Scratching the Horizon

by Izzy Paskowitz

  There were big hugs all around. Gilbert and Lyle had thought I’d been crushed to death, and after that they thought I’d been seriously hurt, so we were all happy to be alive and in one piece. A little cut up and bruised, but okay. Poor Gilbert was falling all over himself with how sorry he was. Really, the guy was pretty broken up about it. I told him it wasn’t his fault, that it could have happened to any one of us.

  Soon as we stopped celebrating/commiserating, I checked the damage. The rig was completely destroyed, flattened. Our boards up top were like pancakes. Everything inside the camper was demolished. It was a giant miracle we hadn’t been killed.

  Incredibly, there wasn’t a lot of damage to the truck. The driver took in the scene and bolted, quick as he could. I imagined he was driving his rig on even less authority than we were driving Doc’s. We were on a fairly remote stretch of road, but a couple cars stopped and people offered to help. I remember hearing a bunch of voices, in English and Spanish, and not really understanding what anyone was saying. I was pretty rattled, pretty freaked.

  Finally, one of the English voices pierced through whatever fog I was in. The voice came from a guy with blond hair. He spoke perfect English, perfect Spanish. He was Mexican, but he didn’t look Mexican. He could see I was shaken, confused.

  He said, “Dude, you’re gonna get charged for all this damage. They’re probably gonna toss your asses in jail.”

  Turned out this guy’s family ran one of the oldest, most famous cantinas in all of Mexico—Hussong’s, back up the road in Ensenada. We’d been there a bunch of times. It’s where the margarita was invented, so the place was a big, big deal, a real landmark.

  Our Good Samaritan offered us a ride back to Ensenada, so we grabbed what was left of our crap—clothes, mostly—and jumped in the back of his car. Lyle had some nice tools with him, so he was able to salvage those. I had my bar mitzvah camera, so I was able to snap a few pictures of the rig. Those pictures turned out to be very helpful to my father, when he was dealing with the insurance mess, which basically meant that instead of him being hugely fucking pissed at me he was only somewhat fucking pissed at me.

  Don’t think any of us talked all that much on the way to Ensenada. When we finally hit town, the guy dropped us off at Hussong’s and set us up with drinks, a place to wash up and stow our gear … whatever we needed. Really, he couldn’t have been nicer about it. It was a lucky thing he’d come by when he did, which takes me to another idea: to all of you no-good kids out there, planning on jacking your family camper and rolling it on a big straightaway on your way to Cabo, you should only do so when you know you’ll be picked up by a guy who’ll take you back to his family’s cantina, where there’ll be pretty girls and free drinks and good music and where you and your friends can all pretend that whatever the fuck has just happened to you has just happened to some other group of no-good kids, from some place other than where you happen to be from.

  We were so completely fucked, but at the same time it was easy to ignore that we were so completely fucked, because right away we started running into a bunch of people we knew from San Clemente. It was almost surreal, the way we’d slipped from this giant disaster scene into this giant party. I disappeared into the bathroom for a couple minutes, to clean my wound and bandage up my foot, and by the time I got back Gilbert and Lyle had scored a ride for us back home. Trouble was, I started talking to a pretty girl, and drinking my fill, and when our ride was ready to go I just waved Gilbert and Lyle off, figured I’d get back home somehow or other. I was having a good time talking to this girl, who’d just pulled into port on a cruise ship and was out partying with her friends.

  So here’s where things went from a little bit out of control to all the way out of control, because the girl invited me back to her ship. She said, “Hey, I’ll sneak you on.”

  Sounded good to me. I didn’t know the first thing about cruise ships or protocol. I just figured it was another good time, a change of venue, so we did just that. Snuck our way past the ship’s guards who’d been assigned to watch our comings and goings, and by the time my drunk started to fade I realized we were out at sea. We’d pulled out of Ensenada, and I was officially a stowaway. Of course, I’d been a stowaway all along, but now that we’d left port it seemed worse, so I did the only thing I could think to do. I started drinking again. At some point during our too-long, too-wild evening, the girl and I parted ways, but I met up with a group of guys who seemed up for a whole other good time, and they got a charge out of my story. At the end of the night, they let me crash with them on a rollaway. Woke up the next morning, head pounding, and saw that my leg had bled all the way through the sheets. All the other guys in the room had gone; we had arrived in some new port and everyone had disembarked.

  I tied a towel around my still-bleeding leg and hobbled to the deck like some wounded warrior, not knowing quite what to do. As I walked, I realized we were back in the United States, and I realized I didn’t have a passport, I didn’t have any identification, I didn’t have any money. I was totally screwed. I started shaking.

  There was no way out other than to go through the customs area, so I stood in line and came up with a plan. When my turn came, I told the customs agent that my luggage had been stolen, along with my passport and my wallet. I said it in my most convincing, most distraught voice, like I was a weary world traveler and not some deadbeat stowaway who’d just totaled a vehicle in Mexico and stepped away from the accident scene before a report could be filed.

  The customs agent was nice enough. He pointed me to a room across the way, where I would have to fill out a bunch of forms, so I thanked him for his help and walked in the direction he’d pointed—only I just kept walking. I told myself to look straight ahead, to look like I knew exactly where I was going, like I belonged. And as I walked, I picked up my pace a bit, until I was finally through the main gates and stepping from the ship onto the dock. Even then, I just kept my head down and kept moving, until I finally looked up and saw that we’d arrived at San Pedro Harbor. I found the nearest pay phone and called Lyle, who came by and picked me up in the Brat and took me home.

  I caught a whole bunch of shit from Doc, but not for a couple days. Not until he was back in town. Looking back, I think he must have known, Auntie Grandma must have told him I’d borrowed the rig, but he was waiting for me to come to him, and when I did he lit into me something fierce.

  You know, I think my brothers and I had always been a little terrified of my father when we were kids, although maybe “terrified” is not quite the right word. Because Doc was such a mighty, larger-than-life figure in our lives, because we were all in such awe of him, we didn’t want to do anything to disappoint him. We were afraid of letting him down, as much as we were afraid of any beating or dressing-down that might come our way as a result. In other words, we didn’t piss him off lightly. Oh, we pissed him off. Many, many times—in many, many ways. We were rambunctious, devilish boys, after all. But we felt bad about it, each time. Like we were doubly guilty. And here, after stealing-turned-destroying his camper, I felt extra-doubly guilty. I was out on my own—not quite an adult, but close—and yet I quaked like a little kid at the thought of having to tell him what happened.

  Those pictures I’d taken? They ended up saving my ass … and Doc’s. He didn’t own the vehicle outright, it was financed, but he was able to say that the car had been stolen, and to send in documentation of the damage. The insurance company paid off the loan and my father was in the clear.

  Wouldn’t go so far as to say it all ended up to the good, because things weren’t right between me and my father for a long time after that … but at least it didn’t end up costing us anything more than a couple of sweet surfboards, some misplaced trust, and a near-death experience.

  Oh, and there’s just one more thing. A couple years later, I was driving along that same stretch of road and right there at our crash site a taco stand had gone up. I pulled over to check it out and saw that the folks who’d built t
he stand had salvaged one of the sides of the camper and used it for one of their side walls.

  Thought that was way cool … and fitting. For me and my buddies to destroy our family camper like that and to have it retrofitted as a taco stand … well, it was nothing more than the circle of life, Paskowitz-style.

  8

  Danielle

  I’m afraid I didn’t make a good first impression on my wife, Danielle. In fact, it’s a wonder she ever wanted to see me again. First time we met, I saw her across the room at a party, and she struck me straight off as just about the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen: animal, vegetable, mineral … whatever, she had ’em all beat. She was absolutely breathtaking. Tall, blond, with great tits and a sweet, sweet smile.

  I didn’t think I had a chance with her, but I knew I had to find a way to talk to her, to at least give it a shot. Don’t think I would have ever forgiven myself if I didn’t make some sort of move, but the “breathtaking” part was turning out to be a problem. Why? Because I ended up taking her breath away, too—only not in a good way. In my stupid defense, I’d been working on my car all day—a ’65 Impala—so there was grease in my hair, on my clothes, under my fingernails. I looked like shit, felt like shit. Wasn’t really in the mood to go to this party in the first place, but it was a party for this girl who used to go out with my brother Jonathan, who happened to be pregnant with his baby, although she hadn’t really acknowledged that it was his at the time. Everybody knew, in a kind of, sort of way, but it was one of those things that weren’t really discussed.

  Anyway, when I got there, I was greasy and tired and wanting to be someplace else. I went to the party basically to support Jonathan, even though it wasn’t clear to any of us at that point what his involvement would be with this baby, or if it was even his. Don’t mean to go all soap opera on you or lay on too much information, but I want to set the scene. Plus, I’d had a few beers, and eaten a bunch of junk food, and my stomach started acting up in a big-time way. It got so bad I had to take a major, major dump—in a tiny little apartment, with no ventilation—but I was so not into being there I just didn’t care. I didn’t really know anybody at the party, wasn’t looking to meet anybody, so I dropped a big-time load and stunk up the place like you wouldn’t believe, and then to make matters worse as I was coming out of the bathroom there was Danielle, waiting with her knockout friend Terri, next in line.

  I was so thoroughly and totally embarrassed I could have shit, all over again. It was bad enough just seeing Danielle as I came out the door, but then to have these two gorgeous creatures slip inside together to inhale my shame … well, it was like someone had taken my thorough and total embarrassment and put it on a billboard.

  It was probably one of the ten lowest moments of my life, to that point—the ultimate party foul in every sense of the word—and to hear Danielle tell it later it was just as bad as I thought. Apparently, she and Terri closed the door behind them and Terri turned to Danielle and said, “Hey, that guy was cute.” Or something similarly flattering and positive and hopeful. To which Danielle could only scrunch up her face in disgust and say, “What a pig! Are you serious? How could anybody do this? This place smells awful!” Or something similarly mortifying and negative and doubtful.

  I knew who she was, of course. By reputation. She was Danielle Brawner, and in addition to being gorgeous, she was California surfing royalty. Her father, Danny Brawner, had been a drummer for the Sandals, a surf rock band that had made a big splash in the 1960s with the sound track to Endless Summer. Even today, you can hear the Sandals’ distinctive instrumental surf tunes on classic rock radio stations. And Danny had since gone on to become a legendary glosser, making boards with Dale Velzy and managing production at Hobie since we were kids. It was Danny Brawner who’d designed the Gerry Lopez Lightning Bolt board I got for my bar mitzvah. He’d known my father, for years and years. They used to surf together at Tourmaline, at San O, at Malibu. They ran with the same crowd—so I’m guessing Danny gave Doc a deal on my board.

  I knew Danielle’s brother Damian, too. Damian was the drummer in a popular club band that always played around San Clemente, and everyone thought it was cool that his father had been the drummer in this famous surf rock band. I knew Damian had a sister, but I had no idea she looked like … this.

  I left the party soon as I could, making my apologies to Jonathan’s ex, but I couldn’t shake thinking about Danielle. I got home and wished like hell things had gone differently, so I drank a couple more beers and started feeling sorry for myself. I had a girlfriend at the time, a pretty little Irish-Mexican girl I’d been seeing for a while, so it’s not like I was out looking to meet anyone. I suppose I could have called my girlfriend and invited her over to take my mind off what I’d missed, but instead I asked my pal Scott Ruedy to call Danielle for me. Scott and I were living together in a tiny little apartment in San Clemente. Apart from friends whose couches I’d crashed on and my buddy Bob Bueno, whose kindness I’d abused, Scott was the first guy I’d lived with who wasn’t a brother. We’ve been friends for over thirty years; we would be best man at each other’s weddings; that night I recruited him to call a girl for me, because I was too chickenshit to call her myself. That way, I figured if Danielle shot me down, she wouldn’t be shooting me down directly.

  It was lame, I know, but I’d dug myself such a deep, deep hole I didn’t see any other way out.

  Scott didn’t mind being my wingman. And guess what? Danielle was happy to hear from me, even in this lame-ass, once-removed way, so I got on the phone and we ended up having a nice long conversation. Really, it was such a great conversation, I hung up and called the Irish-Mexican girl and broke it off with her. I didn’t want to string her along or to have Danielle thinking I was some sort of two-timing asshole, so I cleared the decks and made myself available.

  Whatever happened now, I was all in.

  And what happened was this: Danielle and I set off on a whirlwind two-week romance. It was incredible. She was smart and funny and sarcastic, just like me. (The sarcastic part, I mean—never really thought of myself as smart or funny.) More than that, she had a big, generous heart and she was smoking hot, which basically made her the girl of my wildest dreams. The reason it was only a two-week romance was because she was leaving for Europe on a long-planned trip with one of her girlfriends. It sounded like an amazing adventure, and a part of me was excited for her, but another part thought it sucked that just as we were getting going she was going away. We’d been thrown together in this chaotic way and now there was a clock on our relationship—or whatever the hell we wanted to call it. Plus, she was planning to see an old boyfriend in France, so that was kind of weighing on me, too.

  I was still surfing on the professional circuit, but in a half-assed way. It had been a couple years since I’d made the finals in that San Miguel competition, and I’d had other small successes, here and there. Nothing major. Nothing sustained. Enough to land some low-end sponsorship deals with a local apparel company and a local surfboard company, enough to maybe even call myself a professional surfer and not be laughed off the beach, but hardly enough to keep me in beer and utilities. I was still working with John at the marina, making good money. By outward appearances it might have seemed like I had it going on, but it felt like I was treading water. Wouldn’t say I was washed up, but I was certainly stuck, languishing, and before Danielle showed up I’d been wondering if I really wanted to give myself over to surfing. It can be a tough slog, a real grind, traveling to all these out-of-town tournaments, not making any real money, having to keep fit and focused. Before meeting Danielle, I was leaning in the direction of packing it in and finding some other way to fill my days. I didn’t think I had it in me to live like my father, to eat healthy, to live, sleep, and breathe surfing, to do whatever it took to make it on the professional circuit. But then, after hanging with Danielle those two weeks, I started leaning in a whole other way. I’d never been with a woman like her. She was incredible, really�
��and it wasn’t just that she was drop-dead gorgeous. She was decent and wonderful. She was twice the woman I deserved, at least, and I found myself wanting to double down and step up my game, just so I could measure up. She made me want to be better.

  Also, she made me want to be in a serious relationship. With her. Only with her.

  When our two weeks were up, I drove Danielle to LAX from San Clemente. We didn’t leave ourselves a ton of time, although in those days you could breeze into the gate just a couple minutes early and still make your flight. That’s about how it shook out that day. I had to ride the emergency lane the whole way there, but nobody pulled us over, and there was no time for a long, emotional good-bye, which I guess was just as well. I had my too-cool-for-the-room pro surfer exterior to maintain, but deep down I was a wreck. Deep down I was quivering. It felt like the love of my life was slipping away. Danielle had burst into my world like a comet, and taken me on this wild, wonderful ride, and now she was off to blaze some other path, on some other continent … maybe even take up with that old boyfriend.

  I wanted to cry.

  * * *

  I moped around for a couple days after Danielle left, not quite sure how to jump-start my life. But then an opportunity came for me to leave town, too, in the form of a one-way ticket to Israel. My dad’s old pal Topsi Kanzapolski had a couple kids in the surfboard business, Amor and Nir. They sent the airline ticket for Abraham, actually, but he wasn’t up for the trip, so we switched it up. Their idea was I’d help them with their designs. My idea was to just get away, maybe wait out Danielle’s European tour with a change of scenery.

  I stopped for a day or two in New York on the way over. In recent years, the city had become a kind of hang for the Paskowitz clan. My grandparents had been there awhile, and now my brother Adam was living there, working in a motorcycle shop; also, my sister, Navah, had just left the camper and decided to give New York a try. This meant it was just down to Joshua living under my parents’ roof, and their roof at this point was down to a Chevy Nova—so the times they were certainly a-changing in our family. (Just to be clear, the Nova was like a base of operations, a place to keep their stuff; they also had a couple tents, so it’s not like poor Joshua had to sleep in the glove compartment.)