I don’t know when I first realized I had more dead friends than living ones. That hurts, you know. If you don’t know, you will. The bell tolls for thee, brother.
Like most kids, the first time I went to a funeral was for my grandparents. But they were always old, born with wrinkles, gray hair and missing teeth, I presumed. That was before my mother showed me photos of her parents, twinkle in grampa’s eye that she was, and the handsome young couple when they were half a century younger than I am now.
The first surfers I knew who died were friends of mine — drugs took them out before they could legally buy beer. Remember Surf Eddie and Doug Erickson? Car crash in Baja took them to the other side before we knew what hit us.
Whenever I walk the Swami’s stairs I see tourists checking out the bronze surfboard and the plaque dedicated to Gary Taylor. Gary used to occupy this column before I did. He called it “The Surf Writer?” I watched him go from the hot new gremmie in town, a stoked kid who lived across the street from Swami’s and ran down the stairs followed by his dog, “Swami.”
Good surfers usually only become good writers when they write home to their parents for rent money. Gary was different. After a year or so, he parlayed his column into the editorship of this newspaper. Years later, he began a writing gig at Trans World Surf and I knew he had at least one book in him, and that his many adventures would be woven into its fascinating pages. Then came the shocking news that he had passed away after a surf trip to Indonesia.
Prior to that, he seemed indestructible with that mean jackhammer bottom turn of his. He wrote like he surfed, with a seeming economy that used words strongly and sparingly like his sparce but meaningful turns, cutbacks and barrels. His less-is-more approach was all that was needed.
I was only mad at Gary once. That was when he borrowed my new Caster Channel Bottom and fumbled it on the rocks. I guess I should have been stoked that Swami’s best surfer had baptized my board. I wasn’t. I said some words I can no longer retract. I wish I had told him not to worry. I wish I had told him that I love him.
Sad to say, I never said any such words to Gary. Still I, we, have many such opportunities with the people we see each day. Share a wave, hoot a stranger even if they’re a kook. Make a friend. You will need one. The ride we share in this beautiful corner of the world will one day come to an end, and when it’s time to kick out, you don’t want to feel you could have done better.
Over the years I have joined our community in grieving the passing of Kenny Mann, Dale Dobson, Donald Takayama, Quiet Mike Romero, Joy Froding, R.C., Wally Blodgett, Denise Tudor, Tim Sullivan, Bob Bohannan, Jackie Baxter, Dale Velzy, Rell Sunn, Mike Hynson, Petey Johnson, Chelsea Schumacher, Richard “Slick” Dowdy, Woody Ekstrom, Chuck Hasley and Chris O’Rourke.
Recently our dear friend, legendary surfboard shaper Hank Byzak, joined that chorus of silenced voices. I learned to love Hank over the years, but I never told him so. I don’t want to keep missing those opportunities.
I have yet to hear of dates for a paddle out in honor of Hank Byzak. When I do, I’ll let you know. Until then, love you.
