The Jamie Brisick corner
WE HADN’T PLANNED ON A CONTEST. BUT WHEN John Fiedler showed up with a bottle of tequila, Cuzner with a bottle of vodka, Parking Lot Danny with a 12-pack, and Willy with a keg, well, somehow it all made sense. ■ It was Labour Day. The beach at County Line was packed. Situated on the Los Angeles/Ventura county border, it enjoyed almost no police presence. Here you could drink and frolic and maybe even fornicate on the sand. Here was where we had bonfires at night, and where a guy who’d picked me up hitchhiking claimed to have seen Charles Manson and his girls playing in the shore break. ■ Our surfer buddy Matt Warner had rich parents, and they had a house that looked out to the fun break. We’d planned to hang on the beach, have a bonfire and BBQ. We did not plan for so much booze. It was Willy who scanned the tequila, vodka, 12-pack, keg, and couple dozen excellent surfers, and saw the potential. ■ “20-minute heats. Beach starts. But before you hit the water you have to guzzle a full cup of beer. No spilling. No spitting it out. And if you puke you’re automatically DQ’d.” ■ Willy wore Oakley blades, a black Quiksilver tank top, and red and white star-spangled Quiksilver boardshorts. He wasn’t consciously trying to channel Colonel Kilgore in Apocalypse
, but he did. Next to him stood Simone, in a pink baseball cap, white tank top, and black sweats. I’d hung out with the two of
