My father craved the weightless glide. He chased hurricanes and blizzards to touch the bliss of riding mighty waves and deep powder snow. An insatiable spirit, he was crazy for the storm. And it saved my life. This book is for my father and for my son.
I am harnessed in a canvas papoose strapped to my dads back. Its my first birthday. I peer over his shoulder as we glide the sea. Sun glare and blue ripple together. The surfboard rail engraves the arcing wave and spits of sunflecked ocean tumble over his toes. I can fly.
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FEBRUARY 19, 1979. At seven that morning my dad, his
THE SUMMER BEFORE the crash my grandmothers washing machine broke.
NEAR THE TOP of Ontario Peak I woke up. Feathers
WHEN CHARLEY AND I loaded into the VW bus it
MY BODY QUIVERED like a freight train and woke me.
NICK CAME HOME after dark and my mom served my
SANDRA STOPPED CRYING. Her hand remained over her face. She
I HEARD MY DADS feet banging the loose wood boards
I ASCENDED FROM the baby tree, trying to veer out
MY MOMS VW Squareback climbed the Topanga Beach access road.
I ROSE FROM my dads cold limp body. Everything appeared
DAD WAS HOLDING both our surfboards when I woke up,
SANDRA REFUSED TO MOVE and the airplanes floor rug was
DADS CURLY HAIR had dried in a big puff. I
SANDRA WAS CURLED up into a ball near the wing
IN THE VILLAGE Dad and I drank water and coconut
FROM AN ELEVATED position above the crash site I could
MY DAD AND I took the ferry directly from Puerto
THE TERRAIN BELOW the big tree seemed like the easiest
BEFORE I KNEW it I had started the sixth grade.
SANDRAS BODY SPILLED into the funnel. The only way to
OUR LITTLE WHITE Porsche passed the Mammoth turnoff and kept
SANDRAS WEIGHT PUSHED down on my shoulders as I cleated
ON FRIDAY WE DROVE to Big Als house. He was
IM BREATHING HARD. I must be alive. Youre lucky you
WE LEFT TOPANGA Sunday morning at 5:00 a.m., headed for
I TURNED AWAY FROM Sandras body, shielded by twigs, and
MY DAD HUSTLED ME to the Snow Summit lodge and
THE GIANT SHALE moated by snow proved more grueling than
MY DAD WAS in the bleachers at the beginning of
I WAS PHYSICALLY AND mentally parched, stuck in a hole,
DAD WOKE ME at 5:30 in the morning. Sandra was
I WAS TRAPPED, WORN OUT and frozen. Night moved down
A GUARD LET US through the draw gate into Santa
WHEN I CAME to the edge of the meadow the
PILOT ROB LED us across the tarmac toward one of
THE WIND HAD tricked me before, so I ignored the
I WAS LYING ON my back looking into a lamp.
THE NEXT MORNING Nicks face was swollen and his eyes
TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS LATER, I was driving to Mammoth with my
F EBRUARY 19, 1979 . At seven that morning my dad, his girlfriend Sandra and I took off from Santa Monica Airport headed for the mountains of Big Bear. I had won the Southern California Slalom Skiing Championship the day before and that afternoon we drove back to Santa Monica for my hockey game. To avoid another round-trip in the car my dad had chartered a plane back to Big Bear so that I could collect my trophy and train with the ski team. My dad was forty-three. Sandra was thirty. I was eleven.
The Cessna 172 lifted and banked over Venice Beach then climbed over a cluster of buildings in Westwood and headed east. I sat in the front, headphones and all, next to pilot Rob Arnold. Rob fingered the knobs along the instrument panel that curved toward the cockpits ceiling. Intermittently, he rolled a large vertical dial next to his knee, the trim wheel, and the plane rocked like a seesaw before leveling off. Out the windshield, way in the distance, a dome of gray clouds covered the San Bernardino Mountains, the tops alone poking through. It was flat desert all around the cluster of peaks, and the peaks stood out of the desert as high as 10,000 feet.
I was feeling especially daring because I had just won the slalom championship and I thought about the big chutes carved into those peaksconcave slides, dropping from the top of the peaks down the faces of the mountains like deep wrinkles. I wondered if they were skiable .
Behind Rob sat my dad. He read the sports section and whistled a Willie Nelson tune that Id heard him play on his guitar many times. I craned around to see behind my seat. Sandra was brushing out her silky dark brown hair. Shes dressed kind of fancy, I thought.
How long, Dad? I said.
He peered over the top of the newspaper.
About thirty minutes, Boy Wonder, he said. We might get a look at your championship run as we come around Mount Baldy.
Then he stuffed an apple in his mouth and folded the newspaper into a rectangle. He would fold the Racing Form the same way, watermelon dripping off his chin on one of those late August days down at the Del Mar track where the surf meets the turf . Wed leave Malibu early in the morning and drive sixty miles south to ride a few peelers off the point at Swamis, named for the ashram crowning the headland. If there was a long lull in the waves Dad would fold his legs up on his board and sit lotus, pretending to meditate, embarrassing me in front of the other surfers. Around noon wed head to Solana Beach, which was across the Coast Highway from the track. Wed hide our boards under the small wood bridge because they wouldnt fit inside Dads 56 Porsche, then wed cross the highway and railroad tracks to watch the horses get saddled. When they came into the walking ring Dad would throw me on his shoulders and hand up a fistful of peanuts for lunch. Pick a horse, Boy Wonder, hed say. Without hesitation hed bet my horse to win. Once a long shot named Scooby Doo won by a nose and Dad gave me a hundred-dollar bill to spend however I wanted.
The mountaintops appeared higher than the plane. I stretched my neck to see over the planes dashboard, clasping the oversized headphones. As we approached the foothills I heard Burbank Control pass our plane onto Pomona Control. Pilot Rob told Pomona that he preferred not to go above 7,500 feet because of low freezing levels. Then a private plane radioed in, warning against flying into the Big Bear area without the proper instruments.
Did you copy that? said the control tower.
Roger, said pilot Rob.
The nose of the plane pierced the first tier of the once distant storm. A gray mist enveloped us. The cabin felt compressed with noise and we jiggled and lurched. Rob put both hands on the steering wheel, shaped like a giant W. There was no way we were going to get to see my championship run through these clouds, I thought. Not even the slopes of Baldy where my dad and I had snagged a couple great powder days last year.
Then the gravity of the other pilots warning interrupted my daydream.
I looked back at my dad. He gobbled down the apple core, smacking his lips with satisfaction. His sparkling blue eyes and hearty smile calmed my anxiety about the warning. His face beamed with pride for me. Winning that championship was evidence that all our hard work had finally paid off, that anything is possible, like Dad always said.