Be careful when you’re surfing in Long Island. Someone may surf all over your face. Photo: G. Peeler
He strolls around without intent but whips his head to and fro to pick up scents and noises, purses his lips when he doesn’t like something, flutters them when he does. His nostrils flare when he looks you in the eye and everything on him rumbles when he speaks. His belly moves involuntarily – reminds me of a water bed – and his face looks like Mr. Potato Head sprinkled with sand. I came up over the dune with him and he mumbled something about walking on the beach and how hard it was and how sweaty it makes him to do just about anything anymore.
“Fucking tourist surfers. I gotta lug 290 pounds up to the beach every day just to deal with this. Is the summer over yet?”
“Not quite.”
“Hit the boardwalk, toss the dice, have a laugh – go to Atlantic City. The recession just seems to create more surfers.”
Reggie dragged his longboard by the leash like a child drags a boogie board and he pancaked the dune grass, pummeling the sand with his feet as he panted and wheezed.
Reggie’s been a local prick for as long as I’ve known him. He cruises around in this El Camino that looks like shit, his big pork chop arm hanging out the window as he stares people down, locals and tourists alike, passing out evil eyes like the town fuckface. Unfortunately, I’ve been running into him most of my life. He’s been a constant on the island for about 25 years and has been knocking heads with people for as long as I’ve known him. When I was just learning to surf, he would sit out on the water and shout names at me and tell me that I looked like an ass-clown. He told us to get off his break and, one day, he almost scared me straight out of the water after revealing a switchblade from inside his wetsuit, twisting it in the air so we could see the sunlight shimmer on it.
In my teens, sharks didn’t scare me nearly as much as Reggie did. If you paddled out on his break, he would scream and holler at you and berate you long enough until the moment was lost, every bit of peace whisked away into the perforations on the surface of the water, nothing but bellowing noises left ringing around your head. I thought of him as a fat anarchist: one of those grossly self-interested gluttons who get their jollies intimidating others and outcasting themselves.
Every break was Reggie’s break; wherever he paddled out, he was the king. I learned to avoid him over the years but still heard stories of his wrath. In 2003, he was arrested in Seaside Heights after knocking out some guy’s teeth. Ironically, the altercation wasn’t his fault but it became his problem and he never quite shook that from his record. After that, the cops on the island always seemed to know where he was and they were up in his business 24/7. They drove by his car before he paddled out and welcomed him upon return. They isolated him, everyone did, and they made him feel small. After that incident, the world had become his jailbait and he was always one mistake away from being voted off the island. He had to check himself so he lost his edge, but Reggie wasn’t completely broken. His threats just became more subtle, expressions more rigid. Before, he would throw gasoline on the fire and laugh about it, now the fire raged within and it was always evident when he glared at you.
We walked on the beach together but I tried to outpace him, his short legs swinging quickly as he tried to keep up, feet initiating squeaks in the soft sand.
“You see that piece of garbage out there?”
“Which one?”
“The one with the long hair. He’s been dropping in on me all week.”
The long-haired guy in the water turned and looked back at the beach and pointed at us, saying something to the grom next to him.
“Still making friends, Reggie?”
“If there was one guy I was gonna let have it, after all these years, it’s that guy out there. He’s sitting out there on this fish that he doesn’t even know how to ride and he’s talking shit, believe-you-me he’s talking shit. He told me he was gonna smack me with a hammer if I didn’t paddle in and I hadn’t said nothing to him!”
“Uh huh.”
“Am I the only one who cares about these bennies infringing on our territory?”
“I just avoid them.”
“Well, someone has to tell them they’re not wanted.”
“Just wait for September, that’s all I have to tell myself.”
“Yeah, right. You’re going to make believe in just about everything, send your pride on nice vacation. A Winnebago in Bermuda – all presence and no purpose.”
I stopped and Reggie kept walking. He muttered and shook his head and his voice trailed off until disappearing completely under the sound of the water rush.
I paddled out, found a nice spot and took quickly to my peace. It was a beautiful summer day on Long Beach Island, chilly temps with a rare August off-shore breeze and chest-high swell. Pelicans swooped down in between sets and the air was dry, clean. I was suddenly interrupted by a tug on my leash. The long-haired guy had paddled over to me and clearly wanted to make a statement.
