PHOTO BY CHRIS REGAN (DAMIAN.CLOR.JPG) 1979 Topanga Beach photo of kids: ( L-R) Eric Andrews, Brian Campbell (holding latest Surfer Magazine), and Richard. From Andrews archive.
January 28, 2021
There is a cold wind blowing through the silent night, as the owl hoots in the dark skies. It is snowing in Topanga and the Corona virus is rampant. I wake up drenched in sweat, choking, gasping for air, as if it is my last breath. I immediately run to the bathroom, and “drink bleach” (gargle with mouth wash) to bring life to the brainless corpse. This nightmare (kid trump) is taking over reality; escaping its grip is not as easy as waking up. I light a fire in the stove, think back to happier times and start writing.
It was early evening, September 1979, the surf was pumping at Topanga Beach. My friend “Reggae,” Tim Regan, lived on Colina and came from a family of five kids who had not quite converted to the long-haired variety. He called me. I answered. “Hello.” Reggae: “Hey, Domo (me), do you want to hit the surf for dawn patrol?” Me: “Damn straight! I heard it’s pumping, let’s charge early!” Reggae: “I’ll be at your house before 6 a.m.”
At 5:55 the next morning, Reggae rolled into our driveway in his parents’ blue and white 1971 two-tone VW bus. He had just got his license and his parents’ permission to drive. This was a big step in the liberation of a young teenage driver.
With tense anticipation, I rolled the sliding door of the VW bus open, threw my gear in, jumped into the front seat and shut the door. Reggae said, “Good morning, Domo!” as he lifted one leg to expel a thunderous sound. The kid could fart on a dime, a true talent. A heinous green gas enveloped the interior of the bus. I quickly flew out of the passenger door where laughter and stench collided with the morning air. I’m left choking and saying every good word I learned from my older brothers. When the air cleared, Reggae was still laughing as I jumped back in.
Reggae and I rolled down the road joking with nervous excitement, wondering what would be in store for us. Passing through the center of town, I noticed a crusty, disheveled man climbing over a rock out of the creek. I said, “Reggae! Creek Rat!!!” and we both busted up laughing.
