The weather was hot that winter morning, Janurary 10, 1953. I was sleeping on the veranda of the Manhattan Beach Surf Club located at the foot of Municipal Pier. Things were peaceful enough until I was awakened by huge concussions one after the other et shaking the discarded davenport on which I slept. Looking into darkness I noticed lights were off on the pier. Emergency vehicles lined the entrance. Flashing ed lights lit the sky like a pinball
machine. Blink, blink, blink. It was black as pitch, all you could see was warning lights. Not that he could tell, a lifeguard shouted into the bullhorn, "Attention, please. Leave the pier. It is closed.
Go to high ground immediately."

Something's cooking I thought. More concussions, followed by thunderous surf. Someone arrives n the Club's parking area.
"Get, up" said the The Hawk urgently, "We're going to the Breakwater." Come, on let's go!" The Hawk, ordinarily doesn't get this exited. I roll up my mummy sleeping bag, heave it into the Clubhouse, just as it's getting light. No wonder The Hawk was excited.

As I turned to leave, I saw an uneasy ocean, white with foam, churning yet still glassy. The dawning morning, filled with thick, heavy mist from a relentless onslaugt of enormous ground swells.
With The Hawk driving, we arrived at the Redondo Breakwater within five minutes.. We piled from the Jeep, met with ocean smeels you never imagine. The was a mixture of Standard Oil crude, sardines, baitfish, uncovered seaweed, fish oils, diesle fuel,
hovering above the cove.