Pan-American Soul: Searching for the Meaning of Life on a Surf Trip from California to Brazil

By Adrian Kojin

"On the night of October 8, 1987, Adrian Kojin sped south on the 405 Freeway, shifted into higher gear, and headed for the Mexican border, beginning an odyssey that set a new standard for the adventurous surfer. Kojin proved that adventure is still out there, waiting for anyone who has the courage to take it the wild way."

SURFER magazine

"Think you're gnarly? Try riding a motorcycle from Huntington Beach to Brazil. On the following pages you will find the details of this journey, in writings based on a diary the author kept during this epic surf trip. Free your spirit, enjoy the journey."

WATER magazine

FOREWORD

Some people believe that destiny is written in the stars. Others, like Adrian Kojin, insist on writing their own destiny.
It wouldn't be an exaggeration to suppose that Adrian unconsciously invented himself when he decided to cross the Americas in search of the adventures narrated here. But not even he knew how fundamental this trip would be to free his own soul and define the future of his existence.
For starters, the waves he got to know in those eight months on the road initiated him into the great mystery of surfing, the romantic way, without the internet and swell maps. The advantage is that the search transcends the journey and the meeting of the perfect wave starts to signify harmony with the energies of the universe. That way, in a sometimes strange and always revealing form, after so many obstacles on the journey, it's easy to see that you're not the one who finds the ideal wave. It's the wave who finds you.
In writing about the experiences of that trip, Adrian also invented himself as a journalist. That path has led him to more travel, more waves, and most of all, to a profession he can put his heart into. I think that in itself is a lot.
When you're reading this book, remember that it's not just about the shenanigans of a big boy chasing some lost waves in the third world. This is the story of a guy who had a dream, and, having the courage to pursue it, found his own truth. And, not least, he did it while having a lot of fun.
– Felipe Zobaran

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667875347

Book preview

PART 1

1980

MIGRANT

I’d always wondered what it must be like for a poor migrant from the impoverished northeast region of Brazil to arrive in São Paulo to try his luck in the country’s biggest metropolis, the city where I was born and raised. How would he feel? Scared? Joyous? Amazed? Probably all those, together.

But here, I was the migrant, disembarking at Union Station in Los Angeles, California. I’d spent three long days crossing deserts, watching the cacti, the wild rabbits, and the immensity of nothingness pass by the window of an Amtrak train from Texas. I daydreamed pretty much the whole way.

I got off the train feeling something between happy and anxious. The stability of the platform was a call back to reality. The City of Angels was at my feet, but the devil sang of temptation. The station’s main hall had a dramatic appeal. Good men and bad men walked around as I sat on a wooden bench and started paying attention to the scene.

Two sheriffs dressed in blue stood by the front door. Like out of an old Western, I imagined they were waiting for Billy The Kid. The train whistled on the platform, announcing the departure. I heard gunshots, got down on the bench, and pulled out my Colt .45. But I didn’t have a chance to use it. The sheriffs were already hurrying away, dragging a beggar. The train whistled again, sadly. Billy never showed up.

I shook my head, washed away my fantasy, and went to take care of my luggage. I needed to find a place to leave it. I couldn’t carry the huge duffel bag on my back while running around the city. I was informed that the the storage facility would cost $0.50 cents a day. If my luggage wasn’t picked up in 40 days, it would be thrown away. That seemed like a reasonable amount of time. If I hadn’t found a place to stay by then, it would mean I was really in trouble.

Paralyzed under the imposing arched door built in Spanish Colonial-style, I looked out at the world. I knew absolutely nothing about it. It was not my country, and nobody spoke my language. I had no idea where to start. The sun burned bright, the street was clean and wide, and a row of palm trees stretched symmetrically on each side of the walkout. I was still carrying the smell of horses on my skin and clothes. I’d spent the past two months taking care of a stable on the border of Mexico and Texas. My Spanish and ability to interpret whinnies had improved significantly, but I couldn’t say the same about my English. I was 18 years old with a lot to learn, but smart enough to know that with my brown skin, brown eyes, and black hair, I was far from the city’s favorite.

I took a shuttle that looked like a spaceship, tinted windows and air conditioning included. L.A. was spread out, beautiful and seductive, shining under the spring light of May. After an hour on the bus without reaching the streets I was looking for, I went up to talk to the driver. The driver, a large black man, looked at me and laughed.

Sorry, my boy, he said. Wrong bus.

I got off at a stop on Hollywood Boulevard. Prostitutes on street corners, punks eating hot dogs. Gangs of Latinos marking their domain on one side, Blacks looking mean on the other, Whites walking in a hurry with wide eyes. Store windows living in the past. Sex shops and porn theaters. Elvis and Marilyn, arm in arm.

I walked a little. A tourist. On the pavement, bronze stars honored the idols. I was starving. I stopped and ordered a slice of pizza, then went to a theater to watch a classic: Deep Throat.

I found a bed at a hotel for young Christian boys. There were eight in my room. Two Australians, one Frenchman, and five Americans from different states. None appeared to be devout. The maximum stay was five nights, $6 per night. I slept in the top bunk. I left early the following day. The hotel had a policy that we had to be out by eight a.m. and could only return after seven p.m.

The sun was blinding, so I sat on a plastic bench on a corner outside of a bakery and read the newspaper with only one eye open. I was looking for my future in the pages of the L.A. Times. I soon realized that finding a place to live would be difficult. I didn’t have enough money for a cheap rental, or to even pay a deposit. I had just over $200 in my pocket. My motorbike would be arriving from Texas in the back of a truck in a week. Perhaps I’d have to sell it.

Down the street, 15-years-old girls were smiling at me. I smiled back with an inflated ego, until I realized that only the smile was free. They charged $20 for a blowjob. The full service could be had for a few extra bucks. An elegantly dressed gentleman opened the door of a colossal car. The sweet red mouth and blue eyes were gone. I took a deep breath, trying to smell her perfume. All I got were lungs filled with exhaust. I came close to throwing up.

I hadn’t seen the sea in over four months, and decided to go to the beach. Hollywood was just an accident anyways. It didn’t mean anything to me. I wanted to live by the ocean and surf every day.

Then the Frenchman appeared. We’d already talked a little the night before. His name was Pierre, and he was also in California to surf. And maybe to stay. His family had two patisseries in France, and he wanted to set up the same type of business in America. But he wanted to catch as many waves as he could before getting started.

Our friendship happened naturally. All surfers speak the same language. He told me about the French waves, his confectioner’s life in a suburb of Paris, and his desire to leave Europe. I told him stories about my country: beautiful girls on the beaches and warm water – an easy life. I couldn’t quite explain how if it was so good in Brazil, I ended up in an ugly shared room in Hollywood.

Pierre had some money set aside. The first thing on the list was to buy a car. We visited several used car dealers. He didn’t find anything he liked. Tired of walking, we got on a bus toward the ocean, and got off in Santa Monica. We ran the last two blocks that separated us from the Pacific. Finally, from the top of a ravine, we saw the deep and powerful blue. To the right, the coast curved, forming a bay. To the left was the Santa Monica pier, with its wooden pillars walking into the ocean. A busy road passed at the foot of the cliff. Then came the white-sand beach, punctuated by bathers and their multicolored junk. The waves were small and formless. Even so, a few kids were surfing. I stood there in complete silence, mesmerized by the scene. Everything shined in the sun.

The wind moved the sailboats over the horizon, and, for the first time since I left Brazil, I had the feeling that I was somewhere I wanted to be.

JUST AN IDEA

Pierre and I left the hotel, and fled Hollywood in a beige 1973 Toyota wagon with an automatic transmission, AM/FM radio, and bald tires. It cost $1200. We began sleeping in the car, in parking lots at the University of California, Los Angeles. We didn’t have to pay anything, it was safe, and the noise at night was minimal. I was broke, but the Frenchman still had some money. Yet, he liked a good rush of adrenaline, and together we stole cheese, fruits, and drinks from a nearby supermarket. We ate at the beach, making plans for the future.

Pierre wanted to travel the Pacific coast from north to south for about three months, and then decide whether to stay or return home. My case was a bit more complicated. As much as I wanted to accompany him, it was first necessary to find some money and a place to stay. It wouldn’t be possible to continue living in parking lots for much longer, nor get my food from petty thefts.

Pierre realized that if he stayed, I would stick with him. He decided it was time to leave. He bought a surfboard, a wetsuit, some wax, and a leash. He didn’t need anything else. He had the car, a sleeping bag, and a whole coast to roam. Au revoir. Goodbye. Tchau.

But fate is always in charge. Three days later, still waiting for my motorcycle to arrive and wandering the avenues in Santa Monica, I passed in front of the dealership where Pierre had bought the car. The Toyota was positioned facing the street with For Sale painted in white on the front windshield.

I went in to ask the owner what had happened. Fat, pink, and smiling, he explained that Pierre had come back crying: someone in his family had passed away. His father, or perhaps his grandfather. The owner did not understand fully. In any case, Pierre had to fly back to Paris immediately. So the owner did him a favor and repurchased the car, obviously for a price much lower than Pierre had paid.

The dealership owner returned to his air-conditioned office and left me leaning against the car, trying to piece it together. With Pierre’s unexpected departure, I felt alone. When we had said goodbye, I had hoped that soon, on a beach somewhere, we would catch some waves together. But Pierre was back in France, the last place he would have imagined a week prior. Suddenly, I felt immobilized by the fragility of dreams.

Fortunately, my motorcycle finally arrived. I went to pick it up from a vast warehouse in an industrial neighborhood, having managed to convince a new friend to take me there. Located on the other side of the city, we had to decipher a map and a tangle of freeways to find it.

I couldn’t count the number of containers parked in the warehouse’s courtyard. There were simply too many. I was attended to by Mexicans. After taking the bike out of the crate and mounting the handlebars in the correct position, I reconnected the battery, put in some gas I’d brought, and kick-started it. The sound of the engine reverberating was like music.

It was a small bike, nothing more than a toy, with a vocation much more suited for off-road fun than long trips on paved roads. But to my eyes, that Yamaha XT 250 had enormous power, enough to get me far.

The bike was relatively new. It had been bought in New Orleans with savings from two months of washing dishes in a restaurant. From New Orleans, I rode the bike 600 miles to the city of Laredo, on the Texas-Mexico border. After two more months of use on desert trails around the quarter-mile horse ranch where I worked, it had been put on a carrier to be delivered to L.A.

I used a handful of the few dollars I had left to fill the tank at a station, and, after getting off of the freeway, I finally reached a coastal road. Heading north on Pacific Coast Highway, the traffic was constant until Malibu. From there, though, moving became easier, and I felt the pleasure of the wind and the curves by the sea. I followed the flight of the seabirds, inspired by and enjoying the freedom of speed over asphalt. I entered a road that went over the mountains near the ocean on the border of L.A. and Ventura counties. Climbing in an easterly direction, I stopped at a plateau from where I could see much of the coast.

At that moment, with almost zero money in my pockets, nowhere to spend the night, and no idea of how to proceed with my life, I felt readier than ever to face the world. It was then that I asked myself, Why not strap a surfboard to the back of the bike and go look for waves? California? Mexico? Or even farther south?

FAR FROM HOME

Are you Brazilian? Yes? From São Paulo? Which neighborhood? Which school did you go to? And the sports club you follow? Where do you take your summer vacations?

It didn’t take long for me to start bumping into other Brazilians, and to learn how to escape their usual interrogation to maintain the pleasure of my anonymity. Respond and get tagged, meaning immediately positioned on the Brazilian social scale.

Meeting Brazilians brought about mixed feelings. It’s always pleasant to speak Portuguese and exchange thoughts with someone that misses your country like you do – someone who doesn’t think Buenos Aires is our capital and knows that the biggest threat during Carnival is being the victim of a crime, not an invasion of snakes from the Amazon. On the other hand, I had not traveled so far to continue living with the social and economic stigmas surrounding me in Brazil, or to belong to the growing Brazilian-expat colony in L.A. I wanted to be unconfined, and didn’t see how regrouping by nationality could help that goal. Being loose and lost in America gave me an exhilarating feeling of almost nonexistence. Reconstructing my personality was a challenge I wanted to fully experience.

But, there was no avoiding it. And most of the time, encountering Brazilians was fun and even curious. On a sidewalk in the upscale neighborhood of Westwood, a Hare Krishna told me: Two years ago, I smoked joints and played guitar with my girlfriend at the dam in Brasilia. One day I dropped everything, entered the worship of Krishna, and today I’m happy selling incense and singing mantras in the streets of L.A. Another Brazilian painted walls after leaving a career as an engineer back home. Some, undecided with their lives and well-fed by their fathers, took expensive English courses with middling results. Professional sports careers in tennis, cycling, and swimming were tried. Brazilian professors taught classes in the universities, and successful traders could be found in the shopping centers. I even came to know retired police officers, who spent fortunes they had no way of explaining.

I found work at a demolition site. For $7 an hour I tore down walls and loaded wood, concrete, and scrap metal into Mack Trucks. I swept and put my tangled Spanish-Portuguese into practice with my Mexican coworkers. It was a dirty and brutal job, but a good feeling came along with all the sweat and the dust.

Most of the Mexicans I worked with had crossed the border illegally, looking for jobs and better living conditions. If $7 an hour was good money for me, it was a fortune to them. Aside from the amount they spent to live in cubicles infested by rats and cockroaches, their earnings were sent to their families in Mexico. They lived in fear, waiting for La Migra to arrive and deport them.

We were essentially the same on the jobsite, foreign muscles organized by American brains to do an unpleasant job for which locally born candidates were almost nonexistent. Apart from that, however, we were completely different. The Mexicans came from rural and impoverished backgrounds, practically forced to move north to look for work in the promised land of America, seeking a source of subsistence for their families back in Mexico. Sitting among the demolition remains, we exchanged stories and experiences while eating cold sandwiches. The Mexicans told me of the hardships in their poor, small hometowns in the desert. They described how they crossed the border guided by coyotes, and about the places in the barrios of L.A. where they bought fake papers. They talked about being homesick, often getting emotional about how much they missed their children and wives.

At first, I felt self-conscious. My reasons for being away from home felt small compared to theirs. My stories were happy and colorful. And they enjoyed my descriptions of Brazil, especially soccer and Carnival. With time my embarrassment went away. I worked just as hard and with the same humility that they did. A mutual affection developed between us. Respect, too. At some point, we met.

One day the demolition ended. I began going to a temporary employment agency. Every morning I lined up with other candidates waiting to be called to work. The contracting companies contacted the agency and requested a certain number of workers for services: moving, cleaning, assembly line jobs, etcetera.

Most people in the queues faced instability in their previous jobs, home, and life in general. Many came from other parts of the country, lived on the road, and only wanted to make enough money to continue a little farther. There were