There’ll be time for blame but that time isn’t now.
My heart goes out to all Palisadians—rich, poor, young, old,
Democrat, Republican, OGs and blow-ins.
Even though I left my father’s house in Pacific
Palisades in 1983, moved to Australia and never lived there again,
Pacific Palisades will be a part of me until the day I
die.
One of the reasons I felt so comfortable in Australia was that
Palisadians are LA’s larrikins. My Palisades elders—Lance Carson,
the Auberg brothers, Jim Ganzer, Robbie Dick, Roger McGrath, George
Trafton (and too many others to name)—set a very high bar for
us.
All of them surfed great, had impeccable style in and out of the
water, drove fast cars fast, solved problems with their fists when
necessary, traveled the world to surf, and from Pali, to Samo, to
Uni, to Westlake, to Marymount they could find their way into the
hearts of girls, not to mention any party, concert, or club.
However, when the sun came up the next morning, they were duty
bound to paddle out like it never happened.
I always knew that one day I would outgrow Santa Monica Bay. As
a young boy, Surfer, Surfing, Australian Surfing World, and the
World Book Encyclopedia were my books of dreams. This was where I
heard the first verse of the Siren Song that lured me into the
perfect, sharky waves of Australia, shamed me into crossing the
North Shore rubicon, and living a life of exploration and adventure
in and out of the water.
However, like a Salmon swimming back to its home stream to
spawn, I always returned to Santa Monica Bay. On my way to Asia or
during book tours, I always stopped in LA. I made time for an early
morning run/swim/run, or a quick surf on a borrowed longboard.
Reconnecting with my old friends in my ancestral waters always
grounded and prepared me for whatever lay ahead.
Less than a month ago, I drove a friend from North Carolina
through Pacific Palisades.
First, I showed him my dad’s old house at 1076 Corsica Dr.
This was where I lived during junior high and high school—where
my Baja missions started and ended, girls surreptitiously came and
went up the staircase to my room, parties raged, and pot plants
were harvested and lovingly processed.
Today, the only reminder of me is the curb that is covered with
my 40-year-old leftover resin.
From Corsica we followed my old skateboard route down the hill I
once got the speed wobbles at 20 or 30 mph, face planted, and
knocked off my braces. From Amalfi we stopped at the top of Mesa
Road where I first checked the surf through the Eucalyptus trees.
After we descended down into Rustic Canyon, we took a detour down
Latimer Road.
I showed him where, at 16, I was the victim of a “bump and run”
car jacking. Although the perp got my dad’s Mercedes 450 SEL, I
hopped into his stolen Cadillac, and gave chase. He finally lost me
at Sunset and Bundy by crossing the double yellow and passing cars
in the oncoming traffic.
When I returned to 1076 Corsica in the stolen Caddy, I said to
my dad, “You’ll never guess what happened, but I hope you like
Cadillacs.”
Next, we stopped at our other old house, 8 Latimer Road, right
across the street from Rustic Canyon Park, where I played baseball,
basketball, football, and skateboarded with all my friends from
Canyon School.
For a huge part of my childhood, it was the site of athletic
triumphs and tragedies, fist fights with friends, and early games
of truth or dare
Then to 444 East Rustic Road
Pacific Palisades where my ten-year-old self kept a surfboard so
big that it required me and another person to carry it down Channel
Road, past the Golden Bull, Natural Progression Surfboards, the SS
Friendship, and under the PCH.
The final leg took me past the volleyball courts that produced
some of the greatest players in the world and to the very ordinary
beachbreak where generations of Palisades surfers learned respect
and how to pull into the barrel.
There will be time for blame and recriminations, but that time
is not now. My heart goes out to all Palisadians—rich, poor, young,
old, Democrat, Republican, OGs and recent blow-ins. I don’t know
what, if any of this, is left. I fear that in addition to the
unimaginable material losses, we have also lost a culture.
In a sad postscript to this story, a friend just send me a news
story about a “harrowing scene” on the iconic Pacific Coast Highway
early Wednesday morning.
“A man, his body severely burned and most of his clothes
incinerated, was found stumbling on the side of the road. He is now
fighting for his life.”
The man was George Trafton. Today he is undergoing surgery and
skin grafts at UCLA and my thoughts are with him.
(Editor’s note: Peter Maguire is a
surfer, war crimes investigator and author of Thai Stick:
Surfers, Scammers, and the Untold Story
of the Marijuana Trade (movie rights optioned by Kelly
Slater), Law and War, Facing Death in
Cambodia and Breathe, the bio on
jiujitsu icon Rickson Gracie, as well as its follow-up
Comfort in Darkness.
Ain’t much ol Petey can’t do. The following story, appears on
Pete’s substack Sour Milk, subscribe, it’s free
etc.)
