A tragic occurance took place yesterday when a massive power overload rendered San Juan Caoistrano useless. All files looked as acid had been poured over them. Back on line soon.
TUBESTEAK/SDGE

...hovering above the cove. The Hawk was first in the water. He slammed his board into the boil as the backwash hit the shorebreak. I looked at the horizon, barely visible through the mist.

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.

For the ride of your life, sets of 12' plus, winter swelL
at the Redondo Breakwater, frigid waters, no wetsuit, and a damp , sandy, pair of trunks, a 6:00 AM offshore, and no hot chocolate while reading the LA Times Financial, tune in tomorrow morning, Thursday.
TUBESTEAK/CHALLENGER

All beach bums were homeless but we'd awaken to squawking seagulls fighting over dropped sardines in midair. Cool, damp, sand,
wet seaweed, and the beautiful beach smells, beach fires, and sometimes fresh coffee fragrances wafting from the boardwalk.
Strolling along the high tide mark, you'd watch sandcrabs scurrying to bury themselves in wet sand. Just offshore bait fish would stir a boil, pelicans soaring ahead of a gliding swell. Sometimes the bighorn would incessantly cry out. Sure, you didn't want to be homeless but you wouldn't want it any other way.

Homeless? What a bunch of pure, unadulterated, bullshit. Hell, we were homeless before homeless was in. My first homeless away from home was three washing machine size cartons, two refrigerator boxes, beneath the Manahattan Beach Pier. Chow what chow? You found a quarter and went Callahan's All You can eat spaghetti feed, and that included a slice of bread.
Crap , you didn't need no Bustamente, "It's for the children" rhetoric. No way, Tokay. If you had no money you'd go to a party and eat hot dogs and Fritos.
We didn't need no "vote for me" lies. I f the cops razed the appliance cartons, we'd go inside the Manhattan Beach Surf Club and sleep. Homeless shelters? What a bunch of Hooey. Build a beach shack. Get off the rolls. You don't need no stinken' driver's license. Get a protege.
TUBESTEAK/90265