Snake The Expat
The mosquito bite on my ankle was itchy. There were light offshore winds and the sky was lit up by a bright orange gradient going purple on the horizon. Puffy, fake-looking clouds were scattered evenly across the scene and the highest parts were bright orange from the rising sun. The beach was still in shadow and nobody was up yet. Maybe too much cerveza the night before. Maybe tired from surfing all day yesterday. Maybe just taking it slow. I scratched my ankle with the toenails of the other foot.
It didn’t take long to realize I wasn’t going to be surfing. The tide was still too low and my surf check was turning into a peaceful time of reflection. It was so glassy, the water was the same color as the sky. A stunning scene, and the beach was deserted. Seemed like a good time for a little walk along the sand.
I stood and headed up the beach towards the rocks I’d been seeing for the past few days. As soon as I hit the wet sand I was shocked to find it much warmer than the dry sand. The water was like eighty degrees, or something, and it felt wonderful on my feet. The hum of the sea on my left, the sounds of the jungle waking up on my right. This was solitude at its best. I’d been looking forward to this trip for a long time. Since sacrificing myself for inland life and a tech job in Silicon Valley, my feet just didn’t touch the sand much anymore.
I lingered around the rock for a bit then started making my way back. The ocean was on my right now, and a light mist was lifting over the jungle, the rays of sun were finding their way to the sand through the palm trees. The surf was still clean. The tide had made progress and it looked like there were some fun peaks coming in. Then all of a sudden something emerged from the jungle about one hundred meters in front of me. “Is that a man?” My solitude was cut off.
At some point I realized we were going to pass each other and figured I would offer a smile as I passed. He was a bit higher on the slope of the beach than I was so there would be no need for any words. Just far enough away, if you know what I mean. No need for any man sounds on this beautiful morning. Oh no, wait a minute, I bet that’s Snake. I’d been hearing about him, the crabby expat who lived a few villas from where we were staying. We got within about twenty feet from each other and I yelled over, “Are you Snake?”
He yelled back, “Yea. Who are you?” He came closer.
From this distance he seemed familiar. I’d seen this character before. This is what every surfer looks like if they have been surfing their whole life. They always look the same. As he approached, the details came into view. This is where the story really begins.
Snake was topped with a head of blonde, curly hair, which was actually more gray than blonde. The clumps of curls were matted and mixed-up. He had just woken up and didn’t give a shit how he looked. The shirt he wore had a stupid tourist graphic on the front that said Tamarindo Sailing Club. Bad typography. Bad design. A bad idea; all the elements of the perfect tourist shirt. It had seen some years, without a doubt, and the thin, wiry frame under his white tshirt revealed long, spindly arms and sticking out of his old Ron Jon board shorts were knobby knees holding his thin legs together. It was the weathered body contours of an old surfer. Man, he looked like a cartoon character in some weird way. His skin was the standard hide of a longtime surfer: Leathery and wrinkled at the creases, tight some places–loose in others, sun spots and mottled pigment creating what looked like grains of sand under a cheap magnifying glass. It’s the imprint of forty-plus years in the sun. There’s no escaping it. Most likely started using sunscreen too late, if at all. The damage had been done. Heavy lines on his face told a story of a resting scowl. He wasn’t a big man, but he wore a lifetime of experience.
He stuck his boney hand toward me and I reached for it.
“I’m Joe. Stayin’ with the Gordons.” I smiled as we locked hands. I gauged the appropriate handshake to respond with and found that he was much stronger than I had expected. His hands were rough and ugly, and he seemed a little impatient as he looked at me. He may have cracked a smile.
“You’re a surfer, huh.” It wasn’t a question. He was sizing-me-up. His eyes were solar-torched; that permanent bloodshot state that tinted the whites and diluted his brown eyes. He had a tiny growth on the lower lid of his right eye that was bugging the shit out of me already and his eyebrows were just a collection of rogue, independent hairs of various lengths that went in so many directions they looked fake. I kept feeling like I wanted to reposition my view in order to see around them to look at his eyes. I guess he could see me, I don’t know. “You stayin’ in the house there with the other guys, I guess.”
“Yea, we...” I was just responding like one would do as the conversation gets going, but he cuts me off.
“I’ve been down here since ‘89. There was nothing here when I found this place. I was the first one here, you know.” He talked kinda fast and his voice had a sharp, sandy tone. “I came here from Hawaii. You’re a surfer? Everybody’s a surfer. You ever heard of the North Shore?”
“Yea, I...” He cut me off.
“In ‘71 I ended up there after I signed-up for the draft. What a fucked-up deal that was. I said ‘Screw this. I’m going surfing’ and I left Florida for Hawaii. Not much surf in Florida. You ever been to Florida?” I was catching on and didn’t even offer a response. I let him go. Snake wasn’t waiting around. “I guess I got a good number cuz it never came up. At least I never heard anything about it. I was in Hawaii living the life. Wiakiki was where it was at. We started making trips to the north shore after a while, we’d hear about guys coming over from the states to surf there. You know I was one of the first guys to surf the north shore. I went up there and bought a tool shed that ended up being the original house at Off The Wall. I bought it from an old japanese woman who owned the store in Haleiwa. It was her husband’s and I picked it up for a steal. Five-hundred bucks, which was a lot of money back then, but I made it happen. He died, I guess. I knew it was going to be the center of surfing one day so I bought it. I was selling weed back then…”
I’m just going to pause here to catch my breath. Snake’s still talking, I just need to get a paragraph break in here somewhere.
“...I wasn’t selling a lot. I made a bit of money. Not much. Maybe a bit of coke, too. Nothing big. I’m not rich you know. I don’t want you to think I’m rich. I kept the tools in that old shed, just moved them to one side and made the other half livable. Surfed a lot. Randy Rarick lived next door. He and I surfed a lot together. I used to wake him up every morning, ‘Wake up you lazy sonofabitch! Let’s go surfing.’ The north shore was country back then. You ever been to the north shore? It’s too much now. I left there in the late eighties. I’d had enough. Saw too many wild things. You know, the Hawaiians are a violent people. Polynesia is a war culture. All this aloha bullshit. Sold my place. Everyone was sad that we were leaving, but that’s life, you know? Where you from?”
“California. I grew-up in Santa…” He cut me off. This guy was incredible. I shifted my weight again.
“Yea, California, what a fuckin’ mess. You know when Obama was president the building stopped down here. Now look. The American dollars are making this place what it is. Obama didn’t do this. Yea they wanted to charge me tax on this property I sold in Hawaii and I said ‘fuck you.’ It didn’t make any sense. I bought it for a hundred and eighty grand and I sold it for a hundred and eighty grand. They wanted me to pay forty grand in tax. They’re crazy. When I was–“
“Man, I need to go make breakfa…” he cut me off.
“Oh, yea, right.” We shook hands bro style and before I could get away he started in again. “The waves are gonna be better this afternoon. It’s been raining for three weeks straight. The water is finally clean. You hit it right. The crocs are back. Dogs have been going missing. It’s the crocs. Keep your dogs locked-up I tell people. Nobody listens. Now that water is in the estuary the crocs are back. You ever seen a croc? They got’em in Florida. Scary bastards, let me tell ya. I’m so fucking glad I left Florida. I had to go back now and then to take care of my mom. She was dying and my brother, that lazy fuck, he lives fifteen minutes away and he just couldn’t find the time to take care of her. You believe that? And he wonders why he didn’t get any money. He’s lucky I gave him what I did. You believe that shit? I’d go there for a month a few times a year to take care of her. My wife would go a few times but she didn’t like to leave the cats and dogs. We had a bunch of cats and dogs. Just a cat now. He’s about to die any day. He tried to find a quiet place to go and die but I locked him in the bathroom so he couldn’t. He’s still there. He might be dead already. I’ll find out when I get back. My wife wanted him to die at home. Whatever. We give him water cuz he won’t eat. I used to wake up early and run the dogs on the beach at Sunset. Five dobermans and an akita. What a sight. No leash–didn’t need one. They looked scary but they were softies. People would clear the fuck out when they saw us coming. It was funny. I went early, though. It was safe.”
I let him keep going. He went on about politics, how “all these kids are dumb shits these days”, partying with Cyndi Lauper in Waikiki, getting VIP at the first Hard Rock in New York from his friend Les Paul, how he doesn’t have a cell phone because he doesn’t need one, etc. There was other stuff too but I can’t remember. What’s a guy to do? I’m respectful. I enjoy hearing good stories. Especially surf stories. Surfing has such a rich culture and a well documented history to back it up. It’s funny, over the years I’ve met a few guys that said they were responsible for this and that, and that they knew so and so before he was known, or that they taught so and so how to surf, and shit like that. Surfing has solidified its place in pop culture and some of these old surfers just want their part of it. I don’t blame them, surfing’s cool. Who doesn’t love surfing?
I’ve talked to Greg Noll, Heard him describe “the classic photo” of him at Pipe and he is so humble about it. He plays it down. That’s the sign of the real deal. I can’t verify the stories because I wasn’t there, but I read what's in front of me. I call it like I see it. The less they say, the more I listen. Snake never stopped talking.
“I told Ted to buy the bakery. He was doing chef school in Waikiki and making all these great pastries and I saw the place come up for rent and told him to start the bakery there. You know the bakery at Sunset? You ever been to the north shore? Ted’s Bakery. You know it? Everybody knows it. I told him to start the bakery. He was taking chef classes in Waikiki and he knew what he was doing. It’s still in business. Waikiki is great. Number Threes is the best right in the world. You ever been to Waikiki? I was treated like a king there. Everybody knew me. I’d get any wave I wanted.”
My eyes glance over his right shoulder for a second as I notice a figure emerging from the jungle carrying a board. It’s Trefz. He’s carrying his chopped Morey Doyle by the nose under his left arm and he’s making his way to the water. No fins. He’d been shredding with that thing the last few days. There’s some clean sets coming in and nobody’s out. He’ll get a few for sure.
Snake sees me glance over his shoulder so he turns around to see what I’m looking at. He’s still talking, of course.
My mind is starting to wander at this point and the droning snake chatter is falling away as I consider the situation. “Should I go grab my board? It looks really clean. I don’t know.” If I did, I’d have to stop the noise and say goodbye. Who cares, this guy’s been going on and on for 20 minutes or something. That would be rude and I like to think I’m not rude, especially to my elders. But is he my elder? My grandparents and parents are my elders, really, not him. Is that ru…’
“Look at that hodad, what the fuck is he riding? Did he find that at the dump? All these guys show up here and…”I cut him off this time.
“That’s Patrick Trefz, the surf photographer. You’ve heard of him?”
“Nah. I knew all the photographers. Me and Warren Bolster did photo shoots together, he learned how to be a photographer by practicing with me at Kaisers. Afterward we would look at the shots and I would tell him, ‘You have to get lower, let me get closer before you snap it.’ Him, Drew Kampion, Jeff Devine. All those guys. Don King was an animal. Man that guy was a great swimmer. I knew all the major guys. You ever been to Waikiki? I had the place wired. I had to sell my place on the North Shore in ‘95. Too much IRS bullshit. Those fuckers wanted to tax me for shit. I said ‘fuck you’. I moved down here before all this was here. I was the first one here, you know. I was. If you need a good massage I got the girl. She’s the best in the world. Next time you come, you should stay at my place. I’ll give you a better price than those guys. Just call the number and let me know. Send me the money first, though. Don’t forget to add a one and a five-oh-six before it because that’s the Costa Rica number code. It’s gonna be good this afternoon. It’s been raining for three fucking weeks straight. The water is finally clean. Muddy water is such a bummer. Even the Ticos were whining. If the Ticos are complaining, you know it’s bad. How long you stayin’? I’ve been down here since ‘89. There was nothing here when I got here. I made…”
I cut him off. “Snake I gotta go make breakfast. I gotta take off.” I stuck out my hand for the bro-style handshake.
“Oh, Okay. Yea, great talking to you.” His weathered right hand came up to meet my hand. I got a closer look at this guy. His eyes had changed. There may have been a glint of gratitude peeking out from that nest of gray eyebrows. I sensed a coded ‘Thank you’ in there somewhere. Maybe he hadn’t talked to anyone in a while. Maybe nobody listens to him. Maybe no one ever listened.
The annoying feeling that had been building since he opened his mouth was now something different. I thought for a second that I might be feeling sorry for him, maybe. I figured I was doing my duty or something by giving this old guy my time. I smiled wider and said, “Great talking to you.”
We turned and went our ways along the beach. Did I just have a conversation? Was that a conversation? The sun was getting warm and the waves were clean. Trefz was dropping into a nice peak. He was having fun and I was scratching my mosquito bite.