By the summer of 1962, I spent most weekends hitchhiking from Montebello to Huntington Beach Pier with my best friend, Chicky. As often as not, some jerk who wanted to drag cute little Chicky into the men’s room with him, picked us up. Chicky was small, but he could fight, something he’d learned after two stints in juvie.
The first time a driver made a play for him, he punched him in the face. Left stranded on the side of the road again, I suggested Chicky not hit anyone until we reached our destination. After that, he played along with the perpetrators all the way to the beach. Once dropped off, however, he swore at them and kicked dents into their fenders.
Hitchhiking was tough until Chicky had the bright idea of inviting Sarah Jane, the only surfer girl in our town, to join us. It was easy getting rides then. Sarah Jane was tall and pretty with braids the color of new snow, and, in her loose-fitting Bing Surfboards T-shirt, a lure few male drivers could resist hitting on.
Chicky and I hid in the bushes while she stuck out her thumb, and, seconds later, a car skidded to a stop. The driver figured he’d scored until we ran out from hiding and piled into his back seat.
At the beach, Sarah Jane borrowed a board and did tricks like reverse kickouts and hanging five. We always cheered her on, but whenever she shot the pier, I silently prayed she’d miss the razor sharp, barnacle-encrusted cement pilings. She always did. Nothing could hurt Sarah Jane.
But she was popular, and we were not. By the time she turned 13, all the guys in our town fought to take her to the Saturday matinee at the GarMar Theater. They all knew not to try anything in the dark theater with her, however. She would slap you harder than your mother.
Eventually, it was back to just Chicky and me on the side of the road, sometimes waiting hours for a ride to Huntington where we fought for our spot among the locals.
Huntington was a tough town, as the sons, and very few daughters, of hard-living oil-field roughnecks surfed beneath the pier’s cold shadow. Good surfers shot the pier, a dangerous move some HB locals called “fiberglass keepaway.”
We borrowed boards, and after surfing, dealt damp hands of five-card stud beneath the pier for cigarettes and spare change. My grandfather had taught me the game well enough to take each of those poor saps for at least 50 cents.
My winnings were sufficient to treat myself and the entire crew of losers to tall stacks of 35-cent pancakes at the appropriately named, fly-infested Buzz Inn across the street from the pier. If poker didn’t yield enough cash, Chicky employed the game of panhandling like he’d invented it.
The cute little blond waif in ragged second-hand clothes approached some old tourist lady like Oliver Twist. He said his dad’s car was out of gas and could she please spare a nickel or a dime to help them get home.
This is an excerpt from Chris Ahrens’ newest book, the coffee table version of “Good Things Love Water.” To learn more about this book, visit perelandrapublishing.com.
