The other main character in this tale is a salty rogue who happens to be both Munoz’s and Edwards’ hero, by the name of Phillip Hoffman, otherwise known to friends and family as “Flippy”. And although I throw his name out lightly with no further explanation, for me it’s no small deal to be my hero’s hero.
An Afternoon Relaxer
I was stressing over an article I was writing when Mickey invited me along for a afternoon cruise with Flippy, and Phil and Mary Edwards on Flippy’s boat. Both Flippy and Munoz had used the same 31’ Quigg catamaran hull mold as a basis for each of their crafts, the difference being that Munoz finished his as a sloop-rigged sail cat, while Flippy’s was an outboard powered, screw-around-the-ocean boat: two hulls with a rigid wing, a large hatch in each hull and that’s it-to idea being to create a veritable floating patio. The entire craft was painted gray with no frills. No varnish. No chrome. At the back of the wing in each corner, two redwood 4” X 4”s stuck straight up about five-feet high. On one of these posts Flippy clamped the outboard motor controls. Fixed to the rear of one hull was a 240 horse Mercury for channel crossing. On the other hull sits a gas efficient 5 horse for in-close “surging”. On the front of the solid wing sits a large fiberglass fuel tank, right where the weight should be. Essentially, it’s a simplified waterman’s dive platform and surf finder, requiring little maintenance, and is well known in these waters.
So anyway....I’m at the office, cracking around the edges after a long day when Mickey comes by, grabs me and takes me down to Dana Point Harbor where the others are waiting on board. Flippy and Mickey appraise my garb: shorts, T-shirt, slaps, and Flippy throws me his wet-weather overalls and a jacket which everyone seems to think I’ll need. Seconds later we’re away from the slip, around the corner of the breakwater and moving north along the shoreline at 5-6 knots.
Without a word being said, each of the others has assumed a position based on performing some duty or on proper weight distribution. Munoz stands at one rear post and spots. Flippy stands Bligh fashion with feet spread, next to me (I’m sitting on the gas tank) at the front of the wing, spotting and barking directions back to Edwards who is at the helm and unfazed by Fippy’s gruff chatter. On this excursion Phil’s the tour guide in spite of Flippy’s constant banter. Mary is next to Phil. Everyone on board but me was fully capable of interchanging tasks, yet this was the natural selection. I am a passenger.
Quickly everyone is settles in and the coast begins to unfold before our eyes. The days have been rainy with sun bursts shafting through the cloud cover and this afternoon is clear and crisp, smoky gray and moody. We round the first corner above Dana Point off a stretch called Dana Strand. A four foot swell is working and the sun is still an inch or two off the horizon. I discover we’re on a surf check. There’s two surfers out, riding a left off the small rock outcropping. They lay on their boards, staring back at us curiously as we motor softly by. Most of the boat traffic from the harbor stays well clear of these rocks. We’re just 50 feet outside the breakers and headed on a quarter angle towards the shore. As a four-foot hump passes under us Edwards guns the motor a bit and as easy as that we’re skimming the crest of the swell. One surfer sits up startled as Phil gives us a little left turn and lets the wave pass beneath the 31’ craft. The light off-shore spray blows back on our faces as the curl winds away from us.
Several minutes later we’re further north, off Salt Creek. Edwards swings back in close to the surf line in a graceful arc. Only one wetsuited surfer out. Hey, it’s John Creed! All right Creed! We kill the motor and slowly drift in silence. The sun is melting on the horizon and twilight deepens. We’re watching for a set. Creed sits there, hands on thighs, without acknowledging our presence. We on the boat and he on his surfboard are sharing the day’s-end quiescence. Mary passes the wine bottle. Creed catches a left and disappears into it. He is out alone in nice little waves and we are stoked for him.
The silence is composed of ocean and wind. Coast highway running behind Salt Creek seems far, far away, its cars moving soundlessly along...the sound of the outboard clanking into gear breaks our reverie and we head further north around the next point. Here, gnarled sandstone bluffs drop straight into the sea. The bluff tops above us are covered with architectural wonders perched shoulder to shoulder (at $50,000 a front foot), new glorious mansions next to modest 1930s vacation cottages, a redwood glass structure cantilevers out next to English Tudor, Spanish stucco next to art deco. Behind the beach front the varied styles climb up the steep hills into the cloud line. Vacant gaps on the slopes are filled with deep blue-green clumps of vegetation and sculpted sandstone outcroppings jut from the ridge line in a continuation of the sea floor’s tilt. I drive past this hill on Coast Highway every day but from here it is a place I’ve not seen before. From land the houses dominate, but from sea it’s apparent that all the manmade structures are merely surface litter. Somehow, that is reassuring.
Rounding the corner into Three Arch Bay, Edwards puts the craft within arm’s reach of the sculpted sandstone cliff and idles back. Flippy barks at Phil about the closeness of the rocks but they each know the game and play it well. We are drifting in the surge line between rock pinnacles and the bluff and I cannot believe my eyes. In a scene straight out of National Geographic or Audubon, nestled in hundreds of slight, weather hollowed depressions in the bluff is a colony of cormorants, each perched precariously in his own nook. There are row upon row of these depressions, each bird sticking out on a 45 degree angle. I am awed; not only by the sight, but by the nearness of this natural spectacle to human development. The others are also mesmerized though they’ve seen it before. Munoz misses his camera. Across the bay, Flippy points out three natural sandstone bridge-arches that give the bay it’s name. I have lived two miles from this very place for six years and have never seen them before.
It’s time to turn for home. Everyone bundles up and takes more secure positions. We will be moving faster now, heading into the chop of a south wind and twilight has passed into dark. It will be a little rough and wet but we’re all just a bit euphoric. Edwards is still at the controls, guiding the agile craft through the elements with the same subtle grace that marks his surfing and we are all along for the ride, one I will not forget, shared with some unique people...who happen to be my heroes and my hero’s hero.
This piece was written in 1977 by Steve Pezman and published in Surfer magazine. Since then, Flippy has built a new, grander boat that serves the same no-frills philosophy, and Edwards has built the latest in a Spartan but purposeful series of his own personal play craft. These days, my wife Debbee and I publish The Surfer’s Journal, from offices in San Clemente, CA. For info check www.surfersjournal.com
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