living in the trailer.”
Fletcher nodded. They had grouped around the board on the sawhorses. Sonny Martin ran a finger along the rail.
“Where’d you get this?” Martin asked. “A museum?”
Drew Harmon just laughed. “Not hardly. Had to go all the way to Ecuador to get that balsa. You can’t get the shit in big enough sticks in the States. Took me another eight months to get the stuff up here. The redwood is strictly from old growth timber.”
He stepped to one of the racks and pulled out a plank. The piece was solid redwood, ten feet long. Fletcher reckoned it must have weighed at least two hundred pounds. Harmon handled it as if it weighed no more than a third of that. He spun it on one end and propped it against the others, still racked. “Check this,” he told them. “It will blow your mind.” He ran his hand along several scars laid crosswise to the grain. “You know what those are?”
When no one answered, he smiled. “That’s the scars from a springboard,” he said. “That’s where some old logger drove his springboard into the trunk. There was still ten feet of the tree left in the ground. Wasteful as hell. I know a guy with a salvage license. We go into the woods looking for stumps. We find one, he slices me a piece off the top. Thing was three hundred pounds of solid wood when I started on it. But I wanted to save those scars. I get done, they’re gonna be right there in the board, under the glass job.”
He stood back, holding the board at arm’s length, admiring the old wood that was indeed quite impressive.
“That’s where the magic comes from,” he told them. “It’s inthe wood.” He gestured toward the board on the sawhorses. “You paddle out on that . . . the spirits will smile on you.”
He slid the plank back into the rack and went to his workbench where he set about removing what he had brought in the bag—two cans of tamales, two cans of chili, two six-packs of beer, and some hot dog buns.
“We’ll crash here,” Drew told them. “We’ll hit it early. First light.”
“May as well break out the shit,” Robbie said. The two surfers went outside where it had begun to rain once more.
Drew Harmon watched them go. He was at the workbench, opening cans. His parka was pulled back now. His hair was wet and he had twisted it into a ponytail that rested on his broad back.
Fletcher remained by the board. He looked around the shack. There was a hot plate on the workbench. A chaise lounge pad had been laid upon the floor with a sleeping bag on top of it.
Drew nodded toward the departed surfers, his back still to Fletcher. “That kid R.J. He the kid won the Masters this year?”
“Two years in a row.”
“What’s the payoff on that little item now?”
“I’m not sure. I think he made thirty, forty grand.”
“Shit.” Drew Harmon dumped the tamales in with the chili and placed the mess over his hot plate in a battered aluminum pan. “You know what I got the year I won that thing?”
“A trophy.”
“A fish dinner at Ahi’s.”
Fletcher listened to the rain on the tin roof. There was a stack of old surfing magazines on the floor by the sleeping bag together with a bottle of drinking water.
“We get some waves, I’d like to get pictures of all three of us riding my boards. What do you think?”
Fletcher looked at Drew. The man had his back to him.
“Fine by me.”
“I think there could be a market. This is the new frontier up here. You know that, don’t you? Undiscovered country. You need the right equipment to go after it on.”
Fletcher considered the board on the sawhorses. It was a ten-foot gun of serious proportions. The number of people requiring onelike it would be minimal. He kept the observation to himself. He watched as Drew Harmon stirred his tamales and chili. “You know I got an expense account for this trip. There’s someplace in town you and your wife would like to eat . . .”
“I don’t go into town,” Drew told him. He
Fletcher nodded. They had grouped around the board on the sawhorses. Sonny Martin ran a finger along the rail.
“Where’d you get this?” Martin asked. “A museum?”
Drew Harmon just laughed. “Not hardly. Had to go all the way to Ecuador to get that balsa. You can’t get the shit in big enough sticks in the States. Took me another eight months to get the stuff up here. The redwood is strictly from old growth timber.”
He stepped to one of the racks and pulled out a plank. The piece was solid redwood, ten feet long. Fletcher reckoned it must have weighed at least two hundred pounds. Harmon handled it as if it weighed no more than a third of that. He spun it on one end and propped it against the others, still racked. “Check this,” he told them. “It will blow your mind.” He ran his hand along several scars laid crosswise to the grain. “You know what those are?”
When no one answered, he smiled. “That’s the scars from a springboard,” he said. “That’s where some old logger drove his springboard into the trunk. There was still ten feet of the tree left in the ground. Wasteful as hell. I know a guy with a salvage license. We go into the woods looking for stumps. We find one, he slices me a piece off the top. Thing was three hundred pounds of solid wood when I started on it. But I wanted to save those scars. I get done, they’re gonna be right there in the board, under the glass job.”
He stood back, holding the board at arm’s length, admiring the old wood that was indeed quite impressive.
“That’s where the magic comes from,” he told them. “It’s inthe wood.” He gestured toward the board on the sawhorses. “You paddle out on that . . . the spirits will smile on you.”
He slid the plank back into the rack and went to his workbench where he set about removing what he had brought in the bag—two cans of tamales, two cans of chili, two six-packs of beer, and some hot dog buns.
“We’ll crash here,” Drew told them. “We’ll hit it early. First light.”
“May as well break out the shit,” Robbie said. The two surfers went outside where it had begun to rain once more.
Drew Harmon watched them go. He was at the workbench, opening cans. His parka was pulled back now. His hair was wet and he had twisted it into a ponytail that rested on his broad back.
Fletcher remained by the board. He looked around the shack. There was a hot plate on the workbench. A chaise lounge pad had been laid upon the floor with a sleeping bag on top of it.
Drew nodded toward the departed surfers, his back still to Fletcher. “That kid R.J. He the kid won the Masters this year?”
“Two years in a row.”
“What’s the payoff on that little item now?”
“I’m not sure. I think he made thirty, forty grand.”
“Shit.” Drew Harmon dumped the tamales in with the chili and placed the mess over his hot plate in a battered aluminum pan. “You know what I got the year I won that thing?”
“A trophy.”
“A fish dinner at Ahi’s.”
Fletcher listened to the rain on the tin roof. There was a stack of old surfing magazines on the floor by the sleeping bag together with a bottle of drinking water.
“We get some waves, I’d like to get pictures of all three of us riding my boards. What do you think?”
Fletcher looked at Drew. The man had his back to him.
“Fine by me.”
“I think there could be a market. This is the new frontier up here. You know that, don’t you? Undiscovered country. You need the right equipment to go after it on.”
Fletcher considered the board on the sawhorses. It was a ten-foot gun of serious proportions. The number of people requiring onelike it would be minimal. He kept the observation to himself. He watched as Drew Harmon stirred his tamales and chili. “You know I got an expense account for this trip. There’s someplace in town you and your wife would like to eat . . .”
“I don’t go into town,” Drew told him. He
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