I didn’t know Richard “RC” Cordes when I lived in Maui in 1969. Years later, we compared notes and found that we had both been students at Maui Community College and rode waves whenever and wherever they broke. Allow me to retract that statement. On days when the entire Pacific Ocean raged against us, I hit my breaking point. Most of us did.
I don’t know where RC was then, but I’ll never forget the swell that sent me and my homemade board into the jaws of maxed-out, pre-surf cord Honolua Bay. I was grateful that I broke my board before the swell peaked. That meant I didn’t have to face the most violent of Pacific Vibrations.
I spent the early ’70s in Encinitas at a shack we called “The Brother’s House.” 1972-1974 took me on a “surfcation” to Hawaii, Guam, Australia, New Zealand and Western Samoa. Upon my return to Encinitas, I found a tribe of surfers from the Pacific Beach area living in The Brother’s House. By then, the place was in such disrepair that the new occupants lovingly tagged it the “Rag Pile.”
Three surfers: Brian “Brimo” Johnson, David “DA” Andrews and RC lived there until the bulldozers leveled it a year or so later. I have no idea where they moved, but I always knew where to find RC — on a certain Swami’s rock where he sat sipping on a warm beer, reading a book, board at the ready, waiting for the tide to drop so he could paddle out and catch a few waves before work.
He worked as a chef at some of North County’s finest restaurants. It is rumored he could combine average store-bought ingredients into a feast fit for any monarch. I think that was one of the secrets to his happiness: He could take something average or below average — the most nothing day — and find great beauty in it. During the entire half-century I knew him, I never heard RC say anything bad about a wave or the person riding it. That may have been something he picked up from his Pacific Beach mentor, Skip Frye.
There are many similarities between Frye and Cordes. They were both minimalists in their surfing, never making more effort than necessary on a wave. They were both die-hard Padres fans, and liked sitting quietly in the rocks, watching the world race past them.
RC never spoke a lot, but that does not mean he didn’t have a lot to say. Words seemed carefully chosen for their impact. More often than not it was a mere nod, and a “Yeah, Chris,” motioning to a rising north swell from his stony perch. Regardless of what words we exchanged, he ended each conversation by saying, “See you tomorrow.”
I doubt he could fathom anyone wanting to be anywhere on earth more than his little corner of the world. It was there, he saw everything worth seeing — a beautiful beach with great waves, ridden by great friends. There was no hurry in any of it. It was like his entire life was a poem that moved as steadily as water in a slow stream.
While he never seemed to move too quickly, he was always one step ahead of the rest of us. See you tomorrow, RC.
