In 1961, I was 13 years old with an undiagnosed and severe case of lysdexia (dyslexia). Because of that I viewed the world as if in a funhouse mirror.
There was no refuge in academia since my learning disability left me a poor reader, and in math, numbers played games with my head and were difficult to arrange logically on paper.
My confused sense of direction made baseball a big problem. I was just getting started, but already felt like a failure at life.
Compounding my sense of inferiority were the nuns at St. Benedict elementary school. They apparently had not been told the Inquisition was over. Insulted, kicked and slapped on the knuckles with a ruler regularly were all part of the school day.
After someone said I had a good voice, I joined a choir, but tensed up and wet my pants during a concert solo. Believing the show must go on, I didn’t leave the stage, nor did my humiliation leave me.
Home presented something of a refuge, and while my parents were kind to me, they never understood why I hated school so much.
My grades were terrible especially in writing, where I attempted putting the stories that presented themselves in my vivid imagination onto paper. The ideas may have been good, but my grade was always dragged down by spelling and penmanship, and I ended up failing.
I was a greaser, a hodad, combing my hair each morning into a slick and shiny pompadour. That changed when my older sister Jackie brought home Dick Dale’s “Surfer’s Choice” album. The sound itself was exhilarating, and the action behind it, surfing, even more so.
I saved my paper route money until I had $45 to buy a used 9’ 6” Wardy Surfboard from a kid in my class, Danny Sanchez. I loved that board so much I kept it right next to my bed.
After washing all the pomade from my hair, I traded in my continental pants and sidewinder shoes for Levi’s and an army jacket. I refused to wear shoes except to school, and then it was Converse.
After tearing my metal-wheeled roller skates apart and nailing them to a two-by-four to make a skateboard, I had reliable transportation through town. On weekends my dad took me surfing, or I hitch hiked to the beach and borrowed a board.
I struggled with surfing at first, but eventually become good enough to be accepted at my regular break, 22nd Street in Newport Beach.
Eventually I sold the Wardy and bought a Hansen, never imagining that Don Hansen, the man who made that board, would one day invite me to help write his biography.
I never cared for reading until I discovered Surfer Magazine. Then I pored over every article and every ad until the pages fell apart. So, it was Surfer and surfing that rescued me from an unimaginably dull life.
In 1973, more than 10 years after I began surfing, my first article was published in Surfer. Surfing had changed my life and continues to do so. Thank you.
Now, in my 70s, I am again a bit awkward, mostly when attempting to surf. This time, however, I don’t care as much, and I know exactly how to overcome the problem.
