In Honor to all Masters of Surfing (part 1):
Illustration: Tom Threinen
THE TEACHINGS OF DON REDONDO
Part One
A SURFER'S WAY OF KNOWLEDGE
by Careless Constipeda as told to DREW KAMPION
PART ONE
IN WHICH OUR HERO CROSSES THE PATH OF DON REDONDO, FABLED WATERMAN AND POSSESSOR OF SOME GOOD MOVES AND LOTS OF HEAVY WAVE KNOWLEDGE
In the summer of 1965, while I was a PE major at Los Angeles Valley College, I made several trips to the coast to collect information for a thesis I was preparing on the anthropological significance of the sub-culture of Surfers along California's Pacific shore. I was especially concerned with the mind-altering characteristics of Surfing and the effects of waves on a person's idea of reality. The events I describe began during one of my trips. I was having a taco and orange drink at a small cafe on the Coast Highway in Malibu; it was called Rosa's, and the hot sauce was pure fire. I was talking with a friend who was a surfer and had been my guide and helper in my survey. Suddenly, he leaned toward me and whispered that the man - an enormous white-haired middle-aged fellow wearing a dirty gray sweatshirt, khaki slacks, and tennis shoes (no socks) - who was sitting at a stool down the counter was very learned about Surfers and Surfing. I asked my friend to introduce me to this man.
My friend greeted him, then went over, shook hands and spoke to him a short while. Then he signaled me to come over, which I did, whereupon my friend abruptly departed, leaving me alone with him, not even bothering to introduce us. He was not in the least embarrassed. I told him my name, and he said that his was Don Redondo and asked me what was happening. We shook hands at my initiative and then there was a long silence during which I surveyed the counter, saw the half-finished plate of food before him (a Pepita Special with Red Sauce) and studied the man himself. He was thick and stocky but fantastically muscular, his skin darkened and weathered by the sea air and bearing the precancerous spots that are often the signature of a life in the sun.
I told him I was interested in learning about Surfers and Surfing, and though I knew almost nothing of them (and in fact had a huge fear of the sea and those who could play so comfortably in it), I found myself pretending that I knew a great deal. He nodded as I spoke, but said nothing. Instead he began spooning Rosa's hotsauce onto his burrito until the mound of hotsauce had completely covered the burrito. This so amazed me that my speech again trailed off into incoherence and silence. I watched as Don Redondo lifted the huge burrito to his mouth. I experienced a moment of true panic as it hovered there in front of the opened black cavity (I knew the incendiary characteristics of Rosa's hotsauce), and then he shoved the entire thing in and closed his mouth. For the first time our eyes met. His gaze was both ablaze and watery. I could not tell if this was because of the spiciness of the food or not. Then he got up without a word and left.
I was peeved at myself for not making sense while speaking to him. I had been too caught up in the spooning of the hotsauce. When my friend returned I made a point of finding out where Don Redondo lived.
Subsequent to this first encounter I visited Don Redondo several times. On each visit I tried to ask him about Surfing and Surfers, but without success. Still, we became very good friends, and, for the time being, I decided to put my research aside.
At first I had seen Don Redondo as just another middle-aged Southern California hodad hanger-on who happened to live near a good surf spot (Malibu). But in talking to some of the Surfers on the beach I learned that he was reputed to have some "Heavy Wave Knowledge," some "Good Moves," and that he knew about "Secret Spots." They said he was a "Waterman."
Each of the following episodes describes a visit with Don Redondo. The initial purpose of these visits was, as I have stated, to learn about Surfers and Surfing. The purpose of these visits later became the learning of lessons as Don Redondo's apprentice Waterman. The purpose of these visits for Don Redondo still remains somewhat of a mystery to me. I do know, however, that they played an important part in his daily routine, for soon after our meetings began and continuing till the present (though no longer his apprentice, I have things delivered), I provided his groceries.
THE TEACHINGS
November 18, 1965
"Would you teach me about Surfing, Don Redondo?"
"Whatchoo wanna know bout Surfin for?"
"I don't know, I just want to know. I'm curious, I guess. I think it has anthropological significance. It looks hep."
"Hey, no way I'm jus gonna lay out fer ya all this stuff what I know jus cuz you got some kinda itch. It's heavy out there, y'know what I mean, kid? It's heavy."
He looked out at the ocean. We were on his patio out back of his simple yet typical ticky-tack Malibu Beach bungalow. The ocean was calm, though the surf in front of his place was just "shore pound" anyway.
"But I want to know about it, Don Redondo. Probably you felt the same when you were a kid."
"Schpaaaa!" he said and spat. "Are you kiddin? I got in me one sixty-fourth Hawaiiana and one-third Topangan. How kin ya kimpair? I know where yer at, kid; I checked ya' out."
"You what?"
"I checked ya' owwwt. I seen yer hair." He looked out to sea.
"You mean you investigated me?"
"I mean I seen your hair, shorty."
December 4, 1965
I stayed with Don Redondo all day Friday. I had an exam and wanted to get back to study over the week-end and get plenty of rest. Remedial English was my worst subject.
I asked him again if he'd teach me about Surfing.
"Hey, kid: you wanna know bout Surfin, you surf. You don't surf, you don't know nothin 'bout Surfin. It takes unbendin' intent, y'know? A Soifa knows a wave's a wave's a wave's an at any minnit it can swatcha!" He made a sudden ax-like movement with his hand and at that exact instant a wave dumped out front. I nearly fainted; I was sweating profoundly. Then he looked at me, took a swig from his can of Buckhorn beer, and belched.
He said that there was a way, however, and presented me with a problem. There was a spot on his patio, he said, that was different for me than any other spot. He said it was called my "take-off" spot, and if I found it I'd have plenty of "juice." Where I was, he said, I was just "burning up amps." I immediately felt exhausted and my back ached. He suggested I try to sense this spot.
I began to move around his patio, in and out of the hazy sunlight, up near the back door and down near the steps. I tried his chez lounge and the folding aluminum chair and the canvas chair with the ripped seat and under the picnic table, but it all felt pretty much the same. After a while Don Redondo went into the house for another beer.
I moved carefully over the patio for most of the afternoon, and then around sunset I noticed a place that had a different coloration: a kind of dark greenness. I sat down there cross-legged and watched the sun sinking into the smog. Suddenly the whole scene was transformed into a huge tide of chili beans that threatened to engulf the coast. The crash of a junky five-foot wave brought me back.
I hurried into the house to tell Don Redondo what had happened. He was asleep in front of the TV. The Dating Game was on, and I noticed that the floor in his house was covered with sand. It was so deep, it was like the beach, and must have been years of accumulation. I sat and watched TV a while, took a few sips of his warm Buckhorn, then wandered out onto the patio, again feeling immensely depressed. How could I get a date with a Surfer Girl when I didn't know how to surf? How could I learn about Surfing if Don Redondo was always passing out in front of the TV?
Absorbed in these thoughts, I absent-mindedly sat down on the grate of the brick barbecue. Almost immediately I experienced a surge of "juice" and a sense of well-being. I leaned back as if into an armchair. I fell asleep.
"Heyyyy! Nice goin, kid! Ya found the spot!" It was Don Redondo. He reached out and touched my shoulder. I thought he was congratulating me, but he was trying to pull me out of the barbeque so he could lay in some briquets.
"Outta my barbaque," he said.
December 8, 1965
I arrived at Don Redondo's bungalow at 7 o'clock. I was even more depressed than usual, having flunked my Remedial English test. I'd have to take it over in the spring semester: the third time. Don Redondo was in front of the little round mirror in the kitchenette. He seemed to be combing a wax- like substance into his eyebrows. The muscles of his neck bulged protuberously, his huge shoulders, ever in the dirty gray sweatshirt, hunkered forward like a Green Bay lineman's, and yet, for all that, there was something delicate and fine about his movements.
"You ready?" he asked, glancing briefly at me in the mirror.
"For what?" I asked, wondering if this was IT.
"Surf movie downa block's what. A Soifa's gotta have a soitin kinda feelin. I calls it 'stoke.' My teacher called it 'pizzaz.' A Waterman knows when stoke is low, an he knows that at them times a surf flick is the best ally. Le's gowan! "
We ran out the door.
"A real Soifa," said Don Redondo over his shoulder, "has always gotta be there for the first set."
I stood out on the highway and attempted to write these words into my notebook by the light of the cars screaming past. Someone yelled something obscene almost in my ear, and as I turned to respond I was almost run down by a truck loaded with surfboard blanks. In a panic, wondering what this could mean, I turned to look for Don Redondo. He was already way down the road. I hurried after him.
"Don Redondo!" I blurted as I ran up behind him.
"What's it now, Careless?" he spoke in an exasperated tone. It was the first time that he had spoken to me by name. I told him what had happened and asked him what was the significance of the fact that the truck that almost ran me down was loaded with surfboard blanks.
Don Redondo stopped his quick walking (he looked like a slug, but apparently he was in excellent shape) and turned to look down on me. His face was extremely rugged-looking in the harsh glare of the street light.
"The significance is obvious," he said, more articulate than usual. I was prepared for whatever was to come; I braced myself. "First Rule of Surfin': make it to the beach. A Watermin always looks both ways afore crossin. He knows that in this world of ullusin there aint nothin more solit thana front end of a Mack truck. The signification of the truck bein filled with blanks has to do with what's between your ears, shorty." He tapped me twice on the crown of the head. The sound was deeply resonant, like a wave breaking inside an oil drum. We hurried on.
The film was being shown in the seaside "pad" of noted superstar Nicholas "Rockdancer" Doorass. The living room was packed with blond-haired surfers; the air was hot and thick and filled with a sweetish odor - the same odor I'd encountered several times in "the can" at Don Redondo's.
The man with the film, Studley Fillibrate, stood up in the front and said that these were "out-takes" from his new movie about the famous winter of 1964-65 taken from the backseat of his Mercedes while driving relentlessly up and down the coast. Ooohs and aaahs escaped the gathered throng, and then something was handed to me. It was like a cigarette, but fat in the middle and tapering at the ends, which were twisted shut. I looked questioningly at Don.
"Eat it," he said.
By the time the first reel had ended, I had eaten thirteen "double enders." During the intermission I stumbled out of the oppressive room and onto the beach. The sound of the surf was like cannon fire resounding in my skull. While I was urinating, a huge dog came running up out of the night. Someone down the beach was calling out something, but I could not understand. The words seemed to fly apart into the air like sparks. The dog wished to play. He leaped up on me, and I tumbled backwards with his weight. For a moment I thought I saw a huge fire-breathing dragon upon me, but then it was the dog again. Playfully he took my throat into his mouth and we rolled together down to the water. Then someone was there and the dog was taken away and this made me very sad. I remembered my beagle, Bennie, and that I'd always forgotten to change his water.
Don Redondo seemed surprised to see me. "What the hell happint t'ya?" he exclaimed, but I could only see Bennie and tried to snuggle him and apologize for not changing his water.
The second half of the film was unbelievable. The images seemed to come out and wrap around me so that I became what I beheld. First I was Dewey Weber, surfing on little wheels; then I was Lancelot Carson, riding the "tip" for hours and hours. Then I was Nicholas "the Rat" Doorass banging rails with the best of them, an incredible experience. I wanted to tell Don Redondo what was happening, but no one was sitting beside me. At last I became David Newiwi, a hot young junior from Waikiki, and during this part I actually felt hot and juniorish!
"How did I do, Don Redondo?"
We were walking back along the beach after the movie. The waves were large and made a racket. Don Redondo said something, but I could not understand him.
"What did you say, Don Redondo?"
"I said you're flaky. "
"What does 'flaky' mean, Don Redondo?"
"Look," he said, stopping and turning to look down on me. Water sloshed into my tennis shoes. He seemed to be trying to select just the right words to convey his meaning. "That dog what jumped ya t'night?"
"Yes, Don Redondo?"
"Well, that ain't no dog."
My heart leapt - thrill and panic! "If it was not a dog, Don Redondo, then what was it?"
"That," he said and paused dramatically, "was El Grindo, an' El Grindo aint no kinda dog."
"Why is he called El Grindo, Don Redondo?"
"Why are you called Careless?"
June 3, 1966
It had been almost six months since I'd seen Don Redondo, though he did call me once in the hospital. "Next time you come we'll talk about power," he promised. "How's the neck?"
"It's better, thank you, Don Redondo." I did not want to bother him with how much the lace of stitches around my neck itched.
"Well, shorty, I hope y'aint given inta the foist eminy?"
"What's an 'eminy,' Don Redondo?"
"A Soifa's gotta deal wit four eminy, kid. You can't be called a real Waterman till ya do. The foist is bein chicken. If you stop bein chicken you might be thinkin you got it under control. That's the secint eminy: bein cool. If ya see that y'aint really as cool as y'think, then you kin do all kinds a things, but that's the thoid eminy: bein tough. When y'stop thinkin yer tough, you come t' the fort eminy." He paused.
"What's the fourth eminemny, Don Redondo?"
"I useta think the fort eminemny was Rosa's hotsauce. Now I know better. It's midriff bulge."
Then Don Redondo told me that he thought I was ready for the next step on the road to becoming a Surfer.
"You gotta follow a Way with Guts, Careless. All roads lead t' the same place, but a lot of 'em are boring. A Way with Guts may be fattening, but it's never boring."
"What do you mean, Don Redondo?"
"I gotta go, commercial's over . . ."
And that was all until I drove up to his place on June 3rd. He was grilling some hamburgers on the patio. I noticed that a huge wooden surfboard was lying on the beach and that Don Redondo's hair was wet and mussed.
"Whatever have you been doing, Don Redondo?"
He turned and looked down on me with a comical expression. The burgers sizzled on the grill. "Careless," he said, "I have been surfing."
"But Don Redondo," I said, "there are no waves here."
"There are waves here, Careless, but only a Watermin can find 'em."
"Teach me to be a Waterman, Don Redondo."
"Lemme eat first," he said.
WILL CARELESS EAT ANY MORE DOUBLE ENDERS? WILL DON REDONDO TEACH HIM TO BE A WATERMAN? WILL HE CONQUER THE FOURTH EMINEY OF SURFING? FIND OUT ALL THIS AND MORE IN THE NEXT CHAPTER!
® Drew Kampion, 2002
http://www.drewkampion.com/surfing/donredondo.htm
.
Subsequent to this first encounter I visited Don Redondo several times. On each visit I tried to ask him about Surfing and Surfers, but without success. Still, we became very good friends, and, for the time being, I decided to put my research aside.
At first I had seen Don Redondo as just another middle-aged Southern California hodad hanger-on who happened to live near a good surf spot (Malibu). But in talking to some of the Surfers on the beach I learned that he was reputed to have some "Heavy Wave Knowledge," some "Good Moves," and that he knew about "Secret Spots." They said he was a "Waterman."
Each of the following episodes describes a visit with Don Redondo. The initial purpose of these visits was, as I have stated, to learn about Surfers and Surfing. The purpose of these visits later became the learning of lessons as Don Redondo's apprentice Waterman. The purpose of these visits for Don Redondo still remains somewhat of a mystery to me. I do know, however, that they played an important part in his daily routine, for soon after our meetings began and continuing till the present (though no longer his apprentice, I have things delivered), I provided his groceries.
THE TEACHINGS
November 18, 1965
"Would you teach me about Surfing, Don Redondo?"
"Whatchoo wanna know bout Surfin for?"
"I don't know, I just want to know. I'm curious, I guess. I think it has anthropological significance. It looks hep."
"Hey, no way I'm jus gonna lay out fer ya all this stuff what I know jus cuz you got some kinda itch. It's heavy out there, y'know what I mean, kid? It's heavy."
He looked out at the ocean. We were on his patio out back of his simple yet typical ticky-tack Malibu Beach bungalow. The ocean was calm, though the surf in front of his place was just "shore pound" anyway.
"But I want to know about it, Don Redondo. Probably you felt the same when you were a kid."
"Schpaaaa!" he said and spat. "Are you kiddin? I got in me one sixty-fourth Hawaiiana and one-third Topangan. How kin ya kimpair? I know where yer at, kid; I checked ya' out."
"You what?"
"I checked ya' owwwt. I seen yer hair." He looked out to sea.
"You mean you investigated me?"
"I mean I seen your hair, shorty."
December 4, 1965
I stayed with Don Redondo all day Friday. I had an exam and wanted to get back to study over the week-end and get plenty of rest. Remedial English was my worst subject.
I asked him again if he'd teach me about Surfing.
"Hey, kid: you wanna know bout Surfin, you surf. You don't surf, you don't know nothin 'bout Surfin. It takes unbendin' intent, y'know? A Soifa knows a wave's a wave's a wave's an at any minnit it can swatcha!" He made a sudden ax-like movement with his hand and at that exact instant a wave dumped out front. I nearly fainted; I was sweating profoundly. Then he looked at me, took a swig from his can of Buckhorn beer, and belched.
He said that there was a way, however, and presented me with a problem. There was a spot on his patio, he said, that was different for me than any other spot. He said it was called my "take-off" spot, and if I found it I'd have plenty of "juice." Where I was, he said, I was just "burning up amps." I immediately felt exhausted and my back ached. He suggested I try to sense this spot.
I began to move around his patio, in and out of the hazy sunlight, up near the back door and down near the steps. I tried his chez lounge and the folding aluminum chair and the canvas chair with the ripped seat and under the picnic table, but it all felt pretty much the same. After a while Don Redondo went into the house for another beer.
I moved carefully over the patio for most of the afternoon, and then around sunset I noticed a place that had a different coloration: a kind of dark greenness. I sat down there cross-legged and watched the sun sinking into the smog. Suddenly the whole scene was transformed into a huge tide of chili beans that threatened to engulf the coast. The crash of a junky five-foot wave brought me back.
I hurried into the house to tell Don Redondo what had happened. He was asleep in front of the TV. The Dating Game was on, and I noticed that the floor in his house was covered with sand. It was so deep, it was like the beach, and must have been years of accumulation. I sat and watched TV a while, took a few sips of his warm Buckhorn, then wandered out onto the patio, again feeling immensely depressed. How could I get a date with a Surfer Girl when I didn't know how to surf? How could I learn about Surfing if Don Redondo was always passing out in front of the TV?
Absorbed in these thoughts, I absent-mindedly sat down on the grate of the brick barbecue. Almost immediately I experienced a surge of "juice" and a sense of well-being. I leaned back as if into an armchair. I fell asleep.
"Heyyyy! Nice goin, kid! Ya found the spot!" It was Don Redondo. He reached out and touched my shoulder. I thought he was congratulating me, but he was trying to pull me out of the barbeque so he could lay in some briquets.
"Outta my barbaque," he said.
December 8, 1965
I arrived at Don Redondo's bungalow at 7 o'clock. I was even more depressed than usual, having flunked my Remedial English test. I'd have to take it over in the spring semester: the third time. Don Redondo was in front of the little round mirror in the kitchenette. He seemed to be combing a wax- like substance into his eyebrows. The muscles of his neck bulged protuberously, his huge shoulders, ever in the dirty gray sweatshirt, hunkered forward like a Green Bay lineman's, and yet, for all that, there was something delicate and fine about his movements.
"You ready?" he asked, glancing briefly at me in the mirror.
"For what?" I asked, wondering if this was IT.
"Surf movie downa block's what. A Soifa's gotta have a soitin kinda feelin. I calls it 'stoke.' My teacher called it 'pizzaz.' A Waterman knows when stoke is low, an he knows that at them times a surf flick is the best ally. Le's gowan! "
We ran out the door.
"A real Soifa," said Don Redondo over his shoulder, "has always gotta be there for the first set."
I stood out on the highway and attempted to write these words into my notebook by the light of the cars screaming past. Someone yelled something obscene almost in my ear, and as I turned to respond I was almost run down by a truck loaded with surfboard blanks. In a panic, wondering what this could mean, I turned to look for Don Redondo. He was already way down the road. I hurried after him.
"Don Redondo!" I blurted as I ran up behind him.
"What's it now, Careless?" he spoke in an exasperated tone. It was the first time that he had spoken to me by name. I told him what had happened and asked him what was the significance of the fact that the truck that almost ran me down was loaded with surfboard blanks.
Don Redondo stopped his quick walking (he looked like a slug, but apparently he was in excellent shape) and turned to look down on me. His face was extremely rugged-looking in the harsh glare of the street light.
"The significance is obvious," he said, more articulate than usual. I was prepared for whatever was to come; I braced myself. "First Rule of Surfin': make it to the beach. A Watermin always looks both ways afore crossin. He knows that in this world of ullusin there aint nothin more solit thana front end of a Mack truck. The signification of the truck bein filled with blanks has to do with what's between your ears, shorty." He tapped me twice on the crown of the head. The sound was deeply resonant, like a wave breaking inside an oil drum. We hurried on.
The film was being shown in the seaside "pad" of noted superstar Nicholas "Rockdancer" Doorass. The living room was packed with blond-haired surfers; the air was hot and thick and filled with a sweetish odor - the same odor I'd encountered several times in "the can" at Don Redondo's.
The man with the film, Studley Fillibrate, stood up in the front and said that these were "out-takes" from his new movie about the famous winter of 1964-65 taken from the backseat of his Mercedes while driving relentlessly up and down the coast. Ooohs and aaahs escaped the gathered throng, and then something was handed to me. It was like a cigarette, but fat in the middle and tapering at the ends, which were twisted shut. I looked questioningly at Don.
"Eat it," he said.
By the time the first reel had ended, I had eaten thirteen "double enders." During the intermission I stumbled out of the oppressive room and onto the beach. The sound of the surf was like cannon fire resounding in my skull. While I was urinating, a huge dog came running up out of the night. Someone down the beach was calling out something, but I could not understand. The words seemed to fly apart into the air like sparks. The dog wished to play. He leaped up on me, and I tumbled backwards with his weight. For a moment I thought I saw a huge fire-breathing dragon upon me, but then it was the dog again. Playfully he took my throat into his mouth and we rolled together down to the water. Then someone was there and the dog was taken away and this made me very sad. I remembered my beagle, Bennie, and that I'd always forgotten to change his water.
Don Redondo seemed surprised to see me. "What the hell happint t'ya?" he exclaimed, but I could only see Bennie and tried to snuggle him and apologize for not changing his water.
The second half of the film was unbelievable. The images seemed to come out and wrap around me so that I became what I beheld. First I was Dewey Weber, surfing on little wheels; then I was Lancelot Carson, riding the "tip" for hours and hours. Then I was Nicholas "the Rat" Doorass banging rails with the best of them, an incredible experience. I wanted to tell Don Redondo what was happening, but no one was sitting beside me. At last I became David Newiwi, a hot young junior from Waikiki, and during this part I actually felt hot and juniorish!
"How did I do, Don Redondo?"
We were walking back along the beach after the movie. The waves were large and made a racket. Don Redondo said something, but I could not understand him.
"What did you say, Don Redondo?"
"I said you're flaky. "
"What does 'flaky' mean, Don Redondo?"
"Look," he said, stopping and turning to look down on me. Water sloshed into my tennis shoes. He seemed to be trying to select just the right words to convey his meaning. "That dog what jumped ya t'night?"
"Yes, Don Redondo?"
"Well, that ain't no dog."
My heart leapt - thrill and panic! "If it was not a dog, Don Redondo, then what was it?"
"That," he said and paused dramatically, "was El Grindo, an' El Grindo aint no kinda dog."
"Why is he called El Grindo, Don Redondo?"
"Why are you called Careless?"
June 3, 1966
It had been almost six months since I'd seen Don Redondo, though he did call me once in the hospital. "Next time you come we'll talk about power," he promised. "How's the neck?"
"It's better, thank you, Don Redondo." I did not want to bother him with how much the lace of stitches around my neck itched.
"Well, shorty, I hope y'aint given inta the foist eminy?"
"What's an 'eminy,' Don Redondo?"
"A Soifa's gotta deal wit four eminy, kid. You can't be called a real Waterman till ya do. The foist is bein chicken. If you stop bein chicken you might be thinkin you got it under control. That's the secint eminy: bein cool. If ya see that y'aint really as cool as y'think, then you kin do all kinds a things, but that's the thoid eminy: bein tough. When y'stop thinkin yer tough, you come t' the fort eminy." He paused.
"What's the fourth eminemny, Don Redondo?"
"I useta think the fort eminemny was Rosa's hotsauce. Now I know better. It's midriff bulge."
Then Don Redondo told me that he thought I was ready for the next step on the road to becoming a Surfer.
"You gotta follow a Way with Guts, Careless. All roads lead t' the same place, but a lot of 'em are boring. A Way with Guts may be fattening, but it's never boring."
"What do you mean, Don Redondo?"
"I gotta go, commercial's over . . ."
And that was all until I drove up to his place on June 3rd. He was grilling some hamburgers on the patio. I noticed that a huge wooden surfboard was lying on the beach and that Don Redondo's hair was wet and mussed.
"Whatever have you been doing, Don Redondo?"
He turned and looked down on me with a comical expression. The burgers sizzled on the grill. "Careless," he said, "I have been surfing."
"But Don Redondo," I said, "there are no waves here."
"There are waves here, Careless, but only a Watermin can find 'em."
"Teach me to be a Waterman, Don Redondo."
"Lemme eat first," he said.
WILL CARELESS EAT ANY MORE DOUBLE ENDERS? WILL DON REDONDO TEACH HIM TO BE A WATERMAN? WILL HE CONQUER THE FOURTH EMINEY OF SURFING? FIND OUT ALL THIS AND MORE IN THE NEXT CHAPTER!
® Drew Kampion, 2002
http://www.drewkampion.com/surfing/donredondo.htm
.
