As an infant I received my first baptism in a little village in Italy. Baptism is a rite of the Church, by solemn immersion in, sprinkling with or pouring on of water. My first I don’t remember the others I will never forget.

In the name of the Father. My father ran up the street to his screaming son, whose leg was bend out of proportion. He swept me in his arms as I buried my head in deeply in his chest as he carried me to the car where he then took me to the hospital. It was the early 60s when I first remember thinking I wanted to be a surfer. Be it that I had never surfed, but now I had broken my leg on a skateboard. I listened to the Beach Boys, wore a surfer haircut and leafed through Surfer Magazines until the pages faded. So when I finally saved enough money to buy a ratty old O’Neil’s surfboard, I would lay it down on my front lawn and pretend I was surfing. My father would shake his head, he hoped I could swim better than I rode a skateboard.

The day had come when I was finally going surfing. My best friend and the coolest cat around Richie Schultz (he already was a real surfer) had a blonde bombshell of an older sister that drove and she was going to take us to the beach for my first surfing session. We slid our boards over the passenger’s seat of the 1958 Chevy convertible. Richie and I were in the back seat, giggling with excitement and anticipation (scared). Driving from Burlingame up to Old Skyline and down Sharp Park Rd.

We pulled into the Wander Inn parking lot. Slightly overcast, typical August day. The waves were working at 2-3 feet perfect for me. Richie pulls on his beaver top and I go in with the rigor of the day, two pair of boxer shorts, one pair wore backside front. Lucky for me I was a cubby kid because I didn’t have a wet suit. I spent what seemed like hours paddling and wiping out in every way imaginable. When I was so exhausted my arms couldn’t move, the sea got tried of playing with me, and it spit me back to shore. My knees were purple from the cold, standing by a burning tire, shivering from head to toe, sand in every orifice of my body. I don’t think I ever felt more alive in my life! I had been surfing, if only for a few brief moments I had walked on water. Lucky for me I was still alive, because my Dad would have killed me. It was one of the most indelible moments of my life.

And the Son. The late 60s were a turbulent time for the country, but for the son’s of our nation looking down the barrel of oblivion, it was a matter of life and death. Getting in the water got all the junk out of your head. It was the summer 1968, a beautiful sunny day in Sept, juicy 3-4 foot waves at the creek. Everyone was out, locals, yokels, red necks, peaceniks you name it. There was a group of long hairs that lived in the house right south of the creek; they had these huge 4-ft speakers on the back deck facing the ocean. They turned the speakers toward the surfers and played Big Brother and The Holding Company. " Come-on people now, smile on your brothers, everybody get together try to love one another". Man it was it party! With the light offshore you couldn’t help but inhale. Yahoo! Smiles all around. Keep surfing brothers, cause we don’t know what tomorrow brings. I often wonder how many surfers I nodded to acknowledged or shared waves with that never came back. ‘And it’s one, two, three, what are we fighting for, don’t ask, I don’t give a damn’. I think of them often, mostly during early morning go outs, the bright golden sunrises, the arms that embrace them.

And the Holy Ghost. Surf stories are a tradition with surfers. The longer they go on the bigger they get. Most of them are phantoms of someone’s imagination. This one was I saw with my own eyes, and I recall it today as it happened over thirty years ago. It was the biggest day that I had ever seen at Wander Inn.There were only a couple of surfers out and they looked completely overmatched. The paddle itself was treacherous. Everyone was sitting on the beach, the best surfers I knew were hanging out grinning nervously, hands in they’re pants playing pocket pool. Not making any move to go in. In the horizon a huge macking set thunders in, and one guy is taking off. He catches the wave gets to his feet and just stands there, on the tail, stalling the board. He looks completely clueless, like a total kook that is about to get killed! The wave has now feathered all the way to Round House and this kook hasn’t made a move. At the very last moment, as the peak is just about to swallow him, he whips his board left walks up to the nose stands there as relaxed as he’s eating a sandwich, flies down this feathering mountain of cascading water. The whole beach in unison is on it feet, hooting and hollering! It was the most righteous ride I have ever personally seen. Oh, the kook, uh, his name was Dick Keating.

As it was it the beginning, ever will be world without end. I now live and work in NYC. I don’t surf as often as I like, but like your first girlfriend you can never forget her. My son’s misfortune led me to writing and training the US Surfing Federation Team on their trip to The Dominican Republic. Paolo, my son who I started surfing when he was 12 years old, lives and surfs at Ocean Beach, about 8 years ago he hurt his knee surfing. Looking for conditioning training for surfers to help them avoid injuries revealed very little. Through my resources and with the help of fellow top fitness experts and expert surfers I developed Surf Flex a conditioning and flexibility book for keeping surfers in top shape.

Amen, Keep Surfing!


Paul Frediani
www.surfflex.com