Ego almost wipes out this aging body surfer

Ego will kill you. I ought to know. My ego almost killed me.

Once upon a time, I was a pretty fair body surfer (that was once

upon a time). However, by 1971, I was 60 years old and had spent most

of my time on the beach at Little Corona riding small, comfortable

waves and boring a generation of young body surfers with stories of

the good ol’ days when the surf was really big.

One day in 1971, I received a call from a man who identified

himself as a photographer from Sports Illustrated magazine. He said

they were doing a piece on the Wedge and asked if I would please come

over and have my picture taken.

Oh boy! My picture in Sports Illustrated! Wow! Double wow! The

adrenaline started to flow and ego took over. I grabbed my fins and

drove to the Wedge.

When I arrived I almost turned around and went home. It was a big

day -- and I hadn’t surfed the Wedge for several years. Just then, I

remembered a story I had read of a survey that was taken in Hawaii.

It which said that while board surfers outnumbered body surfers by

10-to-1, body surfers accounted for 10 times as many serious injuries

as board surfers.

My anxiety syndrome was not helped when I bumped into Kevin Egan,

a Wedge regular who had broken more bones at the Wedge than an

accident-prone race car driver could accumulate in a lifetime. Just

then he was trying to pull a broken toe into place, although how

anyone can break a toe in fins escapes me. But Kevin did.

I found the Sports Illustrated guy, introduced myself and went

into the water with what was known in older literary circles as fear

and trepidation. To say that I was scared would be one of the more

profound understatements of the decade. I think the word terrified

fits the situation better. The first thing an old body surfer loses

is his nerve. I had lost mine years ago.

I peeked over the top of the next wave. It was at least a mile

down the face of that monster. No one could ride that wave and live.

However, I did and spent what seemed like an hour on the bottom as

the Wedge pounded various parts of my body on the hard sand. And this

used to be fun? I took two more rides, decided I was pushing my luck

and went in.

I sat down with Kevin and his wife tried to get enough air in my

lungs to keep me alive. It wasn’t easy. Then I noticed the Sports

Illustrated guy slinking around snapping pictures.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Taking your picture,” he said.

“I can see that. What about those shots out there?” I asked as I

waved my hand weakly toward the water.

“Oh, I didn’t take any pictures of you out there. I just wanted a

picture of you sitting here on the beach with one of the young body

surfers. You know, the old and the new.”

I crooked a finger at him. Something about the demented look in my

eyes troubled him.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I want you to come close.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to kill you. On the other hand I’m too weak to

kill a fly. I’ll let you live if you’ll send me copies of the

pictures you are taking.”

He assured he would and scurried off. He was a man of his word. I

still have a copy of the picture of myself that appeared in Sports

Illustrated -- of a skinny old beach bum in a straw hat sitting on

the beach at the Wedge and talking to a good-looking young chick --

Kevin Egan’s wife. Kevin was just outside the picture trying to reset

his broken toe.

But, the moral of this story is that ego will kill you. It damn

near killed me.

* ROBERT GARDNER was a retired judge who lived in Corona del Mar.