======== Newsgroups: alt.surfing Subject: Manresa Murph (1 of 4) From: Stephen Hull Date: Thu, 23 Oct 1997 16:55:11 -0700 The Legend of Manresa Murph I have really been enjoying this fall. We've had great weather, relatively tropical water, good surf, and almost no red tide blooms. Many days when the tide is right, you can look right down through six feet of water and watch the sand drift with the underwater currents. But fall is in the air and soon it will be Halloween, and my worst nightmare, Pacific Standard Time. In the spirit of the season, I thought I would share the story of "Manresa Murph". It was a Saturday early in October of 1980 and it was my turn to watch my six-year-old son, Ian, while my wife went to the gym. It was one of those idyllic Indian Summer Days like we have had so many of this year, and I just couldn't resist the temptation to take Ian on a "field trip" to the beach. I figured that I wouldn't surf since I couldn't leave Ian alone on the beach when I was in the water, so I just packed our trunks and off we went. We arrived at Manresa Beach and walked down the private path from Slick's house. We were met with the usual greetings from assorted crew members sprawled at the base of the cliff, "Hey little Hawk", and "Hawk, nice tan. Yuk-yuk." Ian and I hiked north until we found a quiet stretch of beach, and began building sand castles and digging for sand crabs. We were having a great time with our bucket molds and drip towers, but even at six that got old after a couple of hours. I began to get desperate as Ian started whining around about being bored. I was no childcare expert and as I stared at that cute little six year old, I felt the panic rising in me that is usually reserved for those times when I'm caught by a winter sneaker set that is already fringing twenty feet outside of me. My wife wasn't there to bail me out. It looked like curtains for sure. The surf was small and perfectly clear. You could see dozens of anchovies silhouetted in the waist high jadewater waves as they stood-up and paused, almost posing for a long moment before crumbling into whitewater and continuing to shore. Ian pulled off his bathing suit and began wading in the water. I looked around to be sure we were pretty much alone. The coast was clear except for a young surfer with a longboard under one arm who was approaching us from the dunes near the foot of the cliffs. I tried to watch Ian but my eyes kept turning back to the figure approaching us. The stranger waved and smiled a big smile. I didn't recognize him but he had classic early 60's "Murph the Surf" looks. I mean Murph the Griffin cartoon, not the jewel thief. He was about sixteen, with blond hair that swept across his tan face and just tucked behind his left ear, and he was wearing dark green trunks with a yellow chevron on the side of each leg. The most outstanding thing about him that I noticed was his board. It looked like a classic 1960 Phil Edwards design about ten feet long, with three stringers, a custom tailblock, noseblocks, and a glorious rising sun wood-inlaid fin. And get this, it was in mint condition, no dings, no yellowing. It was like he had just walked off the showroom floor with it. Even though we were at the height of the shortboard era, this board was art. Ian noticed that I was getting distracted from him and came in to see what had my attention. He pulled on his trunks while the young man approached. The surfer walked right up to us. I remember commenting on the board, and that led to a very animated discussion of the day, the surf, surfing... This guy was stoked! I mean he was just deep down, all the way to the core, jazzed. His attitude was contagious and pretty soon even Ian was admiring that board, stroking the smooth 50/50 rails, rounded along the middle and sharper near the tail. Ian rubbed his palm across the fresh wax on the deck. I don't recall that the young surfer ever told us his name, and I guess it never seemed important. I just always thought of him as Murph. Over the years I have come across young surfers who make me ashamed and embarrassed to be associated with them; and then there are some like this kid who make me proud. Kids who bring out all of the stoke I've felt through the years. Murph smiled as Ian inspected the elaborate fin design. Suddenly Ian looked up at me and calmly asked, "Could I surf Daddy?" It was the first time he had ever volunteered with that tone of seriousness, and I had been waiting for six long years to hear those words. I wished hopelessly that I'd brought my board down with us, but I was stranded. Who knows how long it would be before a moment like this happens again? Murph broke into a broad grin. It was like he was reading my mind. "Hey Ian", he said. "You want to ride a few with me?" Ian lit up like a flare, and instantly all eyes were on me. "Dad?...Can I?...Please?" I figured I could bodysurf nearby in case Murph couldn't handle Ian, and before I finished the "K" in OK, both boys were practically skipping across the water toward the waves. (to be continued...) ======== Newsgroups: alt.surfing Subject: Manresa Murph (2 of 4) From: Stephen Hull Date: Thu, 23 Oct 1997 16:59:39 -0700 Manresa Murph Part 2 By the time I waded into the water to watch the boys up close, Murph already had Ian lying prone on the front of the board and was waiting for a good peak to appear. As a good wave approached, Murph began knee paddling behind Ian and easily caught a wave, stood up and angled the board along the face of the wave. Ian was transfixed. He remained prone, clinging to the rails experiencing the water, the speed, the air as it rushed past his face. He closed his eyes as spray from the board splashed him, and he let his right hand trace the surface of the wave. Murph easily cut back and straightened off in the whitewater, stepped off the board and held it while Ian slipped over the side. Murph never said a word, just grinned ear to ear. Ian struggled to his feet and for a moment he seemed to be trying to figure out where he was, like when you awake suddenly from a dream. Suddenly consciousness returned and in an instant Ian was screaming and dancing, knee deep in the water. The boys spent the next hour riding waves, and bodysurfing. Murph wasn't a great surfer, and he didn't even try any of the hot dog moves we used to use in the mid 60's, but he could ride, and he enjoyed each wave to its fullest. It was a pleasure that wasn't missed by Ian as he pearled, stalled and floundered his way through his first real surf session. The boys rode their last wave up onto the dry sand, holding onto that last ride as long as they could. As they rinsed off in the shallows Murph found a sand dollar and gave it to Ian. I greeted Ian with a towel when he ran up the beach to show me the sand dollar, and I dried him off as he bubbled excitedly about his rides. I was so happy for my son. When I finished drying Ian, we turned to thank Murph for the priceless gift he had shared with us. He was gone. I looked around for him, but he had moved on, and we had to head home. I never saw Murph again, but Ian still treasures that Sand dollar. For years now I thought that was the end of the story. The mysterious Murph story. Recently something happened that has made me reconsider the whole event. (to be continued) ======== Newsgroups: alt.surfing Subject: Manresa Murph (3 of 4) From: Stephen Hull Date: Thu, 23 Oct 1997 17:00:42 -0700 Manresa Murph Part 3 Like so many of my friends, I time my drive home to coincide with the sun setting over the Bay. As I strolled out onto the bluff last week to watch the sunset and adjust my attitude, I was met by a couple of 60's Manresa locals, RJ and Red. Red was in one of his deep funks again and RJ was doing his best to cheer him up while they shared a six-pack of Dos Equis. Red was already well into his third bottle when I arrived. We started talking about how we started surfing, and how much we loved these beaches, so I shared my story about Ian and Murph. Before I could finish the story, RJ's eyes began to get bigger, and Red suddenly lost interest in his beer, spun around and shouted, "Shit, its the f----in' kid again!" We settled Red down and RJ passed me a beer. "Take it, your gonna need it." he said. RJ is one of the oldest of the Manresa locals that I know. He grew up there, but even in the 40's and 50's a lot of the local kid's parents surfed Manresa during the summers. RJ knows more about the surfing history of Manresa than anybody. I have never known him to lie, so when he started his story I had no reason to doubt him. "Hawk. Before you started hanging around Manresa as a grommet in about 1963, very few people surfed Manresa except us and a few kids whose parents had vacation homes here." I nodded, acknowledging the fact that I did start surfing there in '63. He continued, "One of the families with a beach house here used to come down every summer, and their only child, Rick, learned to surf here." Red began mumbling about Vals, and tourists, and finally became distracted as he tried to open his fourth bottle. "Rick was a pretty cool kid who really loved to surf. He would hang with us when he was in the area, and he learned the basics pretty quickly. At the end of the summer in '61 Rick told us he was going to get a new board and he'd see us during Christmas vacation. We didn't think much about it and when we started back to school, Rick was forgotten. Apparently Rick didn't forget. One week in October, I guess Rick got his new board, a brand new Phil with three 3/8 inch redwood stringers, laminated noseblock and tailblock, and a rising sun fin." The hair on my neck began to tingle. "Wait a minute RJ, you say this was '61?" "Yup", he replied. "61", Red echoed. His middle finger was caught in the bottle neck and he was waving the bottle around in the air. (to be continued) ======== Newsgroups: alt.surfing Subject: Manresa Murph (4 of 4) From: Stephen Hull Date: Thu, 23 Oct 1997 17:04:57 -0700 Manresa Murph Part 4 RJ went on. "I guess Rick couldn't wait to try out his new board, hitched a ride into town, and broke into his folks beach house. When we arrived to surf after school that day, a huge new southwest swell had arrived and the whole bay looked like corduroy, to the horizon. There were some classic double-O lefts, but the shorebreak and the rips were too much for us. I found the Hobie washed up near the trestle." RJ paused, "Some fishermen found Ricks body about a week later. Currents had carried it almost to Moss Landing" "When Ricks parents came down to identify the body and close up the beach house, I brought over the board to give it back them. I can remember it like it was yesterday. Ricks dad looked at that board laying on the ice plant in their yard and tears began to pour from his eyes. He let out a gut-wrenching cry and began kicking and punching the board. Finally he crumpled to the ground sobbing, and Ricks mom came out and asked me to take the board away. I grabbed the board and jetted out of there. By the next summer they had sold the beach house and moved to Nevada. I never saw them again." I was moved. This was a story any surf parent could relate to. "What did this kid look like?" I asked. Red seemed to have mellowed a little, and in a resigned tone slurred out, "Finishitup Rrr..J." "We used to have a clubhouse that our dads built at the base of the cliff in front of Slicks house. Do you remember that?" I replied that I remembered it well. The forbidden clubhouse. The 6X12 foot shack that was twelve feet high so everyone could store their boards inside. The shack with the potbelly stove that the Manresa locals would warm up by, while the rest of us grommets toweled off in the rain. "The Shack!" Red shouted. "I loved that shack man...nnn...lived there one summer...nnn...folks kicked me out...nnn." RJ continued, anxious to finish, "I put the Hobie in the shack, but nobody ever used it, and when the shack burned down in '65, the board went with it. Ever since, I hear of stories like yours Hawk. I swear to you the kid you described was Rick, and I have no doubt that the board...well, it was Rick's board. It usually happens this time of year, but I've never seen him." "I seen 'im." burst Red. "Seen 'im plenny uh times.." "Seen 'im surfin at night...mmmm..inamoon. Tell im the rest man...the f---in rest...mmm." RJ finished his story in a hoarse whisper, "You know, there hasn't been a single surfer drown here since Rick. Not one. We save 'em. The lifeguards save 'em. I think Rick saves the rest of us." Red broke in, "Saved me plenny uh times man...nnn" and made a couple of foghorn noises by blowing into his bottle. We sat silent as the sun disappeared behind Santa Cruz. It got dark, and RJ and Red split. I nursed the beer and watched the lights appear around the Bay. Maybe, it was a gentle surf spirit Ian and I met. Maybe, it was just a weird coincidence. All I know is Ian and I will never forget that October day in 1980, and Manresa Murph. Here's to you Murph...or Rick. Wherever you are... da hulk, RSO