You probably remember Noah’s Ark, the Depression-era theme cafe on the bluff just north of Carlsbad on the Camino Real, old California Highway 1. Somehow, the Ark lived on into the 1970s, its tacky plywood menagerie tumbled out on the surrounding hillside. The animals were faded, but still smiling bravely, some lying on their sides, having decided long ago to accept quiet extinction rather than again be crammed into close quarters with apex predators, particularly humans.
On the strand below was a holiday caravan park, two uneven rows of silver and pastel trailers, each with a garden surrounded by a miniature picket fence. Here and there colorful gnomes stood sentry or quietly attended to other gnome business.
The beach itself faced southwest into the deep Pacific, birthplace of legendary big surf. There was usually a visible rip current at the south end, a jugular returning spent waves to the sea. Surf and rip are in harmony, the alpha and omega of kanaka life.
From the Ark’s salt-bleached gunwale I watched Punky Peterson work her way up the wooden stair-path, just then passing a pair of polka-dotted hippopotami, one of whom had given up the ghost. She wore cut-off jeans, flip-flops, a tee shirt knotted just below her breasts, and a box of Marlboros fashionably rolled into her left sleeve. Her pixie-cut blond hair radiated in the morning sun. God never made a more perfect wahine.
Seeing me, she smiled and waved, revealing her new metal braces. We’d quarrelled about them. I liked the slight gap between her front teeth, but Punky’s father had insisted. When I lost that battle, I knew I’d be next. Old Peterson hated my guts, but I didn’t blame him. I would too.
#
My name’s Frankie. I grew up surfing the beaches from the Mexican Border to Trestles, near San Onofre. Like the southern coast of California itself, my beaches all face southwest and are the best surf in North America. Full Stop. Today, the waves were coming in even ranks of three to five-foot swells at fifteen second intervals, four a minute, as regular as heartbeat. The rip at the south end was like a Titan’s pulse, strong enough to wash a Mack truck out to San Clemente Island. I had a big tandem board strapped to the roof of my ’48 Ford and wanted Punky to surf with me, practicing our routine for the upcoming Fremont Beach Open competition. We’d use the rip to get outside, then work the waves all morning, or so I planned.
I could tell by the way Punky was walking and the look on her face that she had other ideas. Punky had learned a way of carrying herself which reminded me of a little girl playing dress-up. She held her left forearm down and out at the wrist, as if it held a long cigarette holder, then added something to her gait, a kind of hip-thrust swish. Her folks had sent her to John Robert Powers modelling classes last year, held at a strip mall ‘studio,’ to learn the mysteries of walking, applying make-up, cocktail party small talk, and table manners.
I wasn’t sure she was entirely conscious of the presentation, but it was a tell. It meant she was feeling like playing ‘grown-ups,’ pretending we were married and had a home of our own in some new stucco suburb, Rancho Dinero. This game scared hell out of me.
‘Good morning, Francis, my dear.'(She pronounced it ‘deah,’ like Joan Crawford or Tallulah Bankhead.) ‘The twins returned to boarding school today. May I serve breakfast to you on the veranda?’ Changing back to her normal voice, Punky whispered sotto voce, ‘The coast is clear. My folks have gone back to L.A. for the day. Daddy has to spend some time at the office and Momma wants to shop for my birthday on Rodeo Drive. They won’t be back until tomorrow lunchtime.’ She bounced happily up and down, then resumed her ‘grown-ups’ persona. ‘I’ve given the servants the day off, so we’ll be entirely alone. I do hope it won’t be too tiresome for you darling.’ Punky giggled, blushing a little.
I knew better than not to play along even though ‘grown-ups’ had some pitfalls for me. For instance, what did I do for a living in this pretend world or, for that matter, in any other future I might imagine? When I was a little kid I used to daydream about being a super hero, but reality had leaked in by the time I was eighteen. With just this summer’s semester left in high school, I was pigeonholed as an intelligent underachiever. I lettered in sports and ‘C’d in academics.
My uncle Chuy offered to get me into the Electrician’s Union, but everybody I knew was going to college. I could get admitted to Orange Coast College, but what would I major in, surfing? On top of this, my step-dad said I had to pay rent or move out after I graduated.
‘Janet, dearest, I’d be delighted to breakfast with you. I shall look at the Help Wanted Ads in the San Diego Union whilst you burn the toast.’ Punky made a face which reminded me not to undercut her fantasy. It was her ‘you’ve been warned’ look, a piscatorial eye.
So, as things turned out, we didn’t go surfing. We played house.
If you want to know the truth, I’d give the earth to relive that long-ago morning, watched over by gnomes and the plywood zoo; pretending to be grown-up with Punky Peterson on the edge of the deep blue sea.
#
In the afternoon, we walked south along the beach to Carlsbad Village to have a Foster Freeze. The warm offshore breeze smelled of kelp and bougainvillea. We held hands walking at the water’s edge looking for treasure, washed up net-fishing floats, stranded jellyfish, and exotic seashells from Mexico. Occasionally, people found remnants of our then not-forgotten war, bits of cloth and metal, the voiceless ghosts of Japanese and American sailors lost at sea.
Punky found a polished shard of green sea-glass, the remnant of a shattered fishnet ball. We held it up to the sun and, looking through it, declared Carlsbad the Emerald City. Punky was Dorothy and I, I was Toto, her faithful mutt.
When we made a giant valentine heart in the sand and pierced it with an arrow Punky became quiet, forgetting entirely her grown-ups game. Next Saturday she’d be sixteen, old enough to get a driver’s license and be married with her parents’ permission.
‘Frankie, if you could do anything you wanted, what would you do?’
‘I’d take you surfing in the South Pacific, see Hawaii, Tahiti, Samoa, Australia, New Zealand, all those places. We’d live in a hut just above the high-water line, make love in the morning, surf every afternoon, walk along the strand. It would be a lot like today only we’d be seeing new beaches. What would you do?’
‘I’d have your baby, maybe two or three. We’d live in a big old house with dogs and cats and birds and goldfish. Our house would be filled with kids and animals. When you came home at night you’d pick me up off my feet and kiss me with all your heart.’
‘Like this?’ Punky was a little thing and a gymnast. I picked her up, kissed her and balanced her on my right shoulder.
Punky jumped down and faced me. ‘No fair! You’re just practicing our tandem board routine. I want a real swing in the air, then a serious kiss.
‘One more thing,’ Punky said holding up her right index finger like a schoolmarm, ‘we’d have tacos for dinner every night of the week. I love tacos!’
I tossed Punky in the air, kissed her, and felt like king of the world. I loved tacos. And, I loved Punky Peterson more than wind, surf, and sea. Maybe that was my transgression.
#
Lots of beaches have a wedge, some natural or man-made feature which funnels the incoming wave creating mechanically enhanced surf. Some old surfers call wedges ‘boobs.’ They don’t mean much to the long-riding board surfer but offer a wallop for the body surfer. There was a wedge in Carlsbad right where Grand Avenue met the beach. Punky and I wanted to play in it. We decided to ride the rip out and this was my misjudgement. It took us maybe a hundred yards beyond the break line. Swimming back to the surf just wasted our energy and, of course, the giant soft ice cream cones from Foster Freeze felt like wet sand in our stomachs.
Punky looked tired and a blue around the lips by the time we swam into position. She was just a little kid in some ways. She didn’t have much body mass and hadn’t grown up surfing. She lived in Arcadia, fifty miles from the beach, and swam laps in the school pool. It’s not the same.
‘You take the first wave,’ I called. I’d hang back and make sure she got in safely.
She swam fast and caught what turned out to be a really huge comber. As it lifted her, Punky glided onto its face cleanly. However, because of the wedge, the wave only grew to its full size well into what normally would have been its lacy whitewash. She should have dropped out of it but didn’t. The wave broke, body slamming her into four inches of water at its base, then crashed all over her, grinding Punky into the hard sand and swamping her in a churning gristmill. I saw this as I swam frantically to catch my own wave and get there to help.
I managed to pull out near Punky just in time to see her stagger to her feet only to be slammed down again by my wave. I just kept yelling her name and finally grabbed her wrist as the next wave hammered us both. When it washed out, I held onto Punky with all my strength in what felt like a life and death tug-o-war. I won but didn’t have enough energy left to carry her. I dragged Punky from the ocean like a waterlogged seabag.
To look at her, you’d think she’d been in a losing boxing match. She was staggering and bleeding from sand burns on her knees and nose, but, being Punky, she just looked up at me like I was the only person in the world. Her metal-rimmed teeth were red with her own blood, but she was smiling. When we got to the warm sand, we collapsed together like sleeping puppies and didn’t wake until the incoming tide licked our ankles.
When she woke, Punky nudged me in the ribs and said, ‘Hey champ, shall we go another round with that beast?’
‘No rematch! No way,’ I replied and meant it. We were lucky to be alive.
We cleaned up in an outdoor shower and made our way north to Noah’s Ark saying almost nothing but holding hands like babes in the forest.
#
We had Noah’s Ark, ‘our place,’ to ourselves that night. Molly, the owner, served us her Wednesday Night Special, spaghetti and meatballs with garlic toast and loads of Parmesan cheese. When she served it, Molly brought a candle in a Coke bottle, lit it, and dimmed the lights. She said, ‘you two look like Lady and the Tramp,’ winked, and disappeared into the kitchen.
A moon-path shone across the water and right into the diner. Molly had racked up soft, sentimental music on the jukebox. In my memory, everything that night was magical, most of all when Punky, picking her moment, said, ‘Frankie, I’m going to have your baby.’
I wasn’t surprised. We were both Catholic and innocent of knowledge about birth control. I can say honestly that I never thought of running away from Punky. My problem was I felt unworthy of the love she offered, had a sense of not deserving her. Looking in her eyes that night I knew I’d have to better myself to keep her, baby or no baby.
You’ll think I’m corny and sentimental, but humor me. I’m an old man now and this was a long, long time ago. Back then it was still okay to be romantic in real life. I got down on one knee and proposed to my Punky. When she said ‘yes’ it was the finest, most perfect moment in my life.
We spent the rest of the evening as young lovers will, walking on the warm moonlit beach, making love, and planning a lifetime of tomorrows.
We decided I’d become an Electrician’s Apprentice and we’d both attend Orange Coast College part-time, majoring in Business. Someday we’d have our own mom and pop company, she’d run the office and I’d do the installations. We’d have four kids, a Golden Retriever, and a house full of life, full of love.
Still playing ‘grown-ups’ on Thursday morning, Punky and I kissed chastely at her trailer’s doorstep and I left for ‘the office,’ Fremont Beach High School. She promised to call me if she could get to a pay phone after her parents returned.
#
I had to attend class all day Thursday and Friday morning to complete the summer semester and graduate. So, we planned that on Friday afternoon, the day before her birthday, I’d call on her parents wearing my best Guayabera, Mexican wedding shirt, and formally ask for their blessing.
Punky and I hoped we could all go to mass together on Sunday in Fremont I’d introduce her parents to my mother and to Father Mike, our priest and my surrogate father. Father Mike had already met Punky and always smiled with dimples when we came to mass together.
#
I was in Study Hall at ten in the morning on Friday when a message came for me to report to the Guidance Counsellor’s Office. When I got there I was met by a huge, African-American cop who identified himself as ‘Deputy Sullivan.’ He put me under arrest, handcuffing me behind my back, saying I was charged with statutory rape and would get a lawyer when I saw the judge.
In his cruiser, Sullivan relaxed a little, said he’d been at the game when I caught the championship-winning touchdown against Oceanside. He’d played NFL football two seasons for the Chargers in his day. He told me I’d be in jail until Monday morning because there was no judge on Friday afternoon or over the weekend. He said that was the whole point of me being arrested on Friday, it guaranteed a weekend in jail.
Sullivan also said that if I didn’t make a fuss, he’d put me in a detention cell by myself and not with the general population of drunks, brawlers, and other hard cases. I took his advice. Before he left, Sully brought the library cart over and offered me a book or two to help pass the time. Lowering his voice, he said that ‘someone with a lot of juice’ wanted my hide. I guessed this must have been Punky’s dad, a big-time L.A. sports lawyer.
#
On Monday, I met my Public Defender in the courtroom. He had a clipboard and probably fifty other people he was supposed to represent at arraignment, where charges are read, and bail is set. He didn’t look much older than me and was dishevelled at 9:30 in the morning. His shoes were scuffed and necktie askew. I didn’t care, I was just relieved to be out of the dirty sauerkraut, rancid locker-room smell of the jail.
‘Here’s the deal,’ he said, ‘you cop to Child Molest 3d (Touching), a misdemeanour, and sit in County Jail for six months. There’ll be an Order of Protection for four years to keep away from the girl. Break it and they’ll reinstate the felony charges.
‘It’s unusual, but there’s another offer to consider. If you agree to enlist in the armed forces today, while still in custody, the D.A. will adjourn your case and dismiss it when you finish basic training. Further you must agree to no contact whatsoever with the victim, ah…’ He looked at his clipboard, ‘Miss Janet Marie Peterson.
‘If you don’t accept one of these today, right now, you’ll be bound over for trial. Rape, any kind of rape, carries a potential death penalty and is a guaranteed nickel, five years, in state pen. In the real world, you won’t make bail and you’ll just sit here for the next few months, then be convicted and sit somewhere worse. I don’t think a pretty kid like you’d survive prison.
‘So, what’s it gonna be, six months in the can and a lifetime pervert jacket or the Army? Listen, I’ll come back to you in ten or fifteen minutes, but today’s your one and only shot at the enlistment offer. If I were in your flip-flops, I’d leap on it. You really don’t have any choice.’
#
Deputy Sully walked me out of the courthouse at his side without handcuffs, laughing and telling stories in his rich, baritone voice. It felt like we were friends going out for a coffee. Sun warmed my face. The sea breeze tasted perfumed after a weekend behind bars. I felt like skipping along the sidewalk beside the huge prison bull.
On Sully’s advice, I didn’t enlist in the Marines. I joined the Navy and, in time, made that my career as a SEAL, seeing operations in Southeast Asia and other exotic places around the Pacific Rim. As the Chinese curse goes, I lived in interesting times.
Times, timing, . . . In surfing, timing is everything. You can miss the perfect wave. I guess it’s that way in life too.
