The Man In The Lot

“The man in the lot… is the only true local. While I’ve never actually seen him in the lineup, he is always there before me and long after I leave.”

The man in the lot is not someone to mess with, as they are the sayer of all that comes. These little interactions with this gatekeeper will dictate if you get waves or not. While there is no science to back this up, there is no better connection than the person who lives at the spot. Start collecting those brownie points.

As south swell season is around the corner, so is my return to the man in the lot.

My interactions with Tom were never one of fright; they always came with trust. As I became more of an established character at one of the only left-point breaks in LA, I found my interactions increase with the same goofy-footed characters who shared their love for this place. While some would come and go over time, moving away from the LA scene, one person, without a doubt, would always be there. Or so I thought.

Tom was not your average Joe; the more I dug into his past, the more I discovered about the history of this place and the man who made it his home. Given his looks, you would never have batted an eye at Tom. I could never really gauge his true age, and he was too polite to ask. I assumed Tom was approaching his late 70s; he had a tall, lengthy build with sea-burnt white hair. His skin had weathered like his van, collecting various trinkets, which I could only assume were his most prized possessions. I always saw him in the same outfit, and that did not include shoes, as why would he need them? He wasn’t going anywhere.

(This is as close to an image I could find)

I can’t recall my first interactions with this creature of habit, but I assume they were along the lines of session curiosity. I made sure to say hello when I could and kept my conversations brief, as I never found myself with time to linger when running to and from the cliff. As I got to know Tom, he started to recognize me as well, and our time together grew on the cliffs. While sometimes I found myself pulling away trying to get in the water before the wind and tide switched, I knew he enjoyed our brief conversations sipping out of his coffee mug, diving into his past like a page out of a found book. I don’t think Tom ever knew my name.

As with any seasonal wave, I would find myself away from the area at times, but I knew one thing was certain: He was there, waiting for our return, a keeper of the summer to come.

I wish I had more time with Tom; what a fascinating creature.

In another world, another career path, I would have loved to do pieces on people and just learn about how they came to be. Maybe this is part of my enjoyment of learning as much as possible about someone. Like, where did you come from? What made you who you are? I don’t think there’s any money in this, though, so I’m resorting to putting it here. One of my most memorable stories happened after a summer evening spent surfing away my worries. I actually recall this being one of my favorite days at the break. The crowd was small, and the waves were as fun as they could get. Not great, but better than usual.

As I came up, Tom was perched on top of the cliff outside his van. 70’s rock blasting from his radio, he sat in his foldable chair, dug into the ground like a permanent bench, and board wet in front of him. I guess he was out before me. He asked me how it was, and we got to talking about this and that as we would. It turns out he used to do drug runs all along the California coast, supplying some of the pros back in the day. He went on to tell me about some waves he had surfed along the way. I left with a smile as I went to pack my car in the dark and drive away from the keeper. I don’t know how much of the story was true, but I laughed and enjoyed our conversation as always.

One day I made my return from winter’s hiatus, coming back to a place I considered a second home, but this time, something felt missing. Something was off; I could feel it in the air. As I greeted the other hibernating goofy footers excited for the session ahead, we heard of the news. Tom’s van was missing. Through others who had gotten close to Tom, I had learned the terrible news: Tom was no longer a part of the lot.

(Tom's view from the lot)

Like a last goodbye gift, the wind had died, and the sections started to line up perfectly down the cliff. It was breaking away from the usual point at a second reef that only worked on bigger swells; this had been where Tom would sit (or would say he surfed). I made my way down to the break to find something new—half a surfboard, blue in color, placed on a ledge at the top of the cliff facing the break.

By fate, I had realized that by placing myself perfectly in front of the board in the lineup, it would give me the best and biggest waves for the weeks to come. Even after he had left the lot, I could still see him sitting on his board out there.

A paddle-out was held for Tom, but sadly, I wasn’t able to make it. When telling my friend about this piece, he reminded me that we ended up surfing later that afternoon at the local spot. The waves were surprising good, and we talked about the news from up north.

I still think about Tom from time to time and appreciate the smiles he would put on my face after telling me about his session and the crazy story of his past. I really never got to see him surf, though; kind of a bummer. I wish there were more people like Tom in the lot; he was never upset about missing a good wave or the crowd. He was just excited to be there, and at the end of the day, if there’s one lesson I can take away from him, it’s that. You don’t always have the best session, and that’s ok. Sometimes it’s just about being present and enjoying this weird thing we get to do to connect with something bigger than us. Tom knew that better than most. Life's short, and you just have to enjoy it. Like the first time I stood up on a surfboard many years ago on the Jersey shore, Tom embraced that juvenile wonder and joy every day. I’ll miss Tom, and I don’t think there’s a better way to describe his passing than the words of Kurt Vunnagut. “So it goes” till next time.

Cheers

Scenes from the lot