Chapter 2: 1970.
Whatever quirks existed in Schuyler Rocket's character, and there were more than a couple, his son Raymundo was okay with them as long as he got to live in California. This new life was literally a whole continent removed from the existence he'd suffered in the family flat in a crowded section of Baltimore, before the separation. Ray was a big, strapping fellow of twelve who looked two or three years older; the flexible schedule Sky enjoyed in his capacity as an investigator/adjuster for a major insurance corporation allowed them to spend much time together when Sky was not away on an inquiry or a conference. The son acquired the father's aptitude and love of snow sports during many winter excursions into the Vermont hill country, and once they'd sampled California's offerings of Mammoth Mountain, Big Bear, and Mount Baldy, he was hooked. Sky even bought a small cabin near the last, "big enough to stay a weekend, but too small to want to move into full time."
But as much as the world of winter enthralled Ray, it was the beach and the ocean that ended up seducing him. Ray took a basic swimming class late in the spring after they settled in Ocean Shores, on the condition that Sky would do likewise. Raymundo did very well; Schuyler a little less so, but at least he understood what drove Ray when the coach made an announcement: The best swimmers in the class would be taught to surf, free of charge. And so, with that motivation, it turned out that everybody in the class would obtain free surfing lessons.
And Ray did very well, and during that summer became a very good surfer. Of those in his age group, he was clearly the strongest and boldest, paddling into situations men twice his age and half again his size shied away from--and making it out, time after time. This earned the awe of many. But it kinda made Raymundo a little lonely, because a lot of the people he was good enough to surf around were adults.
Except for this one little towheaded fellow who paddled out one day on this strange looking, pointy thing - could it still be called a surfboard? - that barely floated him. Ray had seen this guy in action before while studying the movement of the waves. And now this guy was talking to him!
"You're Raymundo, right?" the boy asked in an accent he couldn't place.
"Raymundo Wright?... No, Rocket. Raymundo Rocket." he grinned sheepishly.
"I'm Clarke Duncan. Say, you're a pretty good surfer. Have you ever ridden a shortboard before?"
"Thanks! And, by the way, so are you," he returned the compliment. As to his question, Ray could only answer, "Can't say as I have, I just learned to surf earlier this summer. How's that work for you?"
"Pretty good. You can take off real late with one of these. Pretty handy with reefbreaks, like they got in Hawaii."
"Hawaii? You've been to Hawaii?"
"I'm from Hawaii, by way of Brooklyn," Clarke replied. "I go to school and live with my aunt and cousins over in Hawaii, and I stay with my mom and her husband over here in the summer. Too hot ova deah."
Ray immediately felt a common bond with this individual who like himself was a product of a broken home yet who did everything within his power to make life enjoyable for himself and tried to be civil to all.
"Let's switch boards and I'll tell you how it works," Clarke offered and they did so. After a few clumsy first tries, Ray got the shortboard wired with Clarke's encouraging advice.
The two exchanged many tales and information. "Say, why don't you come over my place for lunch? We live right up the hill!" offered Clarke.
"Sure!" Ray accepted.
The two trudged up the hill from the pier. They walked to the right onto a cul-de-sac, passing a very strange looking white split-level house. Part of it looked like a huge old boat buried in the side of the mountain. There was no garage that could be seen, but a huge black sedan was parked on a very large cement driveway.
"Wonder who lives there?" asked Ray out loud.
"Some batty old actor. Charlie something or other. He was in some movie about vampires. Ah, here we are!"
He referred of course to the house next door to it, with a very inviting swimming pool. Clarke plunged in as he laid his board aside, and Raymundo did likewise.
"That felt good," Ray observed.
"Yup," nodded Clarke.
"Home is the surfer, home from the sea," greeted an adult woman from inside the house.
"Hi Mom!" greeted Clarke as he stepped from the pool, accepting a towel from her.
"Mrs Duncan," courtesied Raymundo.
"Please, call me Doris," she urged.
"Mind if I borrow your phone for a local call?" Ray asked.
"Go ahead," they said.
Ray dialed a number. "Message for Schuyler Rocket, please... Thanks. From Raymundo... He'll know. Having lunch with the Duncans, 82 Ozone Street, Klamath 5-14-21. Home and maybe movie after. Thanks again...Bye!" Doris grinned noddingly.
From his new friend Clarke and Clarke's mother Doris, Ray learned much during their lunch in stories and photographs about the community in Hawaii that Doris and Clarke came from. And Ray resolved that one day he would visit Hawaii and spend some time there himself.
As he began walking down the hill towards home, Clarke beamingly offered, "Ray. Someday I'll have to teach you how to ride a skateboard."
"It'll have to be another time." Ray returned the smile. "At this hour I'm pooped. But thanks!"