nodded.
“I’ve had my eye on this typhoon’s been brewing off the Philippines. You get that thing bumping into a good storm out of Siberia, who knows . . . We could get something down here.” He gave it a moment to see if Fahey would respond. “You ever look at that site I showed you?”
When Jack Nance heard Fahey had gotten online to sell his worms, he’d provided him with the link to a surfer’s website that tracked storms and predicted swells. Fahey had looked at it a couple of times before deciding it was a waste of time. He wasn’t going anywhere. There would be waves or there wouldn’t be. He would ride them or he wouldn’t and there was nothing the site could tell him about that.
“Listen,” Jack said. “I was wondering . . . you still set up to shape boards out there?”
Fahey just looked at him.
Jack fidgeted at the window. Fahey’s look made him nervous, for reasons that would have been difficult to explain.
At length Fahey nodded.
“I was wondering if maybe you’d shape me one.”
“What for? You going to ride the Mystic Peak?”
“Never in a million years. But I was thinking, it might be cool to have, you know, one of those guns like you and Younger used to shape . . .”
Fahey watched heat waves rippling at the foot of the mesas. “I guess you could come out some time. We could talk about it. Bring your checkbook.”
Jack smiled. “And a case of beer.”
Fahey put the truck in gear. He started to drive away then hit his brakes. The dust swirled around his open window. He leaned out and called back, “That Betadine . . . how do you use it, exactly?”
“You mix it with some distilled water, maybe half and half, take a cotton ball and wash out the cuts.”
Fahey nodded. He pulled himself back into his truck and drove away.
The cowboys watched him go.
“Strange son of a bitch,” Deek said. He took a can of Skoal from the pocket of his shirt and put a pinch between his cheek and gum.
Jack nodded. “We used to call him the Electric Gull.”
“I know,” Deek said. “You told me.”
“He had this way of holding his arms when he surfed, like a gull swooping across the face of the wave. Kind of cool, though. Then he started eating a lot of acid so we called him the Electric Gull. But that’s how I know it was him I saw that day, Outside the Bullring.”
“The acid part I’ll believe.” Deek’s clearest memory of the Electric Gull was that of Fahey stoned out of his gourd, staggering around in the middle of Ocean Boulevard at the foot of the pier, throwing empty beer bottles and yelling, “See the drunken Indian eat glass.” The story did not pale in the retelling. In truth, Deek had been just a little bit frightened by Sam Fahey that night and found that he still could be, on occasion. The man had a way of filling up space Deek was not especially comfortable with, though he would probably never have come right out and said so. “I wouldn’t go near him with a pole,” was about as close to such feelings as the old cowboy was likely to get.
But Jack had heard it all before. “That was the night they unveiled the Surfhenge monument downtown. I believe the Gull was upset about something.”
“Fucked up is what he was.” Deek nodded after the departing truck. “What were you talking to him about before he left?”
“I was asking him about shaping me a board.”
“Wha’d he say?”
“He said to bring my checkbook.”
“Yeah, well . . . I wouldn’t pay him till he was done.”
“Hoddy Younger used to shape these big wave surfboards, back in the day. He shaped them for the straits. But people like Hap Baker, Buzzy Cline . . . they used to come down here and buy them from him on their way to the Islands. Younger taught the Gull how to shape. There’s a kind of lineage there, you know. It would be a cool thing to get . . .” Jack’s voice trailed away.
“While he’s still alive, you mean.”
Jack shrugged.
They watched the
“I’ve had my eye on this typhoon’s been brewing off the Philippines. You get that thing bumping into a good storm out of Siberia, who knows . . . We could get something down here.” He gave it a moment to see if Fahey would respond. “You ever look at that site I showed you?”
When Jack Nance heard Fahey had gotten online to sell his worms, he’d provided him with the link to a surfer’s website that tracked storms and predicted swells. Fahey had looked at it a couple of times before deciding it was a waste of time. He wasn’t going anywhere. There would be waves or there wouldn’t be. He would ride them or he wouldn’t and there was nothing the site could tell him about that.
“Listen,” Jack said. “I was wondering . . . you still set up to shape boards out there?”
Fahey just looked at him.
Jack fidgeted at the window. Fahey’s look made him nervous, for reasons that would have been difficult to explain.
At length Fahey nodded.
“I was wondering if maybe you’d shape me one.”
“What for? You going to ride the Mystic Peak?”
“Never in a million years. But I was thinking, it might be cool to have, you know, one of those guns like you and Younger used to shape . . .”
Fahey watched heat waves rippling at the foot of the mesas. “I guess you could come out some time. We could talk about it. Bring your checkbook.”
Jack smiled. “And a case of beer.”
Fahey put the truck in gear. He started to drive away then hit his brakes. The dust swirled around his open window. He leaned out and called back, “That Betadine . . . how do you use it, exactly?”
“You mix it with some distilled water, maybe half and half, take a cotton ball and wash out the cuts.”
Fahey nodded. He pulled himself back into his truck and drove away.
The cowboys watched him go.
“Strange son of a bitch,” Deek said. He took a can of Skoal from the pocket of his shirt and put a pinch between his cheek and gum.
Jack nodded. “We used to call him the Electric Gull.”
“I know,” Deek said. “You told me.”
“He had this way of holding his arms when he surfed, like a gull swooping across the face of the wave. Kind of cool, though. Then he started eating a lot of acid so we called him the Electric Gull. But that’s how I know it was him I saw that day, Outside the Bullring.”
“The acid part I’ll believe.” Deek’s clearest memory of the Electric Gull was that of Fahey stoned out of his gourd, staggering around in the middle of Ocean Boulevard at the foot of the pier, throwing empty beer bottles and yelling, “See the drunken Indian eat glass.” The story did not pale in the retelling. In truth, Deek had been just a little bit frightened by Sam Fahey that night and found that he still could be, on occasion. The man had a way of filling up space Deek was not especially comfortable with, though he would probably never have come right out and said so. “I wouldn’t go near him with a pole,” was about as close to such feelings as the old cowboy was likely to get.
But Jack had heard it all before. “That was the night they unveiled the Surfhenge monument downtown. I believe the Gull was upset about something.”
“Fucked up is what he was.” Deek nodded after the departing truck. “What were you talking to him about before he left?”
“I was asking him about shaping me a board.”
“Wha’d he say?”
“He said to bring my checkbook.”
“Yeah, well . . . I wouldn’t pay him till he was done.”
“Hoddy Younger used to shape these big wave surfboards, back in the day. He shaped them for the straits. But people like Hap Baker, Buzzy Cline . . . they used to come down here and buy them from him on their way to the Islands. Younger taught the Gull how to shape. There’s a kind of lineage there, you know. It would be a cool thing to get . . .” Jack’s voice trailed away.
“While he’s still alive, you mean.”
Jack shrugged.
They watched the
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