drowning my two-week old Discman).
But seventeen-minutes later,
wet-suited,
with a freshly waxed 7'2"under my arm,
I'm back at the water's edge.
I'm anxious and ready to go,
but also weak and tired
from forgetting to eat all day
and downing cup after cup of black coffee.
But fuck it,
I'M OUT THERE.
The first wall of whitewater
rolls over me blasting about twenty liters
of icy Atlantic through my wetsuit
and pushing me back almost all the way
to the beach.
I make a little progress,
then another descends upon me.
Then again and again.
For every five meters of progress,
three meters were automatically deducted
with every coming wave..
ONE wave, TWO waves, THREE waves,
FOUR, FIVE waves,
coming in at about fifteen-second intervals.
But instead of coming in sets like most days,
(with lulls in between),
today they were marching in
one after another.
FIFTEEN.SIXTEEN.SEVENTEEN.
I began calculating the time
using the wave intervals.
EIGHTEEN. NINETEEN. TWENTY waves
(about five minutes, I thought).
Some waves were significantly bigger
than others and dragged me even father back.
And even though my arms
were beginning to feel like pudding,
I persisted.
THIRTY-ONE. THIRTY-TWO.
THIRTY-THREE. THIRTY-FOUR.
Number THIRTY-FIVE was lighter
than those preceding it
and I made double time.
THIRTY-SIX, FORTY-ONE, FORTY-SEVEN.
SIXTY-THREE was a nasty mother
that ripped the board out of my hands
and pushed me three meters
below the surface.
SEVENTY-NINE.
NINETY-FOUR.
ONE-HUNDRED!
One-hundred waves,
about twenty-five minutes I calculated.
My arms completely Jello
at this point,
but not about to quit.
ONE-HUNDRED TEN.
NOW GOING THROUGH THE IMPACT ZONE,
seemed like there was
more time between waves,
but when they landed they EXPLODED.
I lost my board several more times.
Exhausted as I was,
I became concerned for my own safety,
(glad I'd used the heavy-duty leash).
ONE-HUNDRED SEVENTEEN.
I ascended and descended the monster
without taking any water on the head.
Free at last
(sitting two-hundred meters off the beach).
The sun had already gone down
and most of the cars on Marginal
had already begun using their headlights.
I can barely make out the palms on the seawall,
but I can see that I'm about fifty meters
off my mark to the south,
so I start paddling up to the reef.
While I'm still in the safety of deeper water,
a bigger than usual group of waves appears,
stands up to attention,
then on after another
(like missles dropping out of a plane)
the payloads DETONATED onto the sandbar,
transforming millions of liters of water
into contorting black dinosaurs.
Then silence........
There was a long enough lull
to allow me to get situated just right.
But minutes later,
the black walls appeared again,
(the first one beginning
to break much farther out
than I'd predicted).
I scratched for the horizon
barely making it over
and saw the second wave,
slightly smaller,
but still
easily five-meters on the face.
She came right to me.
What could I do?
I RODE.
It was TOO easy.
The drop effortless.
And the water so smooth
my board cut the surface
like a surgeon's scalpel.
There was no tube on this one
but the wall was near-vertical
for the next 70 meters
eventually backing off in the channel,
where it reformed
into a long left across the inside.
This inside section alone
would've been a memorable
wave for me on any other given day.
I didn't offer much of a challenge
to my liquid sister,
just cruised,
letting her to do most of the work.
She took me all the way in.
I stepped off my board directly onto the sand
between an old tire and a dead seagull.
I walked up the seawall stairs
and up into the parking lot.
There were several people
in and outside of their cars
mostly upper middle-classers (betinos).
A couple of them nodded to me,
some smiled and others stared.
I nodded, smiled and stared back accordingly.
Had I met them before?
Were they in awe of my stupidity
(to be only the person
dumb enough to be in the water
on a night like tonight)?.
Had they been watching me
get the shit kicked out of me
by a hundred and seventeen waves
before being rewarded the payback?
Had they been watching too much TV
and seen one of my videos?
I'll never know.
But what I do know,
is that this afternoon was a gift
and mine alone,
a reminder to stick it out.
It's sometimes worth it to take
a hundred and seventeen failures on the head
for a few precious seconds of happiness
and accomplishment.
I crossed Marginal at the street light,
then back through the fields,
across the small road,
and tiny park.
and across
The complex's parking lot.
I tracked mud
through the building's entry way
to the elevator.
But the elevator was broken,
so I tracked mud all the way up
five-flights of stairs too.
(leaving at all of my beloved neighbors’
doorsteps a subtle reminder,
that I was among the living,
a survivor).
Scalding hot shower,
(even washed the mop that I call hair).
I Dressed.
Then split back out the door
to the station
and trained to town.
She met me at the station in Lisbon.
We ate at a restaurant in Cais do Sodre
amongst the druggies and whores.
We'd planned on going to a party
up at Soul Factory after dinner,
but by the time we'd eaten dessert
and had coffees
at Espaco Agora Student Center,
It was already two a.m.
Time passed quickly with her.
"Let's go", she said,
assuming I'd be sleeping over at her place
(I usually did on Sundays,
Monday being her only day off work).
"Can't....I gotta go".
I can see from her face
that she immediately
assumes the worst (another girl).
"I'm gonna surf early", I say,
"It's going to be EPIC".
She understands,
she SAYS, with a forced smile on her face
and walks me back to the station
before taking a cab to her crib.
When I get home,
I make the necessary preparations,
(get all of my shit together
for the dawn patrol):
wetsuit ready,
board waxed,
leash attached,
earplugs and dry towel on standby.
At seven a.m.
no need to check it,
(skip coffee too).
I'm out of the house trotting through the mud.
The wind is light offshore,
the sun is glimmering,
the tide (I know from looking at the chart)
is medium-low coming to high around ten a.m.
Gonna be classic.
My heart is pounding.
Fuck, I hope it didn't get any bigger.
But as I reach the hill I don't see any waves.
Great, (I think naively), there are lulls.
At least it'll be easier to paddle out today.
I wait for the green light
to cross Marginal
and into the parking lot.
I stand there for a few minutes
to survey the best peaks,
but none arrive
and No One is in the water.
But this time,
not to avoid danger,
but because it's dead calm.
LAKE FLAT.
"At least it's a beautiful day"
I say out loud
trying to reassure myself.
THE *%$#%$ ing Bitch !! !
Morocco is:
Morocco is:
The land of endless
right point breaks
Morocco is:
Blue skies, sunshine,
emerald green water,
cactus, palms, rocks, dust,
sand and wild flowers,
golden dawns and
psychedelic sunsets.
Morocco is:
Mint tea with two cubes
of raw sugar
and fresh bread,
bananas, figs and dates.
Morocco is:
Roadside fairs selling
every—thing from fly-covered
lamb carcasses
to Djalabas (the local attire)
and underwear.
Morocco is:
Vast Farmland being tilled
by camel-drawn plows.
Morocco is:
Hearing the ceremonial
Muslim prayers
five times a day
from a loud speaker
of the village mosque.
Morocco is:
Getting sunburned during the day
and getting the chills at night.
Morocco is:
Anxiously awaiting your first plate
of couscous in three years
and having the rest of
your traveling companions
craving burgers
at the new McDonalds’ in Agadir.
Morocco is:
A land without alcohol.
Morocco is:
Bathrooms without toilets.
Morocco is:
Goats that climb trees
and goats that eat garbage
who the get eaten by the people
who feed them the garbage.
Morocco is:
Being religiously careful
to avoid all tap water
and any questionable food;
getting sick anyway,
almost dying and missing
the best waves of the trip.
Morocco is:
Being on the beach of Tagazout
at night while the fishermen
are bringing in a huge haul
of squid
and seeing thousands
of shimmering eyes
still glowing phosphorescently
with life.
Morocco is:
Thinking your clever
for negotiating
the price of a two-pound,
raw turquoise necklace
from eighty dollars down
to fifty dollars
plus three used T-shirts
just to discover your friend
has just bought
an identical necklace
for only two T-shirts and no money.
Morocco is:
Where old shoes,
T-shirts and towels
are worth more than
you could’ve ever imagined.
Morocco is:
Getting hassled by the cops
so frequently you learn
just the right lies
to tell them to avoid problems.
Morocco is:
Getting rocks thrown at you
by angry Safi locals.
Morocco is:
Arriving at a small village,
on the way to the mountains,
and having forty
eager school children
run up to your van –
all with outstretched hands
saying, One Dirim?.
Instead of money,
you hand a couple
of T-shirts into the crowd
almost causing riot,
as they fight over property rights.
Morocco is:
The land of beautiful women
you will never get
a chance to speak to.
Morocco Is:
The native melancholy expression.
Morocco is:
Making friends with the villagers
and getting invited
to a barbeque cave party.
Morocco is: Waiting two hours to use the village’s only phone.
Morocco is:
The land of irregular angles
and glassless windows.
Morocco is:
The inner city labyrinths of Marrakesh.
Morocco is:
Out of the way rock shops
selling giant prehistoric
sea snail fossils
as big around as truck tires.
Morocco is:
Going inland on a small day
and discovering an oasis valley.
Morocco is:
Being on a snow-capped
Atlas peak and looking
down across the desert
all the way to the Atlantic.
Looking down to our feet
in the snow and seeing
thousands of bring red lady bugs
pepper-spotting the area,
freshly brought in
with the dry smelling Sahara winds.
Morocco is:
the land of
endless right point breaks.
ADVENTURES IN ADVERTISING
Part 1: Accidental Purists
Day 1:
It’s bizarre how time
can compress or expand,
depending on circumstances.
A mere micro-second
in the barrel can feel like a minutes.
Waiting for a delayed plane
can feel like weeks.
And for an unlikelycrew
of 29 individuals (ages 15-50),
traveling to mainland Mexico
to shoot the 2003 OP ad campaign,
a week was seemingly transformed
into several months.
For the first couple days,
it was just the seven of us,
a skeleton crew of photographers,
cameramen, art director,
and marketing folk
with the intention
of scouting locations,
and hopefully, surf.
But we’d missed the swell.
Wrong angle...
Wrong tides...
Wrong wind… Wrong coast...
Left as dismal substitutes
were 18-inch
marshmallow crumblers,
staggering drunkenly
across an exacto blade,
lava shelf completely
encrusted with thousands
of baby sea urchins.
And the water was too damn hot,
offering 0% refreshment
from the tropical madness.
Anyone over 95-pounds
was shit out of luck wave-wise,
but the chocolate-skinned
village groms
utilized the impotent dribblers
as a skate park,
each of them with repertoires,
including airs and reverses
(style hopefully will come in time).
One thing was for sure,
this was their break.
Age, ability, and size
were not taken into consideration,
of whom, they rode in front
and behind of.
They snaked all of us
and each other,
over and over again.
No pecking order
of any kind existed,
but up on the beach it
was all bro-shakes and smiles.
We had arrived
just six hours earlier.
An hour and a half, of which,
had been spent trying
to clear100 clothing samples
through customs
(finally achieved with cash bribes,
sweet talking and a couple of pairs
of corduroy walk shorts).
Another two hours
had been burned
digging our rented van
out of bottomless pothole.
And the remaining time
we’d been tap-dancing over urchins.
The trip already seemed doomed.
But at dusk, walking
up the hill to
our luxurious borrowed palace,
the methodical blink
of fireflies
began flickering like
a glimmer of hope
through thick vegetation
on both sides of the path.
I love those little flappers,
someone said,
Yeah,e too. We used to crush‘em
and rub the glow powder all over our faces.......
Yeah...I remember the time..........
Day 2:
More location scouting:
a deep jungle trail boogie,
climaxing with
a wade through a putrid,
mosquito-larvae infested mud pond.
The rewards?
A clean white sand beach
and 2-4 foot glassy but gutless rollers.
Enough scouting -- we surfed.
Once again,
local kids were
on everything in sight.
I wondered if they even realized
that by taking turns
they’d have even more fun.
I was stoked to see,
the campaign’s lead shooter, Colin Finlay,
(who I’d known only by photographic rep
and had no idea was even a surfer),
catch one of the better waves
and milk it to the sand.
New arrivals began trickling in
later that afternoon.
Our final group equivalent
the size of an independent
feature film crew:
7 pro surfers
(an injured Tim Curran among them),
2 swimsuit models
(one of whom, Ana Paula Limez,
wanted to surf just as much
as the contract riders),
2 makeup artists,
2 clothing stylists,
1 designer,
3 photographers,
2 cameramen,
1 art director,
1 V.P. of marketing,
2 marketing coordinators,
2 cooks and our host family,
the Taylors.
In the morning,
our two Californian chefs
drove an hour
out of their way to
the Sam’s Club in Vallarta
to buy 60 pounds of frozen fish.
FROZEN FISH???
Here we were,
located at the goddamn
fisherman’s Bay of Plenty,
and the mofos are driving
to buy fish imported from Chile.
The next few days
could technically
be considered work,
but with cool people
in a beautiful setting,
the atmosphere was not exactly stressful:
shooting film, taking photos,
getting sun burnt,
avoiding giant flying ants,
sweeping scorpions out of our rooms,
scooping beatles
the size of potatoes
out of the pool,
drinking Pacificos
and attempting to find waves.
You tend to talk a lot
on a trip like this,
plenty of down-time,
transport time
and time to hear
people’s own versions
of their own life stories,
(not just what you
have learned through
the grapeweed
or read in surf magazines).
Among us were:
celebrated pros,
big wave hell raisers,
glowing hot upstarts,
underground film makers,
an award winning photojournalist,
and two voluptuous sex symbols.
But considering the talent roster,
egos were at an all time low.
Barriers were broken.
Groms and veterans
had the same rank and file
(and equal opportunity
to ride shotgun
on wave checks).
Lately it seemed,
I ‘d been surrounded day to day
with people who just “talk stuff”,
their whole lives devoted
to the pursuit of material subsidies.
That shit gets old after a while,
downright boring.
But people here
were having real conversions
about real things;
waves, travel, music
and relationships.
(What else is there?).
This was group therapy.
The Breakfast Club,
estilo Juevos Rancheros.
Five days (or was it months)
into this sojourn,
a distant tropical depression
(that we’d barely
been paying attention
to by weather reports)
was now a Category 3 hurricane
a couple of hundred miles
off somewhere.
Enough to send
our pink-bellied cooks
scrambling to the airport
to get the hell out of Dodge.
With empty stomachs,
the rest of us took it all in stride.
But by the next morning,
the system was
now being reported
as a Category 5
and predicted to hit land
in the exact vicinity of
our low-lying adopted village,
Sayulita.
Although not yet
an official evacuation,
it was strongly advised
that we relocate an hour south
to Puerto Vallarta
into the protection
of Bahia de Banderas.
Facing northwest
and protected by high headlands
to the south,
hurricanes had never
entertered the sheltered bay.
Departure was set for eight pm.
With a little light left,
a few of us
snuck down the hill
for a few softies
in front of the village
(the water still too warm, s
till nicking our feet
on the rocks and urchins, a
nd the lineup still infested
with neighborhood kids
demolishing every ripple in sight).
The hurricane warning
had to be a hoax,
the swell had actually decreased.
Sean Taylor’s birthday tonight:
we ate soggy grilled lobsters
and cake and sang
happy birthday
before stockpiling
into four vans.
Most of us had arrived
on separate planes
in phases as strangers,
but we were leaving
as a single tribe
of brothers and sisters.
The southward journey
was a smooth one,
moonlit tropical perfection.
The kind of night made for driving,
we could have kept
going all the way to Guadalajara......
and we should have.
Most of the hotels
were completely booked,
but we eventually ended up
in the Sheraton’s
rock-star marble lobby,
cramming into elevators
en route to our assigned rooms.
Some people crashed early,
but true insomniacs
migrated to the halls.
It was, after all,
Sean’s 18th birthday (
and Holly Beck’s 22nd
was just a couple of days away).
AND we had escaped the storm!
This justified celebration.
Taxis to old town Vallarta,
like a mass of tourists
arriving by cruise boat,
we completely overran
one of the nearly empty
ocean front bars,
(the staff ecstatic at our arrival).
On the ride down,
I’d overheard Sean
ask volumptous model Sarah Stage
what she was giving him
for his birthday.
What do you want?, she asked.
A lap dance, he said.
“Ok”, she responds. “
I’ll buy you one
as soon as we get to town.”
But in the end,
Sarah had her way.
It was Sean
who ended up
giving her the dance
(women rule the universe).
The metallic sounding techno
didn’t vibe well with our crew,
and some people
segregated straight off
to the pool table,
but Jamo Pibram went upstairs
and threatened the DJ,
ensuring bass-heavy,
bumping hip hop joints
for the remainder of the evening.
Two For One drink specials
were rampant,
meaning they just diluted them
twice as much
(but all of us at least grooving
on a psychological buzz).
Pretty OP marketing coordinator,
Nikki Larsen had to fight off
several locals that
were hovering about
trying to stick to her like glue....
(she’d received two separate
marriage proposals
by the end of the evening).
And people
you wouldn’t have expected
to even dance at all,
were throwing down moves
that would’ve made Travolta
sweat with envy.
Filmmakers Mark Jeremias
and Jason Baffa were solid standouts,
but wild man,
Bron Heussenstamm dominated.
Four hours later,
emerging outside into light rain,
I overheard the doorman saying
the hurricane was already
300 kilometers north of us.
We’d survived.
Part 2: The Greatest Show On Earth
We were all up early
considering the near all-nighter
we’d just pulled.
It was still raining,
not a particularly impressive rain,
but now there was wind.
And instead of being lake flat
out in front the hotel,
there was now two-foot shore pound.
It’s starting, prophesized
the shoot’s art director Eric Crane
over orange juice in the lobby bar.
We ignorantly watched
in amusement
as the swell size
and wind velocity
both quadrupled
in about an hour.
On the way back upstairs,
we bumped into North Carolinian
power-styler, Matt Beauchump,
the only person among us
who had ever even been
near a hurricane.......
See those waves, he said,
in about three hours
they’ll be breaking
through the lobby.
Like disbelieving peasants
listening to Noah’s promise
of the great flood,
we disregarded
the information
as pure fantasy.
But minutes later,
the storm was already
kicking the shit
out of the tile rooftops
and palm trees.
And suddenly
the whole thing just snapped!
The waves, wind
and rain seem
to hyper-accelerate
in a single second.
Downpour charged the hotel
in grey opaque blankets
of solid water.
The initial gust of wind
blew out a couple
of 4x6 foot hallway windows.
And like giant liquid teeth
trying to swallow the entire coast,
monster Teahupoo-esque
mud grinders
greedily devoured
the sandy beach away
in a matter of minutes
and were now gnawing
on the cement walkway
leading to the back entrance
of the Lobby.
Surges of muddy white water
rushed up the lawn,
across the pool
and right up
against the building.
This monumental rise
in tide level soon brought
the waves in even closer.
Incredulously we watched
the hotel’s beachfront restaurant
get completely demolished
by a single, three-story wave,
(its fifty foot high palapa
popped like an enormous
palm leaf pimple).
Eight foot walls of whitewash
were now going
right through the hotel’s lobby,
stripping bricks off the walls
and plaster off the ceiling.
And pushing EVERYTHING,
including: sofas, computers,
lawn chairs, refrigerators,
pots and pans, palm trees,
sand, mud, rocks
and garbage
completely through the building
and out the front doors
into the muddy swamp
that used to be the parking lot
and tennis courts.
At this point,
security came through
the corridors instructing
everyone to go up to the 7th floor.
Phone, electricity and water
were long gone.
And we’d also just been informed
there was a gas leak.
The elevators being disabled,
we used the service stairwell.
With horrific sounds
of the flooding taking place
only a couple of floors below,
the walk up the pitch dark stairwell
resembled a scene from
The Poseidon Adventure.
On the 7th level,
we passed an open room
where most of the hotel’s staff
were sitting on the floor
holding hands in a circle
and praying.
This image,
more than anything else,
began to plant seeds
of real fear within our group.
We all packed
into a single room
where trip supervisor,
Michael Marckx, did a head count
and came up a couple people short
(only hours later did we learn
of our friends whereabouts).
Two natural gas containers,
both the size of station wagons,
got ripped off of the roof off
the hotel’s garage (
where they’d been bolted down)
and flew away like balloons.
One punctured on landing,
the pressurized vapor output
spinning it down the street like a giant top.
Because of the hotel’s
diagonal angle to the beach,
it was possible
to watch the storm
from the hallways’, retracted,
windowless balconies.
With the wind rushing sideways
past us at 130 mph,
we still remained in relative safety.
But down below, some of
the outer lower level walls
of the Sheraton’s
pyramid-shaped structure
began crumbling
like graham crackers in wet milk.
No chance of leaving at this point.
And nowhere to leave to.
Debris flying through the air.
The surrounding area totally submerged.
No swimmer on earth
could have survived the water that day.
Although there was no screaming
or hysterical outbursts
among our crew,
we all knew there was
a significant possibility
that the entire hotel could go down.
Built on sand
with low grade cement and bricks,
each gargantuan lip
landing out on the lawn,
set shudders up the building’s spine.
Peoples’ personalities
began to shift under crisis. S
some of the maids and attendants
began freaking out and crying,
others began looting supply cabinets
and guest rooms.
Even the Wonder Grom,
(15 year old, straight-A student,
wave-shredder), Erica Hoessini,
hungry and thinking
it was all over with,
karate kicked (and shattered open)
a glass mini-bar door to retrieve
what she thought was sure
to be her young life’s last Snickers Bar.
Hypnotized by the entire spectacle,
most of us couldn’t
stop staring at the ocean.
This was not the ocean
we had grown to love,
this was an ocean possessed.
When the bigger sets crashed,
warm water spray
from the colossal white explosions
splashed our faces
way up on our seventh floor balcony.
If the high tide
and storm surge continued
to rise and the hotel itself
took the brunt force of even
a single 20 foot set wave,
it would've loosened the building
from the sand it rested
and could have set
the Vallarta Sheraton
teeter-tottering down
into a pile of mud, bricks,
and cheap cement.
But it didn’t !
The extreme tide
began to drop,
slowing
the ceaseless bombardment.
The swell diminished
and the rain and wind lessened.
The once immaculate
poolside flower gardens
began to reappear
as broken trees
and twisted metal,
eventually revealing
the swimming pool
(completely filled to the coping
with sand, stones,
mud and lawn chairs).
The whole entire episode
had lasted no longer
than four hours start to finish,
from 9am orange juice
until the storm
had completely passed us
(heading north
to obliterate the city of San Blas).
Our missing friends
reappeared unscathed.
The sun came out
and clean-up crews
with bulldozers arrived
to begin making
the roads passable again.
And as far as we heard,
there were (unbelievably)
very few human casualties
in the entire area.
Our vans were still half-submerged
in the parking lot,
(all eventually started).
Walking several blocks inland,
we saw familiestrekking
through the mud
with all of their possessions
and animals in tow.
We saw jet skis and boats laying
in the middle of the streets
alongside of logs and rubbish.
We passed a weddingdress shop
that had been flooded
with muddy runoff
and had now completely drained.
The 11 dresses being displayed
on vintage mannequins
were each equally dyed to the hip
with red mud.
We bought snacks
in an air conditioned supermarket
that had survived without a incident
(only 1/2 mile from where we had been).
WE personally had seen
the worst of it all.
Actuall,y as far
as Vallarta was concerned
the destruction was very localized.
Because of the Sheraton’s
severe damage,
we were again forced to relocate
like a band of caravanning gypsies.
But by sunset,
we were all swimming
in a beautiful lapis-tiled pool
and ordering pina-coladas
and smoothies from the sunken bar.
Everything decadently perfect
except for the smell of dead fish.
The storm,
although not visibly damaging
this resort,
had killed most of the fish
in the golf course ponds
and the stench
was beginning to waft its way
over to us,
(the only indication here
that there had been a storm at all).
Had it really even happened?
This morning seemed like a week ago.
Last night seemed like last year.
The longest 24 hours
any of us could remember.
The next day shooting resumed as scheduled.
THE FORGOTTEN FOUR
There are no waves there…
there are no beaches.
Not exactly encouraging,
but in this case considered a lead.
My L.A. neighbor Cristina Casmiro,
telling me this now,
had said exactly the same thing
about her native island Pinheiro
three years ago.
I’d ignored her warning,
gone looking for surf anyway
and ended up SCORING.
This time the inquiry
was not about Pinheiro,
(the main island in the chain of five),
but of the much smaller
“forgotten four”
located a hundred miles to the south.
Two of the islands
were strangely absent
from one of the three world-class atlases
I’d purchased.
And although each
over five miles long,
none of the four
were even individually named,
appearing only as Ilhas Abandonadas.
Cristina was the only person
I’d ever met
who had even seen these islands.
As a teenager,
she’d been there a few times
on her Dad’s fishing boat
and had described them to me as:
Narrow, very mountainous,
with steep, near vertical cliffs
falling directly in the sea…
with NO waves.
But I wasn’t convinced the place
was a complete write-off.
Fourteen hours out of California
and three hours off
the European continent,
I landed on the mother island,
and was now heading
toward the docks
to meet Gustavo,
a forty-something year old fisherman
Cristina had put me in touch
with by internet.
Via-email,
he’d already agreed
to take me to The Forgotten Four
and I’d already agreed to the fee,
but first impressions were not solid.
The guy looked liked a junky…
and his boat even junkier;
an open 15-foot wooden skiff
with a small outboard motor attached.
No cushions. No lifejackets.
Hardly an ocean-worthy vessel.
But hell, the guy had lived this long, right ?
Gustavo wanted to leave at sunset,
but it was still only about 5pm,
Vamos jantar ? (let’s eat ?), he suggested.
We entered a small,
whitewashed restaurant
where he obviously had history
with the toothless girl
behind the counter.
And judging from the way
they goo-goo eyed each other,
that was probably
his basketball in her tummy.
He introduced me
to the girl me as,
Americano
(fucking bastard had already
forgotten my name).
She brought us a huge
ceramic pitcher of red wine
and a cheap three-gallon,
plastic fishing bucket
full of about a hundred rock-barnacle,
snail-type creatures.
Tiny sea-fleas jumped out of the bucket
and on to the table
as my honorable captain
showed me the proper way
to eat live “lapas”
……scrape them out of their shell
using another shell
and throw them down your throat
before they have a chance
to crawl away.
Two strangers playing a kind
of gastronomical version
of Russian Roulette,
competing who could eat the most.
It was pretty sick
to tell you the truth,
the endless supply of wine
making it only slightly more bearable.
But in Pinheiro…do as the Pinheirenses.
As we approached
the bottom of the bucket,
I looked around the small dining room.
Most of the other clients
were eating Lapas too,
except theirs were cooked
and served on blue and white plates
and covered in melted butter,
lime juice and salt.
Gustavo started giggling like a sissy,
with the girl right by his side,
about to have an asthma attack.
Some of the other eaters
were cracking up too.
It wasn’t the first time
they’d played this joke.
Of the four isles,
three had never
even been inhabited.
The fourth (the southernmost)
had supported a fishing village
of about three hundred
and fifty people until 1989
when an earthquake
and following mudslide
killed thirty residents
and buried most of the town.
Most of the survivors left.
Some went north to Pinheiro.
Most migrated to the Americas.
But a core crew of about twenty stayed,
shoveling mud for months,
Surviving on subsistence farming and fishing.
Clear calm night
with about a zillion stars.
For the first couple of hours
we stayed in the swell shadow
of the main island,
then crossed behind
the Abandonadas
where it was even calmer.
Sheet glass.
In the half-moon light
we could see their silhouettes,
all continuing segments
of the same submerged mountain chain,
each separated by
only a couple of hundred yards
mirroring off of the oceans surface.
One of those rare visuals that are
so beautifully real ,
they appear to be false
like a soundstage at a
Hollywood movie studio.
At dawn we chugged
into a small transparent inlet.
Two tiny boats were dry-docked
on the rocks.
Behind them,
a red dirt trail zigzagged
up the mountain,
disappearing into
almost fluorescent green growth.
After ten hours at sea,
Gustavo didn’t even get
out of the boat to rest
or eventake a leak.
The place is cursed
he’d said repititivley .
We’d agreed to meet here
at the cove seven days from today.
What was left of the village
was located on the opposite side
of the island,
a thirty-minute walk.
But thirty-minutes in Gustavo-time
was really two and a half hours
of steep traversing
just to reach the summit.
From the perch off the island,
it felt like standing on the hump
of a colossal sea monster.
Surveying from north to the south,
it was easy to see
both west and east sides
at the same time.
On the east, lake-like calmness.
But on the west…lines.
Not big, but consistent.
Traveling all the way
from the northernmost Atlantic
to be wasted along the base
of a thousand-foot cliff.
But about a third of the way
down the island
was a flat low-lying peninsula
extending out from the cliffs
for five-hundred yards,
(the result of thousands years
of seismic dismantling).
The wind was onshore
and the tide a little too high,
but rolling down opposites sides
of the flat were surfable right
and left point waves.
On the peninsula itself were
the carcasses of about fifty
black, lava-rock houses
that had laid abandoned since 1989.
And about ten other homes
painted in white.
The black ones had no roofs a
nd were all at least half- strangled
by the overgrowth.
But the white houses,
those closest to shore,
had red clay shingles
and were surrounded
by immaculate gardens.
Olaaa! cheered a baritone voice
scaring the shit out of me.
The smiling brown man
with ridiculously large ears
introduced himself as
Antonio, a resident farmer.
I identified myself as
Pappas, a traveling….student.
BEM-VINDO, he greeted
as if I’d been an expected guest,
Vamos almocar ! (let’s lunch!)
he proclaimed.
We arrived at Antonio’s
two-room home
where his wife Luisa
was preparing a communal meal
for all fifteen residents of Atalaia Island,
(the place had a name after all).
Potato soup mixed with red wine
and LIVE lapas !!!
Gustavo
and his prego-bellied accomplice’s joke
hadn’t gone to waste,
it had been training.
Luisa was complaining
that ants that had gotten
into the bread dough.
Are there ants on the mainland,
young man ?, she asked me.
Believe it or not, s
he’d never been to the mainland,
or even up to Pinheiro.
With my new friends
looking on in approval,
I casually downed about twenty
of the biggest lapas on the table
(bridging both the language barrier
and generation gap in a single sitting).
Hadn’t slept in days
and was about to drop.
Prepared to camp,
but they weren’t haven’t it,
insisting that I stay in the large stone shed
that had once housed the island’s padre.
______________________________________
In the nocturnal depths of delusion,
the lapas were breeding
in my stomach,
Trying to take over my body
from the inside out…
Whack !!!
The first shot rang.
Whack !!!
I was on my feet.
WhackK !!!
What the….???
WHACK !!!!!!!
Sounded like a Texas-style hail storm.
I inched the door open.
The storm was coming
in from the East.
WHACKK !!!!!
Whizzing by in a vacoom,
fist sized raindrops were
exploding like small water balloons.
In addition, the wind was carrying
small stones off the top of the cliff
and a quarter of a mile down to my roof top.
When it rains here, it rains rocks too.
But by daybreak
both wind and rain had stopped.
And by lunchtime,
the right was doing
a pretty decent impersonation
of overhead Swami’s…..
(with no other surfer or surfboard
around for a hundred miles).
It’s always freaky surfing
somewhere where no one surfs.
No one’s around to tell you
where to get in and out of the water,
which tides will kill you
or warn you of any antagonistic sea life.
I tried paddling out at the micro- cove
just south of the village
and was violently swept farther south
toward the cliffs.
From there the only way
too get out would’ve been
paddling down the entire length
of the island,
around the tip and back up
to the boat cove on the other side.
Six miles with current.
Fuck that.
I took the foam straight back to the rocks,
walked up a quarter of a mile
to the beginning of the left,
paddled through an assault of white water
and found myself being pulled
into good position for the right.
A few ceiling high waves
came through.
I snagged one thinking
it would be an easy down- the line run
and got slammed.
A LOT faster than it looked.
Makeable, but not
from the absolute outside.
Paddled down a-ways,
found my groove and started gettin’ busy.
A year’s worth of quality waves
in a single afternoon.
The next morning,
I rode the middle left
in front of the salt pond.
Softer-shouldered
but connecting all the way to the inside.
Unfortunately, the wind
kept shifting directions.
Offshore. Onshore. Side shore.
Offshore. Onshore. Side shore.
I’d be ready to get out of the water
and then it’d switch offshore again
or go glass.
I’d been ignorantly assuming
That the primary swell direction
this time of year was always from the North,
but this swell filling in definitely
had southern orgins.
And the following,
the right revealed it’s hidden personality.
Meaty and bowling hard.
The waves now launched you
down the point like a catapult.
Felt myself going faster than I had
in a long, long time
with little effort of my own.
For this reason, it was difficult
to stay deep enough
to get really barreled.
A couple of nice slots though,
got slaughtered on a few too.
Saturday: small
(the swell window
is really small here).
Up on Pinheiro,
these 24-hour swells were actually three-dayers and
probably twice the size.
New arrivals today
from the main island;
a family that had left after the
earthquake-now back
for their annual vacation along with their kids
(the daughter, an exotic twenty year old).
Because the shore
was too steep and jagged
for beach-going,
the spot to hang
was a fifty-foot strip
of black sand
on the village side of the salt pond.
One of the most euphoric days
in my life…eating fish
and gulping down wine
and firewater
with nineteen kindred souls
in the Garden of Eden.
I never return to places
I’ve experienced real magic.
And after only a couple of days
on Atalaia,
I already knew I’d never
be going back there.
You never know if it’s the place itself
that’s incredibly special,
or that small envelope in time
you spend there.
You walk around through life
with these amazing Technicolor memories
(it’s all we really have in the end)
and if you go back
and it’s not the same,
it’s destroys everything preceding.
The sun disappeared
and a big fire was lit.
Expecting someone to fetch a guitar,
I was amazed
when four large African jimbaes
appeared out of old Mr. Campos’ hut.
The men drummed.
And Luisa, Mrs. Campos,
the newcomer wife
and her babe daughter
hauntingly sang to all
who had been lost at sea.
Looking like voodoo goddesses
under a silver moon,
these were Ulysses’s sirens reincarnated.
Being in old dialect,
I didn’t understand
many of the words,
but it was enough
to get my spine tingling.
MOMENTS OF INSANITY: PART 1
(Jan 3, 2006)
Woke up this early morning (Tuesday)
to check the surf as usual.
There were no waves.
It's summer in Rio de Janeiro,
not totally surprising.
But there was also no sun,
the sky dark with cloud cover
and only about seventy degrees outside
(a huge drop from
yesterday's blistering Ninety-Five).
I'd actually been waiting
for a day like this since moving
here from California
about four weeks ago.
I walked up the street
to Sendas supermarket
and bought three big
bottles of water,
went home,
put a package
of sesame-seed crackers
and some of ripe pears
into a couple of zip-lock bags,
tossed them into an old backpack,
got my surfboard
and walked the three blocks back to the beach.
I counted seventeen women along the way
(two were beautiful).
I began to paddle
from Lifeguard Tower 11 in Leblon
all the way out to the first of the Cagarras,
a cluster of uninhabited islands,
located several miles out in front of Rio.
One of the reasons,
this excursion had to happen
midweek was because
on summer weekends
several cruise boats a day
passed through this exact body of water
between the islands
and the beaches
of Ipanema and Leblon.
I doubted very seriously
in my ability to outrun one
or even get out of the way
of one if I had to.
Once in a rare while,
I'd see one pass by during the week too,
but those were odds I could live with.
I'd already predicted it
to be a long-ass haul
and had expected it to be
a lot farther than it looked,
but it ended up being
infinitely farther than even that.
Took two-and-half hours
of straight, open-ocean paddling
just to get out there.
Like I said, there wasn't much
swell activity today,
but the southern flowing current
was significant enough
that I kept having to readjust my aim
to avoid missing the islands altogether
and drifting out to sea
(The next dry land mass
being the Africa Continent,
thirty-eight hundred miles away).
At about the halfway point
I passed an area that was
literally a minefield
of grapefruit size
(and colored) jellyfish.
The water looked almost black,
reflecting off
the darkly overcast sky and
the orange invertebrates
seemed electrically illuminated.
As gingerly as I maneuvered
through them,
I still ended up brushing up
against three or four,
but for whatever reason I wasn't stung.
Sporadically,
yard-long barracudas
(being chased by who knows what?)
would rocket out of the water
and fly five or six feet
before noisily splashing down,
adding further to
the illusionary frontline ambient.
There was also an abundance
of freshwater plants
floating around that had been
flushed out to sea
from recent violent rains
providing even further tactical difficulties.
After making it through the war zone,
the sea current started
pulling much stronger
but was now going northward
in the opposite direction.
I had to change my general overview
several more times just to stay on course.
In the end,
I was really grateful
I had waited for a day
without much undulation
to attempt this voyage
for the first time.
Ten big, sinister-looking, black,
skin-headed vultures
started flying circles
about thirty-feet above me.
Was I really that out of shape
that I was already
looking like dinner to these bastards ?
I started paddling faster
and screaming at them in defiance
when my right hand
slammed into MEAT !!!
Big and heavy
it was either a dead dolphin..
or HUMAN
(too smooth-skinned for be a shark).
I was too freaked out
to stop and investigate,
I got the hell out of there!
And was thankful to discover
that the vultures
were definitely
more interested in it,
whatever it was,
than me.
Every several minutes,
I'd look back shoreward.
Where I'd see commercial airliners
appearing and disappearing behind
Bored Jesus Mountain
on their way to and from
Galeao Airport in Zone North.
And police helicopters
constantly transiting back and forth
from between the city center
and the general area
the Rocinha and Vidigal ghettos.
High-caliber,
leftover New Year's Eve fireworks
were periodically being detonated
from different parts of the city,
billowing plumes of contrasting white smoke silhouetted by charcoal gray
cloud cover,
their audibility
gradually fading away
into the distance along with the
visibility of city details.
Getting closer to my destination,
I began to realize that,
in terms of average height
and circumference,
the size of palm trees
on the opposite sides of the island
did not match up,
although they appeared
to be of the same species.
All these weeks
I had thought that
the closest island in the group
was mostly long and flat
with a single high peak on one side
covered by significant vegetation.
But what I'd actually been observing
was two different islands,
a long and flat one
being visually montaged (by distance)
behind the smaller, but taller more lush one.
The other five islands,
were separated by greater distances
and were obviously independent
of each other.
I realigned my aim
for the hundredth time that day
to guarantee arrival on
my now smaller target.
About two-hundred yards out
I passed through an area
of much clearer, colder water.
FIFTEEN degrees colder!
FULLSUIT COLD.
Summer in Brazil?....weird.
Finally,
with my head pounding out
a little melody
(trace brain damage from
my-first-New-Year's-Eve-
in-Rio-de-Janeiro-hangover
a full two days earlier)
and my arms burning
with new found soreness,
I arrived to my own private paradise.
I later learned
that all seven of these islands
had individual names,
but had actually been told
the exact opposite by one local resident
a few days earlier.
This island, MY ISLAND, was called PALMAS.
The longer and flatter one,
a half mile behind it
(that I'd mistaken as part of this one)
is ILHA COMPRIDA
or in Gringo language, Long Island.
Palmas is about a ¾-of-a-mile-around
seemingly solid granite oval dome
capped with lush tropical jungle,
hosting about a thousand Royal Palms.
How long it took for enough dirt to collect
on top of a smooth protruding surface
for even a single insignificant plant to take root
and kick off the whole soil making process
.who the hell knows?
I once read that
something like a trillion pounds
of dust a year
gets kicked up into the stratosphere
by windstorms in the Sahara
and eventually transmigrate
over the Atlantic and get peppered
down onto Amazonia
courtesy of daily rainfall.
We are at least two-thousand miles
south of those wind patterns
but maybe a couple of dozen ounces
managed to make their way
down here over the course
of say 65,000 years
and began compacting
on the top PALMAS
and its six immediate island neighbors;
COMPRIDA, ROTUNDA,
MATIAS, PRACA ONZE, CAGARRA
and FILHOTE DE CAGARRA.
Guess that's as good as explanation
as I have to dwell on
for the short -term.
The shore was really steep
And in my delirious state,
I had a difficult enough time
just getting myself out of the water.
But making things
even more pleasurable,
I nicked my knee on a pincushion
of submerged sea urchin spines.
After three or four attempts
I finally managed to crawl up over
the thousands of dormant dry barnacles
and stand up straight.
With my arms victoriously raised
high above my head
I let out a hideously loud
master-of-the-universe Tarzan yell
that was probably heard as far away as Copacabana.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Then silence.
I chugged
a liter-and-a-half bottle of water,
chomped down two pears
and swallowed some crackers,
but my famine still hadn't been extinguished.
I'd seen sea urchins
on the menus of several
sushi bars but had never indulged.
Why not now ? I thought,
they're abundant here.
I grabbed a purple,
baseball-sized urchin
from just under the surface
of the crystalline water
and SMASHED it down on the rocks.
There wasn't a whole lot of flesh in there,
but there was some eggy-looking orange stuff
that at least looked kind of edible.
I picked out the pieces
of broken shell and spine
and ate a small quantity
(swallowing it without really chewing).
IIIICCCCKKKKK !!!!!!!
Obviously my culinary skills
weren't up to Shinjuku standards.
Even with my high-tolerance for grossness,
this was the single nastiest substance
I'd ever tasted,
I barely avoided vomiting.
Next time I'll bring
wasabe and soy sauce.
I left the board and backpack
near the water
and began exploring.
It was extremely difficult to get around,
not only because of the incline
but because the rock face
itself was not that smooth.
Up close it was finitely sharp
and jagged
(and like an idiot,
I hadn't even thought about bringing shoes).
I tried to climb straight over
the highest area of the island
(about two-hundred feet at it's tallest),
but once I got past the granite slab
and the wall started leveling off on top
giving way to vegetation,
the jungle itself was guarded
by a twenty-foot deep barrier
of ground-crawling cactus shafts.
Impossible to attempt without
at least pair of army boots and a machete.
There were a couple
of random seagulls
hanging around chasing crabs
back into crevices on the rocks
and some prehistoric looking insects,
but the island's most prevalent,
visible animal life
were the black-headed
vampiresque vultures.
They were everywhere;
flying around,
walking on the rocks,
taking shits
and standing on limbs
of shrubs and trees.
Not even moving
when I'd get close to them
(no fear whatsoever).
A mini Komodo Dragon
came out of the cactus patch
and laid right in front of me
for about fifteen minutes,
not at all annoyed by my presence.
It's very possible that in his young life
he'd never even seen a human personally
and had yet to learn from his parents
that they are all enemies of the natural world.
Me, of course,
being no exception to the rule whatsoever.
Don't know what he was exactly,
some sturdy, exotic-looking,
triangle-headed,
black and yellow iguana
about three-feet long.
If I'd been stranded on Palmas for real,
he'd have been made into
several excellent protein-rich meals.
Being as naïve as he was,
he didn't look too difficult to hunt.
One rock on the head
would've probably been sufficient.
I descended the incline
and began crawl-climbing
the granite face
clockwise around the island
Maintaining my altitude
At only about forty feet
above the water.
I found six-to eight inch
horizontal step-grooves
inbetween sedimentary
layers of granite
randomly glittered with quartz.
On these little ledges, I kept my feet
as flat as possible while constantly
palming the stone wall with a hands
on either side of my body.
But some parts were nearly totally vertical.
I'm no free climber.
And the potentiality of falling thirty feet
And getting my head split open on a rock ledge
only to be gluttonously devoured by a bunch
of greedy, arrogant vultures
was probably not as amusing as it sounded.
I opted to come down to shore,
dive into the water
and swim around the cliffs
until I could climb up again..
On these brief immersions
I saw one sea turtle
and some beautiful,
fluorescent blue and yellow fish.
Wish I'd brought a mask,
a spear gun, a machete
shoes, waterproof camera
and MORE FOOD.
Next time…..(if there is one).
It took about an hour and a half
to negotiate my all the way around the island.
And although I tried to repetitively,
I never found a user-friendly enough spot
to penetrate the jungle zone.
Nature at its wildest.
There were all kinds
of chaotic insect sounds
rhythmically cocktailing
around in there
with melodic symphony accents
supplied by different species
of unseen song birds.
Everyone had their part
and no one missed a beat.
Beautiful. I was hypnotized.
Very tribal.
But occasionally,
a random gangster-vulture
would spoil it all by shrieking jealously,
(as if protesting his own
lack of songwriting ability)
They were always out of tune
and always off rhythm.
I hated them even more now,
and apparently it was mutual.
As I made my way
around the last corner
of the island,
they started reacting
more aggressively toward me.
Flying nearer to me
and squawking harassingly.
I'd overstayed my welcome.
They could have easily killed me
if they'd wanted to gang up on me,
but the vibe was more like,
Visiting hours are over kid,
now get the #%$@ out of here!
Back at camp
I had to throw rocks
at the six vultures
bickering with each other
over what was left
of my Japanese Blue Plate Special
(the urchin)
just to get near my stuff.
Although much smaller
than a condor
or some other
bigger buzzard species,
even this variety
with their five
and six-foot wingspans,
could've flown off
with my surfboard single-handedly
without much effort.
I ate the rest of my rations
and drank another bottle of water,
trying to hydrate as much as possible
pre-visioning the minute possibility
of being lost at sea.
My feet were now raw
and bleeding selectively
from micro-cuts caused by barnacles
and other surface irregularities.
And unfortunately at my exit point,
below the ring of razor-sharp barnacles
that had been located
just above the waters edge
all the way around the island
the descending tide had eventually exposed
a six-foot horizontal band of
black muscles and urchins
that I had to tiptoe over just to get back to
the water.......
I was in pain, not just my feet
But also my shoulders from the paddle,
and now I had to do it all over again.....
Thankfully the cool water
numbed away most of my suffering.
And I was on my way.
The view of Rio
from this far out
was absolutely spectacular.
The city is completely surrounded
by forest-covered mountains.
They say the Tijuca Forest is the largest
urban forest in the world
and believe it or not
it was one of the world's first
major environmental projects.
These mountains were bare in 1850
resulting from four-hundred years
of over-ambitious timber industry.
The claim is that this entire area
was replanted by only eighteen slaves
who together planted
eighty-thousand indigenous trees.
My view was south
from the Grumari reserve
all the way north to Niteroi,
forty miles at least.
There are other groups of islands
in both directions.
(I'd experienced only
one of the state of Rio's
four-hundred-and-something islands).
Predicting the same dual currents
I'd encountered
on the way over,
I steered toward the general
direction of the Corcovado Jesus Statue
(Bored Jesus)
I knew if I aimed there
that I'd first be dragged
about a half mile even farther north
and then 2nd fase of current
would eventually carry me about
a mile and a half in the opposite direction
depositing on the far south side
of the beach in Leblon,
(hopefully not far from my street,
Bartolomeu Mitre).
I took a long LONG time to get back
and making it worse
it started raining heavily
as I was going thru thejellyfish field...
COLOSSAL bolts of lighting
shot across the sky from behind me toward
Jesus on the mountain.
A boat full of fisherman,
rushing to get back to harbor in the storm,
took a short detour to motor past me
to see if I was alright.
I gave them a thumbs up
...that I was "ok"
And they were on their way.
Curiously, two other boats
passed me a half hour later
and hadn't even
bother to investigate...
(that's brotherly love for ya).
Eventually I could start seeing
individual people on the beach,
tourists no
doubt
Cariocas usually don't stay
on the beach
when it's raining.
The weather is
Near-perfect here
4-5 days a week..
(Why would they bother?)
And before long,
I could even hear
the cars and busses on "PCH".
The swell had increased
a little throughout the day,
which toward the end
started helping me
not hindering me,
giving me a gentle
tail-push toward shore.
When I got about
a hundred feet off the beach
a solitary two-foot glassy
left appeared behind me.
I caught it almost effortlessly
butI was so exhausted,
I barely had the energy
to stand up especially
with the extra weight
of a now water-filled backpack
burdening me.
But I managed to force myself
to my feet
and regally rode it to shore.
Like a Hawaiian king
I waved to my loyal subjects
lining the shore of Leblon
anticipating my arrival.
One thing had become
embarrassingly obvious to me
during the course of the day,
I am slowly, but most definitely
loosing my mind..
My fins hit bottom.
When I put my feet
on the warmish sand,
I could feel the new pulsating
pillow-blisters painfully
de-numbing and coming
back to life on of the
bottom of my feet.
I limped the three blocks
back to my apartment
counting eighty-two women
along the way,
thirty-seven of them beautiful
(but only the uglier ones smiled back at me).
It was still only early evening,
but I took a shower
and slept
for the next sixteen hours.
_____________________________
Four days later
A dead body washed up
On the beach at Leblon,
a shooting victim of drug wars
at the Vidigal favela located a mile away
Good chance it was him
that I hit on my paddle to the Palmas.
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