The Tribes of Palos Verdes by Joy Nicholson

thirty-five, is smoking pot out of a four-foot water bong, waxing an old longboard. His face is brown and lined like a turtle’s. His nose is scabbed over from being in the sun too much, his hair is bleached and thinning.
    â€œThat’s Dan Edder,” Jim whispers, nudging me excitedly, “the shaper.”
    Shapers make surfboards. Some of them are a little weird because they breathe in so much chemical resin and fiberglass. But they get a lot of respect. Dan is a famous shaper. He specializes in making one-of-a-kind lightweight long-boards. Every surfer knows his story. He’s been surfing all over the world, even to Bali and Java. He cooks hamburgers on a butane stove in his bus. He reads a lot of comic books. He takes lots and lots of LSD.
    Dan lives in the bus on his parents’ property, just north of P-Land. He almost never surfs the bay, except on really big days. Even then he never talks to anyone.
    Jim and I paddle out, talking about Dan. Jim makes me whisper even though Dan is forty yards away.
    The waves are different on this side of the hill; they break much farther out, and there’s a lot of sharp rocks jutting out of the water. The water is muddy brown, filled with shells and stones that hit your arms like shrapnel as you paddle. It’s hard to fight a current that wants to push your board directly into the rocks.
    I try and try, but I can’t line up right, so I just push off with my hands and go. I ride sloppy, dipping into the water when I grab the rails, jerking around uncontrollably, then spilling off.
    Jim circles a few times, lining himself up perfectly. I watch him go as I paddle back out. He sways up and down, moving swiftly through the line of water, never even touching his rails. He’s calm and cool, barely sweating as he moves up next to me again. For the first time in weeks he smiles his best, widest smile.
    â€œDo you think Dan saw that ride?” he asks, grinning.
    *   *   *
    A few minutes before sunset, Dan paddles out. His arms move like spiders through the water, his face dry and calm.
    â€œHe’s coming out,” Jim hisses. “Be cool.”
    Dan paddles up right next to me, looks me up and down, and smiles.
    â€œHey, little thing,” he says. “I like surfer girls.”
    He doesn’t even look at Jim. But he keeps talking to me, telling me to move up on my board and paddle from the nose in rough water. He nods a lot and smiles for no reason, extra stoned.
    Nothing he says makes much sense. He talks about the rat race, how you’ve got to get out of it and surf “free.” He talks about his friend’s secret pot farm in Humboldt County and a crazy dog that followed him into the water in Hawaii. He starts one story before finishing another and forgets where he left off.
    I get cold listening, so I start to paddle for a wave, but Dan grabs hold of the rails of my board and shakes me around, laughing.
    â€œDon’t go anywhere, cutie,” he says. “I want to talk to you for a minute.”
    Jim sits about six feet away, brooding now. He doesn’t go for any more waves. It’s dark when we get out of the water. I paddle back in with Dan, while Jim follows a few yards behind. Dan walks me up the trail. His arm keeps grabbing mine.
    Just before we leave, he tells me to come back sometime and he’ll show me a secret spot. I turn around and look at him, warm all of a sudden.
    â€œWhat a freak,” Jim mutters on the way home. Then he stays in my mother’s room, watching TV, ignoring me.
    *   *   *
    Even Skeezer doesn’t know how to surf goofyfoot, right foot forward. That’s my favorite trick, even though I’m not left-handed like most goofyfoots. I can lean way back, putting my weight on my back foot, just cruising, rubbing my stomach and patting my face, taking the top of my wet suit off, balancing it on my head.
    That’s what I like doing, even