I first met Ken in the summer of 1976 after a “pave paradise and put up a parking lot” move. The state had mowed down the affordable housing area known as Seaside Trailer Park. There, he lived adjacent to the surf break of the same name.
The waves were flat when we decided to bust down boredom’s door and accomplish our patriotic duties by celebrating America’s bicentennial. We would skateboard across the country wearing red, white and blue. All we needed was a sponsor to give us the necessary equipment. If all went according to plan, we would roll up to the City of Brotherly Love on July 4.
Thank God we never got sponsorship. If so, we would have been dead or hospitalized on Independence Day after wobbling part way into the Imperial Valley from Jacumba on wooden boards at 70 mph. No confetti, no fireworks, nothing but the agony of defeat and morphine drips attached to already delusional young brains.
We surfed our way through summer’s doldrums, all the while contemplating the joy of winter swells. Then, one day, Ken arrived at our shared $45-a-month Leucadia trailer with the news that a friend of his was moving to Vail, Colorado, for the winter, and that we were welcome to come along.
First stop: Goodwill in Oceanside. I bought a set of used Yamaha skis, some of the worst ski boots ever made and a parka, all for $20. After Ken put together his winter kit, we called one of those then-popular car delivery services where they give you the car for use, along with a first tank of gas. The car broke down in Green River, Utah, hundreds of miles from our destination.
After battling the mid-’70s rednecks to a draw, we ended up on a Trailways Bus. Landing in Vail with our primitive ski gear, worn out Levi’s and stained parkas, we were soon dubbed “The Beverly Hillbillies of Skiing.”
We were, however, quickly rescued by a sweet young woman named Abby. Turns out Abby’s father owned the controlling shares of the Vail Corporation, and she was in a position to offer us any job we wanted. I’m sure I was the worst bartender in history, but because Abby had recommended me, I was immune to being fired. Ken and I muddled through the winter before returning to Leucadia and enduring another summer of dull flatness.
Ken opened a surf shop on the beach in Cardiff and I worked for him. We sold surf clothing and surfboards and had great fun, once setting an unofficial world’s record for the most surfers to ride one wave. (Anyone out there remember that?) We were about to hit the big time when Ken sold the shop and left for Western Australia.
In Australia, he purchased a large block of land and started a recording studio called Wave House. It was there that World Surfing Champion Tom Curren joined Ken, some of Australia’s best musicians and the legendary surf film maker, the late Jack McCoy.
A few weeks ago, I picked Ken up at LAX. While no longer a teenager, he had not lost his youthful spark and rapid-fire, brilliant ideas. One of those ideas is what he calls the Green Marines. This is something of an ecological Boy Scouts inviting youth on a great adventure while involving them in saving our precious oceans.
To learn more on the adventures of Ken, the Green Marines and other save-the-world ideas, please stay tuned to this column.
