Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Author: Willy Tamarack
Title: Surfers Rule
Part: 1 of 11
Universe:
Summary:
Keywords: (love story, adventure, war viol)
Language: English


***************************************************************************

   @(C) 1996-2015 Willy Tamarack Commercial use in any form requires the
written permission of the author and will ensure a portion of the proceeds
goes to the National Organization for the Reform of Marijuana Laws (NORML).

   Surfers Rule

   by

   Willy Tamarack

   With thanks to the founding fathers and the U.S.  Constitution

   Prologue

   Before we get started here, let me state up front: this is fiction.  I
make this shit up.  And while the premise of the story is factual.  There
may be events portrayed here that streach reality like a rubber band. 
Don't let them ruin the story for you.

   On 5 September 1989 the United States of America declared war on drugs.
With that declaration the President of the United States made it clear that
"The rules have changed." President Herbert Walker Bush exclaimed, "We must
rise up united and express our intolerance."

   Five years later, in 1994, the Congress of the United States passed a
law that allowed the CIA and other U.S.  government agencies to assist
foreign nationals with the interdiction of aircraft within their borders
when there is "reasonable suspicion" that the plane is engaged in drug
trafficking activities.  This law limited U.S.  assistance to those
countries with "appropriate procedures - to protect against innocent loss
of life" and that "at a minimum include effective means to identify & warn
an aircraft before an attack is launched."

   Adam Isacson, a senior associate at Washington's Center for
International Policy, commenting for an April 24, 2001 salon.com article
stated, "It's often called jokingly the `You fly, you die' policy." He went
on to say, "They've shot down about 30 planes in the past five years or
so."

   When he was asked if there had been any conflicts in the air between
drug trafficking planes and intelligence or military planes, Isacson
answered, "If there have been dogfights in the air, I don't know about
them. I think usually they're shooting down these little Cessna planes."

   This tale is dedicated to one of those "little Cessna planes" and an
event that occurred on 20 April 2001.  On that date the Peruvian Air Force
shot down a single-engine float plane carrying American missionaries from
Letitia, Columbia to Iquitos, Peru.  As a result of the attack a citizen of
the United States and her infant daughter were killed.

   My recollection is that the war on drugs began much earlier - in the
sixties, maybe the seventies ?  I seem to remember someone in the Nixon
administration coined the phrase but then that was a whole lot of joints
ago.  This story is political.  I knew war for a short time when I was
younger.  When carrying arms in a war zone there are few rules but one of
them is: you don't kill unarmed enemies.  I find it hard to compare and
contrast our treatment of the terrorists at Gitmo, some even arguing to
give them access to our courts; with the assistance we've given to other
countries to shoot down unarmed civilian aircraft.

   This story is about those who chose to fight back.  Remember though,
that this story is but fiction albeit with a few historical facts thrown in
to make it interesting.

   Chapter One

   May 1999

   South America, near where the borders of Peru, Columbia and Brazil meet

   It was a portrait in green, black, blue and white.  Blue was the color
of the sky above them, dotted with great big, white, puffy clouds.  Green
was the color of the vegetation that, at this altitude, stretched for as
far as the eye could see in all directions.  Black was the color of the
ground below the vegetation as it was starved of sunlight by the thick
jungle canopy that almost covered the earth in this part of the world. 
Every so often you could catch a view of small ribbons of water that flowed
through the jungle below them.

   The flight originated in the city of Manaus, capital of the state of
Amazonas, Brazil.  The Cessna 402, tail number 77-3876, was recently
purchased by Morales Exporters, S.A.  to ferry it's employees to and from
remote locations in their area of operations.  The flight was being piloted
by Jorge Barrias, Senor Alfred Morales' son-in-law.  Senor Morales,
although he had no experience flying airplanes, was sitting up front in the
co-pilot's seat next to his son-in-law.  In the back of the executive
configured 402 sat Jamie Picos and Palo Bahia, senior employees of Morales
Exporters, S.A.

   The Cessna 402 was just meandering above the jungle about fifty, sixty
miles west of Benjamin Constant, Brazil...Over the newest addition to the
Morales' estantia.  To the east Morales Exporters, S.A.  employees had
carved a somewhat unimproved air strip out of the jungle.  The runway was
made of crushed rock and nestled in a valley with the main house of the
estancia and the warehouses built on the hillside east of the runway.  The
company had also contracted for a small fuel farm which the Cessna had used
this morning to refuel prior to doing a little sight seeing before their
planned return to Manaus.

   A United States Customs Service P-3 Orion electronic-intelligence
gathering plane was flying high above Colombia at the time.  It's job in
the war against drugs is the initial detection of low flying aircraft
suspected of being drug smugglers.  It likely detected the Morales' flight
earlier, shortly after it took off from the unimproved air strip, but
didn't pay much attention until the Cessna 402 approached the Peru/Brazil
border.  The P-3 then passed targeting data on to Hostel Inambu which
serves as the operations center for the Narcotics Affairs Section (NAS) of
the U.S.  Peruvian Embassy air wing.

   Standard procedure then called for the launch of a U.S.  air-radar
tracker jet to pinpoint the suspect aircraft's exact location.  These
airplanes are twin-engine Cessna Citation V jets and are apparently owned
by the USAF but operated by a 3-man United States Customs Service or CIA
contract aircrew, usually the later.  Also aboard was a Peruvian Air Force
Lieutenant Colonel who is the link between the Peruvian national command
authority and the Peruvian Air Force.

   To mask the CIA's involvement in the surveillance effort, the U.S.  crew
worked for a front company called Aviation Development Corp., a business
based at Maxwell Air Force Base in Montgomery, Alabama.  It wasn't hard to
guess that the amount of money required to run this type of operation was
just about out of reach of most countries, without a little help from their
friends, of course.

   The Citation V was piloted this afternoon by Randal Hopps, Colonel
U.S.A.F.  (retired).  The rest of the crew consisted of retired or former
U.S.  military personnel.  Neither Randal nor the crew spoke much Spanish
and the Peruvian Air Force Lieutenant Colonel was equally hampered with
English.

   The Citation V had been tracking the Cessna 402 for almost ten miles and
had just moved into visual range.  They had already identified the bogy as
a twin engine aircraft by using zoom lenses on cameras located in the belly
of the Citation.  The Peruvian Lieutenant Colonel had already called for
the fighter and the A-37B was checking in on the tactical frequency.

   The crew of the A-37B consisted of two pilots, both majors in the
Peruvian Air Force.  The major in the right seat was acting as an
instructor pilot for the major flying in the left seat as he had never
participated in a live intercept mission, only simulated ones.  The major,
flying the A-37, was anxious and too eager; holding way too much airspeed
as he visually picked up the Cessna Citation and transitioned to the
tactical frequency.

   The Cessna 402 appeared lost, back tracking and then turning back again.
It had crossed the border between Peru and Brazil three times now and was
well below a thousand feet.  A drug runner for sure !  Randal Hopps had
guided Peruvian fighters to three "kills" during his tour of duty with the
Aviation Development Corp.  in South America and was keyed up as he closed
the distance to a position a mile in trail with the target.  Randal had the
flaps down a bit and was slowing through a hundred and fifty knots.  The
A-37B appeared suddenly off the right side of the Citation, shooting out in
front of the radar tracking aircraft.  Randal turned away from the fighter.
He could hear the Peruvian Lieutenant Colonel on the radio communicating in
Spanish with the Cessna 402 ?  Maybe he was commenting on the A-37Bs
overshoot ?

   When Randal turned back to fall in trail with the Cessna 402 he noticed
the A-37B was shooting out in front of the 402 as well.  The drug guy had
to know he was being tracked.  If he took evasive action now it would
confirm that he was a drug runner and the A-37 would blow him out of the
sky.  Randal pulled back on the yoke and the Citation started a shallow
climb.  The Cessna 402 was heading northeast now so the border with Brazil
was off to his right.  The A-37 was now well out in front of the 402.  How
many times do you have to tell these guys ?  These drug guys were not
exactly flying high performance jets !

   Jorge first noticed the A-37B in his peripheral vision as the jet moved
forward of the Cessna 402's right wing.  Jorge knew they were close to the
border.  How close ?  He wasn't sure but it was very possible that he had
strayed into Peruvian airspace.  It wasn't instinct but training; Jorge
banked steeply to the right, turning sharply behind the A-37B, toward
Brazil.  The Peruvian fighter disappeared under the Cessna 402's wing and
fuselage almost immediately and that was the last time Jorge saw the A-37B.
Senor Morales started yelling and screaming at him as the 402 rolled
steeply to the right.  Jamie Picos and Palo Bahia were frozen in their
seats, eyes wide.  Jorge wasn't sure that any of them had seen the A-37B.

   Jorge had no plan after turning behind the Peruvian fighter except to
head for the safety of Brazilian airspace.  After all what could you do
with a light twin ?  He'd pushed up the mixtures then fire walled both the
props and finally the throttles.  The airspeed was increasing through one
hundred seventy knots.  He looked back for the Peruvian fighter that had
just overshot him.  They would be over Brazil in just a few miles, not
enough time for the Peruvian fighter to rejoin on them again.

   The major, piloting the A-37B, was embarrassed by the comments being
made by the liaison officer aboard the Citation jet.  He was sure the
Americans were laughing at him also.  He yanked back on the stick and the
Dragonfly zoomed up into the sky.  The drug runner would be off to his
right, towards Brazil.  He'd make sure the bastard didn't make it.  He
selected the mini-gun and raised the red covered switch that armed the
machine gun.  One flick of the switch and the trigger was now hot.  He
checked that the appropriate mil setting was dialed into the gun sight and
rolled to the right.  The Dragonfly had to be three or four thousand feet
above the drug runner and the major easily sighted him.  He paused for just
a count of four or so to allow the drug runner to track further to the
right of his position.  Now he was rolling over on to his back and bringing
the nose of the A-37B down toward the drug runner.

   The crew of the Citation lost sight of the A-37B momentarily but kept
sight of the drug runner as he headed toward the Brazil/Peru border.  Here
comes the Dragonfly out of the bright blue sky dotted with big white puffy,
popcorn-like clouds, in what looked like a dive bomb pass.  A long puff of
smoke appeared in the sky as the A-37B dove toward the drug runner, firing
it's mini-gun.  All told, approximately a thousand rounds of 7.62
ammunition were rushing toward the Cessna 402.

   The rounds started impacting the Cessna's nose just forward of the wind
screen and then walked right on through the cabin, killing Jorge instantly
and severely wounding Alfred Morales.  The Cessna immediately started a
roll to the left and continued until it was almost upside down.  The two
passengers in the back of the aircraft were wounded, panicked and never
left their seats, not that it would have mattered.  Once past ninety
degrees of bank the Cessna began to lose altitude rapidly and crashed nose
first into the jungle, exploding into flames.  The A-37B pulled out of it's
dive and rolled left, intending to make another pass on the Cessna.  There
was no need.  The Cessna, full of gas, was burning brightly in the green
jungle and all aboard were dead.  The A-37B strafed the fire ball anyway.
Why not ?  The gringos were paying for the ammunition.

   Chapter Two

   Still May 1999

   Palos Verdes Estates, California, U.S.A.



   It was gray out.  Just starting to get light.  A damp mist hung over the
cliff side.  The grass just starting to turn green from it's winter straw
color.  The yellow VW bug was almost silent as it rolled to a stop near the
trail.  The sound of the brake being set spoiled the silence.  Then the
door, creaking as it opened.  Man had arrived.

   Craig Hansen stretched as he got out of the driver's seat.  The other
occupant was still struggling to unhook his seat belt.

   "Shit hot !  We're the first ones here.  Get your ass in gear, old man.
I'll race you down the cliff."

   "Fuck you, Hansen !  You've got fifteen years on me..." There was no
other excuse.  He hadn't done any surfing, of any kind, for over
twenty-five years.  It was like everything changed.  Craig was on the other
side of the bug, taking his board off the racks.  The older man stood and
started to take the straps off the remaining board.

   "Lock the racks in the trunk.  I'll meet you down there." He meant in
the water.  Ed Merril, at fifty-four, was having a tough time keeping up.
Getting into shape was harder than he thought it would be.  But then this
was just day three.  He was sore.  Sore all over.  His arms ached.  His
back hurt.  He thought he was kind of in shape.  He'd just been kidding
himself.

   The racks were in the trunk.  Ed made sure the bug was locked before he
picked the board up off the hard packed dirt.  When he started down the
trail he looked out over the bay.  Swells lined up until they disappeared
into the mist.  Lines of white water stretched out here and there across
the expanse of ocean that he remembered was called Palos Verdes Cove when
he was a kid.

   It was over a half a mile down to the beach so he started putting one
foot in front of the other.  By the time he was to the bottom, he hoped to
be warmed up a bit.  Oh !  Shit !  He was still wearing his patch covered,
leather flight jacket.  The patch of every organization he'd been a member
of in the armed forces were sewn onto his jacket.  It was the only reason
he was here today.

   Just three days ago.  Seventy-two hours.  His life had changed forever.
He'd been stupid back home but that was past and he couldn't change it.  He
was sure he left some trouble behind but he didn't see any way they could
connect it to him.  There were no witnesses.  Well...Except for the other
guy.  But Ed didn't think the other guy got a good look at him.  One little
problem.  He was a police officer.....

   .....It was unseasonably warm for this time of year, the temperature
still hovering around eighty-five degrees and it was after twenty-one
hundred hours.  That's nine p.m.  for you civilians.  Ed Merril had just
arrived home from another day flying tourists to the Grand Canyon from Las
Vegas.  Another four trips and all the fun that goes with it.  He was
relaxing out on his back patio, sipping on a tumbler filled with just ice
cubes and Jack Daniels.  Tilly, his twelve year old dachshund, was out on
the grass sniffing out a place to take a piss.

   Ed took a deep draw off the tumbler while he stared off to the west and
the stars above.  The muted sound of rock & roll music was drifting over
the wall from his neighbor's place.  His neighbors had a teenage boy and Ed
imagined that his parents were out for the evening.  Every so often the
music level would drop and Ed could hear the sound of excited teenage
voices.  Some of them must be out in the back yard because Ed could smell
marijuana every once and a while.

   The longer Ed remained in the back yard the louder the teenage voices
became.  More kids were arriving at his neighbor's home.  He was positive
the parents were away for the night, maybe even for the weekend.  This was
Las Vegas.  There were a lot of unusual life styles here due to the work
patterns of a truly twenty-four hour town.

   Ed got out of his lounge chair and walked back into the house to top off
his tumbler with more "Jack." Tilly waddled in behind him and stood at his
feet as he poured more Jack Daniels into the tumbler.

   *****

   "Car two eighteen.  Disturbance in the estates.  Off Valle Verde. 
Trying to narrow down the address.  The complaint didn't specify.  No rush.
Lights off.  Copy ?"

   "Car two eighteen.  On it." Officer Clyde Henderson stepped on the gas
and the utility vehicle surged forward.  Officer Henderson was barely older
than most of the kids who frequented these parties.  He liked taking the
drunks in, the girls especially.  Lots of free feels there.  He was
cruising at a very slow speed.  Less than five miles an hour.

   He could hear the music up ahead.  Very dim but the base was
discernable. A vehicle rounded the corner behind him and because of his
slow speed ran right up behind his police utility vehicle.  Officer
Henderson was blinded as he glanced into the rear view mirror.  The fucker
was close.

   Suddenly, the vehicle backed off and the lights disappeared as the
vehicle made a "U" turn behind him and sped away.  It's lights extinguished
as it accelerated away from the police vehicle.  Clyde was tempted to chase
the guy down but resisted the impulse.  He turned his attention back to the
block ahead.  Fuckin' cell phones !

   Dozens of kids were now running out towards their cars parked in the
cul-de-sac.  Clyde threw on the bright and flashers and gave the siren a
couple of bursts as he accelerated down the block.  If he parked across the
mouth he would trap most of the cars in the end of the cul-de-sac.  Some of
the kids were rushing back toward the house.

   Officer Henderson shut the vehicle down and made sure he had the keys.
He was out on the street in seconds and found the last of the teenagers
entering a house off to the right.  He gave chase, trotting up the street
and onto the lawn.  The music was suddenly silenced.  The front door was
open so Officer Henderson entered the house.  He could hear teenagers out
in the back yard and moved through the kitchen toward the open back door.
There were beer cans and liquor bottles all over, half empty glasses
littered the room.

   Most of the teenagers were making their way back down the side of the
house and running through the street in front of the house to their cars
again.  Several, though, were climbing over the back wall and dropping into
the yard behind the party house.

   *****

   The sounds of the party were silenced by the short blasts of a police
siren.  Then the night was filled by loud teenage voices.  It sounded like
panic.  Ed couldn't make out what they were yelling about.  He lifted the
tumbler of Jack to his lips just as the first teenager topped the wall to
his property and dropped into his backyard.  He couldn't tell if it was a
boy or a girl.  The figure quickly ran out of his sight down the side of
his house.  More teenagers were topping the wall and Tilly was going crazy
barking at them from the patio.

   Ed finally realized that his neighbor's house was being raided by the
police.  He chuckled a bit remembering his days as a teenager.

   *****

   Officer Henderson burst out into the backyard.  Several teenagers were
rounding the side of the house but several were also on top of the wall,
dropping into the yard behind.  He headed for the wall and easily topped it
in one leap.  He peered into the unlit yard.  He could see several shadows
running down the side of the house and through an open side gate.  He
dropped into the yard.

   He saw movement to his right.  An small dog was running across the lawn,
barking.  He'd landed on both feet in a flower bed and quickly leapt on to
the lawn.  The dog was still approaching and barking loudly.  He yelled
"Freeze, police !" at the shadow passing through the gate about a fifty
feet in front of him.  The shadow disappeared.

   The small dog was at his heels, barking like crazy.  He turned and
kicked his foot out at the small dog.  His toe caught Tilly right below her
throat and the yard immediately became silent.  Not even a whimper was
heard from the dark lump on the ground.  He turned to pursue the teenagers.

   *****

   Ed Merril stood after the dark figure kicked Tilly.  You could hear the
chair scrape on the concrete of the patio.  The figure slowed and looked
over toward Ed.  The glass tumbler broke in two when Ed dropped his drink
on to the concrete floor.  It was instinct.  He was off the patio, moving
toward the figure, digging his bare toes into the grass, bent low.  The
figure was squaring up toward him, reaching for his waist.

   Ed closed the distance in just moments.  The figure's hands were still
at his waist, fumbling for something.  Ed left his feet about two yards
from the figure, head up.  His right shoulder impacted the figure's
mid-section and drove him back against the concrete block wall that
surrounded his property.  The figure's head snapped back and contacted the
wall with a loud "thunk." And then there was silence.

   Ed slowly got to his knees, breathing heavily.  The figure was dressed
in a uniform and immediately sweat broke out on Ed.  He lowered his ear to
the officer's mouth and could hear him breathing.  He felt for his pulse
and found it strong and regular.  He jumped to his feet and saw the weapon
lying about a foot away from the officer's right hand.  He scooped it up as
he backed away from the fallen officer.  He cleaned up the mess on the
patio, took one last look at his dead dog, then entered his house.....

   Chapter Three

   The swells appeared on the horizon, a bit larger than the last few.  Ed
rotated his board out to sea and dropped to his stomach.  His arms ached as
they pulled the board through the ocean.  The wave was starting to steepen
as Ed stopped paddling and sat astride his board.  He wheeled the nose
toward shore and started paddling with both arms as the wave approached
him. He could feel the power of the wave lift him and now he was sliding
down the face.  Ed jumped to his feet and rode forward as the wave started
to break off to his left.  Ed dropped to the bottom of the wave and leaned
to his right.  The surfboard edge dug into the water and brought the nose
of the board to the right.  The wave was walling up off to the right and
the board rose on the face of the wave.

   Ed took two steps forward to trim up the board and now he was streaking
across the face of the wave.  He could see Craig Hansen paddling out in
front of him, approaching the wave he was riding.  He took two steps back,
planted his right foot on the tail block and cut back left as Craig was
topping the wave out in front of him.  A rooster tail of spray flew in
Craig's direction.

   Craig crested the wave and felt the spray sprinkle on him.  He pumped
his fist into the air.  "Shit hot, old man !" He was over the wave and
paddling for the next one.  Ed cranked the nose of the board back to the
right and immediately started to move forward on the board as it rose on
the face of the steepening wave in front of him.  He was close and shuffled
forward so that he could reach his left foot forward and wrap five toes
over the nose of the board.  He raised his arms into the air and yelled in
exhilaration.

   Craig looked back over his shoulder and could see Ed, with his arms in
the air, above the back of the wave as it moved toward the shore.  The "old
man" was doing okay for his third day in the water.  Three days ago he
wasn't sure about this guy.....

   .....Cindy Blake Hansen was driving a bright yellow Volkswagen Bug.  It
had a single surfboard, with three skegs, strapped to the roof rack.  The
bug had just entered the Torrance Municipal Airport gate and was traveling
around the perimeter road on the way to the Blake Hansen Air Taxi Service
hanger.  The weather was horrible and Craig wondered if he would be able to
fly his charter out this afternoon ?  The fog had come in last night. 
There was no discernable ceiling and the fog was still very thick;
visibility was hardly a half a mile.

   The VW Bug had a VHF (very high frequency) radio transmitter and
receiver installed under the dash board.  The set was turned on and tuned
in to the tower frequency.  It was just a bit after zero six hundred hours.

   "Torrance tower, Navajo 777, ILS final approach fix with juliet."

   "Navajo 777, Torrance tower, cleared to land runway two nine.  Wind is
calm."

   Cindy looked over at Craig as they motored around the perimeter road. 
The air field lights came on and Craig saw the strobes start to run in
toward the threshold of runway two nine.

   "Shit man, this guy's got some balls.  The visibility is hardly half a
mile.  Pull off here, hon, and let's watch."

   Cindy pulled over to the side of the road and parked.  They sat in
silence.  It was almost four minutes before the Navajo's landing light
appeared right on center line.  The shape of the aircraft appeared several
moments later.  Craig noticed the pilot shift his aim point and the
aircraft landed in the first thousand feet of the runway, nose high in the
air.

   "Jesus !  That was shit hot !" Cindy exclaimed.  "Not any local I've
seen around here.  Prior military, ya think ?"

   "Let's go see." Craig switched to ground control and the following
filled the inside of the Bug.

   "Ground, Navajo 777 clear of runway two nine.  Taxi to Jacksons."

   "Roger, Navajo 777.  You familiar ?"

   "Roger, ground.  Navajo 777."

   Cindy pulled back onto the perimeter road and made a "U" turn before
being told.  Jacksons was two hangers down from the gate they just entered,
at the other end of the runway from them.  They were silent as they drove
northwest.  They could see the Navajo taxiing in that direction.

   By the time they reached Jacksons, the Navajo's engines had been shut
down.  Craig jumped out of the bug before it came to a stop and ran toward
the airplane.  He stepped right up on to the wing and was there when the
pilot's door came open.  The strong odor of day old Jack Daniels wafted out
into the calm, moist air.

   The pilot was an older guy, easily fifty.  He had a very short haircut,
almost a buzz cut but there was a small tuft of hair growing high up on his
forehead that was a bit longer.  All of it was a sandy gray, mostly gray.
He had a day's growth at least.  Craig backed away from the pilot's door.
He noticed the leather jacket at the last moment.  The fighter squadron
patch jumped out at him.

   "Were you a `Black Widow' ?" Craig asked.  The older man was still
putting away his charts and pubs.  He'd had them laid out neatly on the
co-pilot's seat.  He looked up at Craig through his bifocals, then back at
the helmet bag, he was packing his charts into.

   "You must have been there later." The old man stated.  He was just about
finished with his cockpit cleaning so Craig stepped back along the fuselage
until he could hop down on to the ramp.

   He called back up as the guy was climbing out of the plane.  "No, I'm an
ex-Eagle driver and we fought you guys all the time.  The eighth out of
Holloman.  I was there in the late eighties before Desert Storm."

   The old man looked down at him with a small, thin smile on his face.  He
was carrying a helmet bag with all his flight gear in it and a large
backpack, something you'd taking hunting or at least hiking, serious
hiking. He moved well for an old man and quickly jumped down on to the ramp
with all his stuff.  Craig could still smell the Jack Daniels.  He was
about to say something about it when the old man spoke.

   "Those triple skegs worth a shit ?"

   "Yea !?" Craig was surprised.  "You surf ?" The old man was looking
beyond him at the Bug.

   "Used to.  Long time ago.  Your wife or girl friend ?" He nodded toward
the Bug.

   "Wife and partner in Blake Hansen Air Taxi Service.  She's an advanced
avionics tech.  Prior service, tech sergeant.  You retired ?"

   The old man looked back at Craig and held out his hand.  "Yea.  Ed
Merril, Major, retired.  Since '89.  Missed Desert Storm but did a tour or
two in 'Nam."

   Craig took his hand and shook it.  "Craig Hansen.  My wife's Cindy.  Did
you bathe in Jack this morning before you left ?" Craig had a smile on his
face that was a mile wide.

   "Shit, man, that was last night.  I ran and walked almost eight
miles..." Ed abruptly stopped talking.

   Craig waited until it was obvious the guy wasn't going to continue, then
filled the silence.  "You on your way to LAX ?  I can fly you down this
afternoon, two o'clock.  You could rack out at our place for a
while...Freshen up a bit." Craig smiled again.

   "Well, it wasn't twelve hours but I had enough exercise to sweat it
out."

   "Yea, no shit !" Craig turned and walked toward the bug.  "Open the
bonnet, Cindy.  This is Ed Merril, Viper driver, extraordinaire !" Craig
lifted the hood and Ed tossed his backpack and helmet bag into the trunk.

   They were out the gate before Craig asked, "So are you going to need a
lift to LAX or not ?"

   "Not sure right now.  I need to make some calls.  Fourteen hundred
hours, you say ?"

   "Yea, Fourteen hundred." Craig chuckled, thinking that if he used
military time on the outside most of his customers would think he was nuts
and none of them would ever make a flight on time.  He looked in the back
and found the old man asleep.

   *****

   It was still damp and very foggy at noon when Ed Merril walked across
the yard and entered the Hansen's back door.  They had a very nice guest
room above their garage.  Ed had slept for four hours and then spent an
hour showering, shaving and shittin', as he used to say.

   Craig and Cindy were sitting around the kitchen table.  Theirs was a
small place and dated to the mid to late forties, close enough to both the
airport and the beach.  There was some good surf around here.  Ed surfed it
all from grade school through high school and some years in college.

   Craig looked up.  "Sorry, Ed, the charter's been canceled.  The guy
changed his schedule...Doesn't want to go until this weekend.  You're
welcome to stay with us if you're stuck down here."

   Ed pulled out a chair and sat.  "That would be real nice.  But how'd you
know I needed a place to stay ?" He couldn't imagine that word about his
scuffle with the police in Henderson made it down here already.  He watched
them closely.

   The woman spoke first as she got up.  "You want a sandwich, Ed ?  How
about you, Craig ?"

   "Yea, hon, make one for Ed, too." He looked over at Ed.  "You just don't
fit the part of a guy coming down here without a plan.  Most guys who ferry
can't wait to get out of here.  Torrance is not exactly the fun capital of
Southern California."

   Ed leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head.  "I grew
up down here...Fifties, sixties.  What a great place to grow up.  All of
the South Bay, Haggerties, PV Cove, The Bay.  So many good places." He
paused.  "I'm due a little time off so asked my boss if I could spend the
time here while the air machine goes through overhaul." That should keep
them at bay.  He felt guilty he had to tap dance so much but their place
was just perfect and he just happened on to it.  Better lucky than good any
day, he always said.

   Craig stared at the old man.  "Going surfing tomorrow morning, you
interested ?" The old man smiled that small, thin smile of his.

   "Just might do that.  You got another board that's a little longer ?"

   Cindy called out from the kitchen counter.  "Shit, he's got a quiver of
'em.  I'm sure he can hook you up."

   Ed looked very puzzled, "A quiver ?"

   "Just means a lot of boards is all.  I got a nine footer that would be
perfect for a guy who's been out of it for a while."

   "Yea, I'd like that.  I'll need a wet suit, too." Ed paused for a moment
before adding.  "There a liquor store around here ?"

   "Sure.  We can go after lunch." Cindy was handing out sandwiches.  Craig
was up out of his chair, getting them soft drinks.