Every morning I'd dial the local surf report expecting to hear that waves had finally arrived. Instead, I'd listen to the same mindless zombie screaming into the receiver about the new articles that "just arrived" at the surf shop. (everyday was something new and unusual) After which he'd mutter the official wave report as if we didn't want to hear it. He was always right. For over two months straight it could've been a recording.... Waves today are running six to eight inches in height, and ten inches on the sets arriving every third day. Sloppy surface conditions with light to moderate to hard to strong to heinous to gale force winds from the north and a 30mph drift from the south, and man-o-wars dominating the main peak at "Blowhole" Beach.

Even my beat up '67 Dodge pickemup truck nicknamed the "Dog-catcher" was on the fritz. It had just stalled out at the same red light for the third time on the first day of the new year. 1984 when along came this possum-bellied Jewish gypsy from Dade county and smashed into my already falling rear bumper section. My face was pushed into the dashboard with the impact and I soon feared that I'd be even uglier when I pulled it out. When I finally got to cuss this raccoon breath larvae from South Florida, I wasn't seeing stars, I was seeing dollar signs; For, she was sporting a king-sized convertible red Cadillac that had "Auto-Insurance-World" written all over it.

It was a (broke) surfer dream come true. out of court settlements for days. I won't bore you with the details, but I will say this. I was as good as in the barrel!

It took a mere 72 hours to round up Hawkstermania and Sparky Hotsticks, 2 polished Lucas surfboards, and a round trip ticket to Acapulco, Mexico. Sparky had been my mentor for many years teaching me the do's, dont's, and don't even think about it's since I was still wet behind the ears. Hawk is my brother, whom I had worshipped since the day he took me to Matanzas beach in his Buick Biscayne and ordered me to surf the river mouth without a leash. Certainly I thought, traveling with these two elite swine would further my education of Mack-Truck sized barrel exploration spurred on by my other two heroes (Scram & York) initiated me at the infamous Mexican Pipeline back in 1981. Here it was 1984 and I already had one foot in the door of a Pan Am jet. Yesiree, Doc Wart was well on his way to yet another full-tilt "go till you puke" surf stomp amongst 80 degree water, daily offshore barrels, cerveza fria, dog meat tacitos, and of course, the dreaded Mexican grunge.

The flight was a bit difficult getting used to if not impossible to grasp. Imagine this scene. Hawk, Doc, and Sparky all drinking toxic Rum Cola's as if they were water, sitting in coach class with 200(plus) fat, out of shape, sheet-white, bald-headed, double-chinned, Holiday-Inn bound Yankee tourists en route to an air-conditioned suite with room service. Meanwhile, Da DOG's from Florida would be sleeping with their eyes open atop stretched straw beds on a dirt floor. Dropping into the Acapulco airport was almost as radical as dropping into that first massive peak at Voodoo bay. We Stumbled upon this place by accident when Dusty ordered our whiskey breath taxi driver to turn down a nearly impassible donkey infested, pig terd laced, rock and cactus back road made from one of Mexico's overly abundant dried-up riverbeds.

I'll never forget my first wave at this leery new surf spot. Actually, most modern-aged surf trolls wouldn't even call it a ride, more like a disaster, Just try and picture it. Doc Wart (All 120 pounds of Him) on a six foot twin-fin with twelve feet of bungee cord trailing behind, dropping down a twenty foot high vertical elevator chute of swirling, bubbling, churning, white water, and attempting a bottom turn of unmentionable proportions. Along comes the five foot thick monster lip (50 tons of compressed H2O) and lands squarely against my forehead as I gaze up toward it, drives me straight down to the ocean floor and causes my face to leave it's imprint in the sand. I instinctively push off the bottom towards the surface, but am immediately hammered back down instead. All my spare air is squeezed from me as a baby squeezes a rubber duck. I instinctively gasp for air, but inhale nothing more than salty foam, sandy vapor, and mud. Black dots begin to clot my eyes, my brain burns and begins to feel light, my rookie rope yanks my leg so hard that my baggies begin to split. I'm now officially at the point of panic and confusion. Too weak to fight it any longer, I let go prepared to die and never see my family again. Thanks Montezuma that Dusty's "Waimea Bay proven ganga cord" didn't break, for I am almost unconscious when my bard snaps back with lighting speed and accuracy, beans me right between the eyes and snaps me out of my mutant-like state. I struggle for one last desperate moment, and wouldn't you know it, I can breath. Man I remember worshipping that disgustingly polluted Mexican air. It was the first time ever that I actually remember liking it.

Yes indeed, Voodoo bay proves too gnarly for Doc Wart on his very first outing at the inhuman beach break that shows little or no mercy on body nor board. A place so deep in the jungle, not even super-hotties like Tom Curren and Dave Permenter can bring their shutterbugs into and send out the open invitations to any google-eyed gimlet with a checker board quad-fin and daddy store bought video camera with matching Walkman stereo headset.

Hawk and Sparky's initial rides were tandem. (with one another). I dare not say who japped who; but, I will mention the fact that Hawk was already slotted ten feet back in the barrel when Sparky came blasting through the flats with his shoulder buried in the water and eyes intently fixed along the wall behind him. With magnificent finesse and full body extension, Sparky effortlessly spun his board-tip into the direction of the on-coming lip and stalled long enough to let Hawk squeak above him as Hawk found the barrel closing in around him. Once he passed, he completely obliterated the lip with an impact that would make Matt Kecheles eyeballs shatter with envy. With a gorilla sized free fall for a re-entry and a landing that would have killed your basic American housecat, Sparkey resumed his death path toward the lip once again, only this time cutting it short with a stall and a duck as the translucent blue wall laced with foam from Hawk's path cascaded over his head. Hawk was not to be left out of this one, for a perfectly uniformed section of crystal clear water and toxic jellyfish engulfed the Hawk as well. To sum up the all-world display of wave ownership. The Hawk easily pulled off his second stand-up tube ride on the first wave of his trip, with his hair dry and his back ready to break with soul arch pressure, he prepared to fly over the back of the wave. While the only sign of Sparky was a fluorescent shadow traveling with amazing speed behind a curtain of falling water. I was in the perfect spot for being run over when ole Sparky finally came out of what we all thought was an impossible situation. Who knows how long this all took (who even cares?) I can only relate it to watching old surf movies at the Great Southern Music Hall when Rory Russell would float on the face of an amazing Pipeline monster and hang under the lip for ten seconds or more. When we all got to the safe confines of the pebble-riddled beach. I can remember worshipping the ground those two main dogs spat upon, and fetching beers and cooking meals and waxing boards for the remainder of the trip. They were the kings of Grease land and I was their peasant. It's hard to include all the classic times we spent together and condense it into one short episode, for it took quiet sometime for my Bro's to convey their knowledge to me in a fashion that I could understand and follow.

This piece I dedicated to all those young pups who have ever left their towns on a wing and a prayer in search of perfect barrels and unforeseen adventures with elders of incomprehensible poise and character. Not until one has crossed into unknown territory with a pair of disgusting drunks whose motto is SURF, SEX, and SUDS, can one even begin to appreciate what surfing is all about. Thanks a lot Hawk and Sparky for making my second trip into oblivion as memorable as the first.