Surf's Up
Birthday fic for phaballa, who requested Wipeout fic. Thanks to joshysleo for a quick last minute beta.
Surf's Up
It’d been a long time. Far too long. JC breathed in the fresh ocean breeze, its crispness refreshing his lungs. The soft wind billowed over him, and he took a moment just to feel it, smell it, taste it. Sure he’d been to the beach in LA recently, but they just couldn’t compare to the beaches in Florida. Here the air was crisper, cleaner. Ocean air in LA still smelled of smog, serving as a reminder that the city was still right there. Here, it was just the ocean, a true escape from life beyond the shore.
The beaches in Florida had a few extra bonuses for JC. Paparazzi were disinclined to follow him to Florida these days. There were so many thousands of beaches that it was easy to find one with few tourists, and the laid-back locals never seemed interested in getting his autograph. Florida beaches were truly paradise; he’d wondered why he ever left.
A need for true relaxation had brought JC here, to an area just south of Daytona Beach. The sands were brilliant shade of tan, relatively untouched by the crowds a few miles north. But today was not for sunbathing and sipping Mai Tais. Today JC was going to surf. The waves looked great, so he knew it would be a good ride. JC had just one minor problem: he hadn’t ridden a surf board in roughly a decade. That had brought him to this particular beach. The guy at the front desk of the hotel, someone by the name of James, had directed him here, to a surf shop called Atlantic Gravity. Home to the best surf pro around, he had said.
JC walked in and approached the man at the counter. “Is there a Clarence Adams here?” he asked.
“That’s me,” the man said, extending his hand. “What can I do for you dude?”
JC accepted his handshake, which the man topped off with a fist tap to the shoulder. JC stepped back a little. He wasn’t so sure about this guy. He had a floppy hairdo, which JC had sworn had gone out of style in ’93, wore a wetsuit instead of a shirt, and used that surfer accent that often denoted only half a brain. His redeeming quality was that the wetsuit he wore had large pink stripes. JC could always trust a man who wore pink.
“Um, yea. I haven’t surfed in a long time and I need a refresher course. I heard you were pretty good.”
“Pretty good? You’re talkin to the gnarliest surfer in the Cove, none better,” he said. “How long a lesson you want?"
JC pondered for a second. “Um, an hour, I guess. If I need more than that, can I just pay for more?”
“Oh absolutely dude. I’m chill with whatever you’re down for. Wouldn’t want you to look like a barney out there on the surf.”
JC was thoroughly confused. He was usually good at deciphering odd language, but this guy was totally beyond his radar. “A what?”
“A barney, you know,” as if JC had some idea. “Whatever, dude, you got any gear?”
“Like a surf board? Nah, too hard to transport from LA.”
An excited look came over Clarence’s face. “You’re a West Coaster? Ah, sweet man, I’ve been out there a couple times. Gnarly waves on the Pacific Ocean.”
JC didn’t think anyone actually used the word gnarly anymore. Still, if he was going to spend an hour with this guy, he figured it’d probably be a good idea to make friends with him. People you were nice to were more likely to be nice to you, at least, that’s what he’d always been taught. “What brought you to LA?”
“Pro circuit,” he answered, clearly animated about it. “US Open out in Huntington Beach every year.”
“I thought the US Open was a golf tournament?”
“US Open of surfing. I look like I golf? No way man, way too boring. Most prestigious surfing competition in the nation.”
“You ever surf with Kelly Slater?” JC asked. It was the only surfer’s name he knew.
“Yeah man, that guy is radical!”
JC supposed that James guy had been right, this guy had to be good. He’d surfed with someone JC had heard of, which had to say something. “What are you doing in a place like this, if you’re that good?”
“Knee injury. Tube collapsed on me.”
“That sucks.”
“Totally bogus.”
The guy looked pretty bummed about it. JC couldn’t blame him. If he injured his vocal chords and not be able to sing again, he’d never want to leave the house.
JC figured a subject change was in order. “Hey Clarence, you rent out wetsuits here too?”
“Wipeout. Nobody calls me Clarence. And yea, you name it, I carry it.”
Wipeout?
JC tried his best to keep comments about Clarence’s nickname to himself. He seemed good natured, but still might try to pull a trick on JC if he insulted him. That tended to happen to tourists.
JC zipped up his wetsuit in the changing room behind the shop. He’d forgotten the feeling of being enclosed in one, the way it hugged his every muscle tone. Clarence..er, Wipeout..had said something about going to change as well. JC circled back to the shop to get the longboard he had picked out, though he was a little confused to see Wipeout still in the same wetsuit. He wasn’t wearing the pair of shorts he’d had on over them; maybe that’s what’d he’d meant by “changing”.
“Alright dude, you ready to go?” he asked.
“Um, yea,” JC replied, grabbing the board.
The two of them then made their way across the sand. It was bright out, and JC tried not to think about how sunburnt he was going to get. Which was easy to do with Wipeout in his ear.
“Oh man, the waves are pumping something fierce today!”
“Is that good or bad?” JC asked hesitantly.
“That’s good dude! It’s gonna be a gnarly ride.” Wipeout was almost bounding off the sand, he was so excited, JC could tell. Wipeout kind of reminded him of himself when he got on stage. It was an intense rush, doing something you loved.
The feel of the water came at JC a little unexpectedly. It was colder than JC had remembered Florida waters being, and made him jump and shiver a little. Wipeout simply laughed at him and dove in. JC waited for a few seconds as his feet adjusted to the temperature. “Oh fuck it,” he thought, “never gonna get in at this pace,” then dove in as well.
As he swam out from shore, JC felt his body fall into surfer rhythm. He might not have remembered much, but his muscles seemed to know exactly what to do. It might be a quicker lesson than JC had imagined, which was starting to disappoint him a little.
“Ok dude, this,” Wipeout said, slapping JC’s surfboard. “is your board. Love the board, embrace the board! Be one with the board!”
JC loved this guy’s enthusiam.
It was one of the best hours JC’d had in a long time, first just a quick lesson, then hitting wave after wave, struggling a little at first, then developing the knack enough to get some good runs. He was nothing compared to Wipeout, but it was still a blast. His inhibitions about the guy had faded watching him surf. JC really was starting to like him. It was only too bad he’d have to return to LA soon.
Wipeout slapped JC on the shoulder to get his attention. “Hey man, my friend Bobby owns the Shack, you wanna go grab some grub?”
JC smiled. “Sure. I’m game.”
Surf's Up
It’d been a long time. Far too long. JC breathed in the fresh ocean breeze, its crispness refreshing his lungs. The soft wind billowed over him, and he took a moment just to feel it, smell it, taste it. Sure he’d been to the beach in LA recently, but they just couldn’t compare to the beaches in Florida. Here the air was crisper, cleaner. Ocean air in LA still smelled of smog, serving as a reminder that the city was still right there. Here, it was just the ocean, a true escape from life beyond the shore.
The beaches in Florida had a few extra bonuses for JC. Paparazzi were disinclined to follow him to Florida these days. There were so many thousands of beaches that it was easy to find one with few tourists, and the laid-back locals never seemed interested in getting his autograph. Florida beaches were truly paradise; he’d wondered why he ever left.
A need for true relaxation had brought JC here, to an area just south of Daytona Beach. The sands were brilliant shade of tan, relatively untouched by the crowds a few miles north. But today was not for sunbathing and sipping Mai Tais. Today JC was going to surf. The waves looked great, so he knew it would be a good ride. JC had just one minor problem: he hadn’t ridden a surf board in roughly a decade. That had brought him to this particular beach. The guy at the front desk of the hotel, someone by the name of James, had directed him here, to a surf shop called Atlantic Gravity. Home to the best surf pro around, he had said.
JC walked in and approached the man at the counter. “Is there a Clarence Adams here?” he asked.
“That’s me,” the man said, extending his hand. “What can I do for you dude?”
JC accepted his handshake, which the man topped off with a fist tap to the shoulder. JC stepped back a little. He wasn’t so sure about this guy. He had a floppy hairdo, which JC had sworn had gone out of style in ’93, wore a wetsuit instead of a shirt, and used that surfer accent that often denoted only half a brain. His redeeming quality was that the wetsuit he wore had large pink stripes. JC could always trust a man who wore pink.
“Um, yea. I haven’t surfed in a long time and I need a refresher course. I heard you were pretty good.”
“Pretty good? You’re talkin to the gnarliest surfer in the Cove, none better,” he said. “How long a lesson you want?"
JC pondered for a second. “Um, an hour, I guess. If I need more than that, can I just pay for more?”
“Oh absolutely dude. I’m chill with whatever you’re down for. Wouldn’t want you to look like a barney out there on the surf.”
JC was thoroughly confused. He was usually good at deciphering odd language, but this guy was totally beyond his radar. “A what?”
“A barney, you know,” as if JC had some idea. “Whatever, dude, you got any gear?”
“Like a surf board? Nah, too hard to transport from LA.”
An excited look came over Clarence’s face. “You’re a West Coaster? Ah, sweet man, I’ve been out there a couple times. Gnarly waves on the Pacific Ocean.”
JC didn’t think anyone actually used the word gnarly anymore. Still, if he was going to spend an hour with this guy, he figured it’d probably be a good idea to make friends with him. People you were nice to were more likely to be nice to you, at least, that’s what he’d always been taught. “What brought you to LA?”
“Pro circuit,” he answered, clearly animated about it. “US Open out in Huntington Beach every year.”
“I thought the US Open was a golf tournament?”
“US Open of surfing. I look like I golf? No way man, way too boring. Most prestigious surfing competition in the nation.”
“You ever surf with Kelly Slater?” JC asked. It was the only surfer’s name he knew.
“Yeah man, that guy is radical!”
JC supposed that James guy had been right, this guy had to be good. He’d surfed with someone JC had heard of, which had to say something. “What are you doing in a place like this, if you’re that good?”
“Knee injury. Tube collapsed on me.”
“That sucks.”
“Totally bogus.”
The guy looked pretty bummed about it. JC couldn’t blame him. If he injured his vocal chords and not be able to sing again, he’d never want to leave the house.
JC figured a subject change was in order. “Hey Clarence, you rent out wetsuits here too?”
“Wipeout. Nobody calls me Clarence. And yea, you name it, I carry it.”
Wipeout?
JC tried his best to keep comments about Clarence’s nickname to himself. He seemed good natured, but still might try to pull a trick on JC if he insulted him. That tended to happen to tourists.
JC zipped up his wetsuit in the changing room behind the shop. He’d forgotten the feeling of being enclosed in one, the way it hugged his every muscle tone. Clarence..er, Wipeout..had said something about going to change as well. JC circled back to the shop to get the longboard he had picked out, though he was a little confused to see Wipeout still in the same wetsuit. He wasn’t wearing the pair of shorts he’d had on over them; maybe that’s what’d he’d meant by “changing”.
“Alright dude, you ready to go?” he asked.
“Um, yea,” JC replied, grabbing the board.
The two of them then made their way across the sand. It was bright out, and JC tried not to think about how sunburnt he was going to get. Which was easy to do with Wipeout in his ear.
“Oh man, the waves are pumping something fierce today!”
“Is that good or bad?” JC asked hesitantly.
“That’s good dude! It’s gonna be a gnarly ride.” Wipeout was almost bounding off the sand, he was so excited, JC could tell. Wipeout kind of reminded him of himself when he got on stage. It was an intense rush, doing something you loved.
The feel of the water came at JC a little unexpectedly. It was colder than JC had remembered Florida waters being, and made him jump and shiver a little. Wipeout simply laughed at him and dove in. JC waited for a few seconds as his feet adjusted to the temperature. “Oh fuck it,” he thought, “never gonna get in at this pace,” then dove in as well.
As he swam out from shore, JC felt his body fall into surfer rhythm. He might not have remembered much, but his muscles seemed to know exactly what to do. It might be a quicker lesson than JC had imagined, which was starting to disappoint him a little.
“Ok dude, this,” Wipeout said, slapping JC’s surfboard. “is your board. Love the board, embrace the board! Be one with the board!”
JC loved this guy’s enthusiam.
It was one of the best hours JC’d had in a long time, first just a quick lesson, then hitting wave after wave, struggling a little at first, then developing the knack enough to get some good runs. He was nothing compared to Wipeout, but it was still a blast. His inhibitions about the guy had faded watching him surf. JC really was starting to like him. It was only too bad he’d have to return to LA soon.
Wipeout slapped JC on the shoulder to get his attention. “Hey man, my friend Bobby owns the Shack, you wanna go grab some grub?”
JC smiled. “Sure. I’m game.”