JALAMA
Previous Next TABLE OF CONTENTS
"Jalama?" I asked. Repeating what Rallio had said. "We're kind of out of season."
"And after Jalama, I was thinking of heading north." Rallio's manner was, as always, casual. An element of adventure accompanies an invitation but something I couldn't quite brush away was buzzing before my eyes. He had no car, he had thumbed up here. He had no surfboard, he was going to borrow mine. He wanted to head north when summer was coming on and the swells would be coming from the south. But I figured it was better to go north with Rallio than south with anyone else.
In anticipation of having to make a quick move, the van was already piled up with most of my clothes, half of them dirty. Into this ragpicker's amalgam we added every item that wasn't bolted down from the apartment.
"That box goes in last."
Rallio looked over the sides, "Good thinking. As a matter of fact, this looks quite tasty." And he grabbed something and popped it into his mouth.
As we ambled north towards Jalama, Rallio talked about Damon and Damon's kids and how much fun he had rolling around with them. He told me about a favorite surf shop that had closed. "You remember ...?" and he filled in a name that I couldn't affix a face or experience to.
I shook my head in the negative as I tried to recall who he was talking about. "Went to Hawaii and surfed the winter."
He talked about the way the surf equipment had changed and was continuing to improve, the lighter wetsuits and the shrinking of the boards and how he felt left behind.
Jalama is a beautiful spot on a coast that is lined with beauty. The turnoff is only a little over an hour from Santa Barbara but the slow spiral through the low coastal range to the campground makes the journey seem forever. You never know what you'll find as you begin to descend towards the sea. The wind can howl through there at any time of day leaving the surf a chopped up mess or it can be smooth and glassy and very tubular.
We arrived late in the afternoon and light breezes filled the air. I grabbed my short board and pointed towards a longer plank. "That won't ride like what you're use to. It doesn't have the bulk. You'll have to paddle hard and it's best to take off late. But don't worry, you'll catch on after a couple of waves."
"OK, I'll be fine. Let me sit here and watch you a minute."
I felt good about that, Rallio watching me. I scooted the board into the breakers. It was a small manageable day with wave faces of 3 to 4 feet. That was a perfect size for someone weary from driving and a little out of shape, big enough to catch but small enough not to worry about getting pounded.
Rallio wasn't coming out. Maybe he just didn't feel like getting wet. I saw a small glow come from his direction and I knew he was lighting up.
Later, after I'd come back in we sat outside the car eating. We hadn't bothered with a campfire. We had nothing to cook. We were box eating. Whatever came out of a box we ate; breakfast cereal, potato chips, cookies.
The two of us were sitting on rocks munching our boxed foods and a long thin fellow approached out of the darkness. I'd noticed him parked in a van nearby with a petite young girl and a little baby. He stood in front of us highlighted by the moon. He had long black hair pulled back into a pony-tail. He wore striped pants and a white shirt with a wide opened neck fastened by leather strips. A leather hat with a wide brim was pulled low over his forehead. It was an outfit designed for maximum effect.
"Where you come from?"
"South," we replied.
"Going north? We came down from Berkeley and if you're heading up there, forget it. It's over, man, filled with burn- outs and beggars."
He called for the girl with him to fetch him some coffee. "Either of you want some?"
We shook our heads in the negative.
She was a slender little girl with light colored hair dressed simply in jeans and no shoes. I waited for her to say something or to raise her eyes from the ground and acknowledge our presence but her head stayed down. She offered the cup to him, turned and went back to their camp.
"We were in Oregon living on a farm with a group of heads who really had it together, man. But she got herself pregnant and we had to leave. Medical services, shit for the baby, food stamps, you know, that whole scene.
"We're going to be here for another day and then we're trucking south. Going to stop in Hollywood. I know some cats starting a band. If they're serious, I'll play recorder and let them use some of my tunes. If not, I'll head to Mexico."
He drained his cup, got up and walked back to his camp. Others like them wandered the country wide-eyed with terror. They stood in the stark scape like skittish deer after a wildfire looking for sustenance.
Rallio watched, fixed his eyes on his back, and said "She got herself pregnant," and shook his head in disgust.
Any uneasiness I had concerning his company fell away. I'd been friends with Rallio for a long time but what I knew of him wasn't all that much. I didn't know what angered him or what softened him or how he came to situations not under his control. The kids we knew are not always the adults we readily associate with. People don't change, they get more pronounced. Whatever else Rallio had become he had not lost his basic sensitivity to others. I knew that was what I could trust, what I could follow.
"You'll be singing a different tune when he sweeps the country with his electric recorder," I said.
Sleep was another friend I had more than a passing acquaintance with. But sleep had a sweet eye for the girl I left in Santa Barbara and kept asking where she was. The first few times she had stayed with me, sleep had a hard time adjusting to the form of her body. Her hair tickled my face and the twin bed didn't leave us a lot of room for tossing and turning. Now, sleep didn't want to nod without her. It wasn't just the soft coupling. Her voice soothed me. Hell, the truth that males dare not speak for fear of breaking the code is that if you're in love, it's enough to be in range of her gaze, to see her smile, to hear her coo. Fortunately, when females are in love they tend to draw us into them. Not to be prudish, but ain't that the trouble with promiscuity? For those of us who aren't Daniel Boone on the trail of love the signs can't be ambiguous, they can only have one meaning. When I finally broke through into slumber I dreamed of the guys I use to know, not just Damon and Rallio but a whole gang of them. They were still with me and we were still young and it was a good way of saying hello again. I woke up rested and happy.
In the morning, I paddled out again, alone.
We drove into the little inland town of Lompoc looking for something to eat that was cooked. We found a burger stand, ordered, and almost didn't bother to tear off the grease sodden wrappers before we stuffed the burgers into our mouths. We sat out front on a picnic table and the locals began to circle. They were drawing perimeters around us trying to contain whatever it is they thought we had. I had hair filing down my back, we had surfboards, we weren't from there. It's always something. Lompoc is a small town like most of the towns in America. They came by again. Rallio took no notice of them that I could detect but they pushed me up against a wall with their stares. I was busy drawing perimeters around them.
Rallio unfolded a magazine picture across the table. "You recognize this spot? That bridge looks like something you have to see in person to appreciate." As usual, his voice belied no secrets but the bleached creases in the picture weighted his words.
"Big Sur". I identified the picture. It was a span along one of the most picturesque drives in the world.
Rallio waited a respectable number of moments. "Will this thing make it to Big Sur?"
That was the way out. He was letting me beg off, allowing me to claim mechanical unreliability, setting me free of any promise I didn't want to make. The worn out folds in the picture obliged me to push the van as far as it would go.
We cleaned up our mess and as we grabbed the door handles I said across the top of the van, "It's kind of out of our way by a couple hours."
The passenger compartment wasn't talking, it wasn't even breathing, it was dull and lifeless. OK, if the bridge made him happy, then I could go a couple of more hours up the coast. The compartment let out a sigh of approval.