THAT WAYNE MIYATA'S "CUP AND SINKER" SURE IS A NICE PLACE.
I'm beginning to feel like one of the boys already. I'm even prepared to order my
personalized coffee mug, except I'm not sure what name to use. Maybe I'll have
Mr.Miyata use Kahuna but I'm not sure. Saturday morning's are quiet, dampness settles above the parking lot, seagulls jockey for position. You can smell
the hot roasted java, and the sinkers are loaded with crumbs. Waikiki Pete was
about to unravel a yarn about him and Tarzan Smith at Corona del Mar in the
late thirties. Mr.Miyata made sure everyone's coffee mug was filled to the brim.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, a '56 Chevy comes racing across the parking lot, hell bent
for leather, lays a broody directly in front of us, hits the curb, bounces back a step,
throws open the door revealing a screaming two year old, it's face bright red.
The Chevies driver, short, overweight, County Jail bald cut, swearing at the his hijo,
"Ciete, hijo, ciete! Low rider grabs the kid, the diaper bag, heads to the table two
feet away, flops hijo on the table, undoes the Pamper realising this horrible stench
right beside us, exposing this massive dump squishing around hijo's rear end,
sees the hose Mr.Miyata uses to squirt off his patio. takes the nozzle aiming
cold water all over hijo. The father rolls the dump like it were a burrito and tosses
it in the trash can right beside Tennis Shoe Ernie,sitting opposite me. All this is
going down at 6:00 AM this morning. Father with out saying a word, grabs hijo,
throws both him and the diaper bag in car, and lays a patch outta' there. I have a feeling the old timers were truly shocked. They sat there,jaws dropping, literary speechless unkowingly inhaling the disgusting fumes from hijo's "burrito". Manana's Dia de Madre, I'm going back to 'Nofre to see if I'm still welcome. I know I will be.
TUBESTEAK/P.U.

THINGS WENT SO GOOD YESTERDAY AT THE "CUP AND SINKER" I WENT BACK.
The "Cup", as the gang calls it, overlooks the ocean south of the Harbor. Our "Cup
and Sinker" is a cozy little hang out for the old fellow who likes his coffee hot and black, his sinker freshly glazed, and plenty of room to "chew the fat"
with the cronies. All the gang's in their seventies or eighties, not of good health,
lots of maladies, arthritis, missing limbs, insomnia, all things inherent with "getting
up there". Aside of their physical complaints they have one thing in common: They're all old geysers of the '30's and '40's, some of them having met the "Duke" or Tom Blake or "Surfing" Sam Reid. An empty stool was available, "One-Eye Jack" was admitted to the hospital last night complaining of disorientation, confusion, and dementia, although the table concluded it was probably another occurrence of his All-timers Disease. I asked how Jack got the nickname "One-Eye" and was told by Wayne Miyata, "Cup and Sinker's proprietor, Jack was fishing off the pier at the Harbor when a child ran out carrying a bamboo fishing pole, as he approached Jack, he stumbled, Jack reached out to help him, just as the kid's mother yelled, "Cuidado, mi hijo, you're liable to poke somebody's eye out." Jack felt the stinging sensation in his left eye as the kid's pole poked him right in the eye. They tell the story of how "One-Eye" and Whitey Harrison were out at "Ski-Jump", a mammoth peak approached with room for but one rider and that was "One-Eye" He jumped to his feet, dragged his right
arm for maximum angle strength. dropped to the trough of the glassy wall, stood erect, and highballed directly toward Del Obisbo, full speed ahead. Jack at one point was 250 yards ahead the hook. This was September, 29th, 1939.
TUBESTEAK/PINNOCHIO

I NEED THE REST. SAN ONOFRE HAS BEEN ANNEXED BY FORCES worse than the SOSC BOD. Today we go to the "Cup and Sinker" North San Clemente's favorite
haunts for "old time" surfers, like guys in their 70's and 80's reminiscing about
"how it used to be down here before those bastards put in the harbor". Cheeze,
as a tiny boy, prior to the construction, on the way to 'Ol 'Nofre I would come to
Dana Point's gazebo, look down upon a desolate beach, rocky, unsightly, but these old-timers swore it broke 12' plus every day. Like get real, dudes. These old pelicans have a thousand yarns about the earlier times, no wet suits, wax, leashes, prosthetics, or any stuff such as that. They were men among men. They sit here now, their weathered, scrawny fingers wrapped around personalized coffee mugs, a huge, glazed, long-john on the paper napkin spread before them. They spoke reverently of Whitey Harrison, Freeth, Duke, and some whose name slips them right now.
Their skin festers with cancer, decades of blazing sun taking it's toll. I wish I could only sympathize with them. But no deal. A gentle breeze sweeps over the land, through the parking lot, stirring discarded paper napkins. It was time to go and let them remember the riders who momentarily slipped their mind.
TUBESTEAK/DOUG.CRAIG