Get It While You Can

Gordon ‘Grubby’ Clark at the Clark Foam factory in the 1970s. Photo: Bev Morgan

The surf was up. Even though he wanted to get some work done at the blank warehouse, we conned ‘Grubby’ into going surfing with us. Rory and I squeezed him in between us in the cab of my pickup, and we cruised down to the parking lot at Ala Moana.

It was full-on Pole Sets and we could hardly wait to get out there. Grubby was pretty game and followed us out between the parked boats, over the outside break wall, and out into the lineup at the Bowl. Actually, he had done quite a bit of surfing at Ala Moana long before Rory was even a gleam in his father’s eye and while I was probably going through my terrible twos.

Back in the early 1950s, Grubby had come over to Hawai’i and had gotten a job from Tom Blake reglassing and repairing a bunch of old paddleboards and surfboards. It was to be his first job in the surfboard industry. In a way, I guess we owe Tom Blake a debt of gratitude for not only his own contributions but more so for the tremendous contributions Clark Foam has made to the modern surfboard. Grubby might not have become interested in surfboards without that first job from Blake.

I remember a snapshot that Bud Browne had pinned up on the wall of the little room above a garage where he lived in Costa Mesa. It was of a skinny guy on a surfboard with a small gaff-rigged sail that was operated from a prone position. The photo’s caption read, “Gordon Clark sailing at Ala Moana.” It was taken during that first trip to Hawai’i. Grubby was definitely ahead of the windsurfing craze that would hit thirty years later, which he would also play a hand in developing.

But today it was a solid south swell, the waves were pumping, and Rory and I had only one thing on our minds. So we sat up in the lineup and waited for the first set to come our way.

The Bowl at Ala Moana is no easy wave; in fact it can be a lurching, sucking out, vicious devil that can hold a surfer underwater for a lot longer than is healthy. It was all that today, made worse by the slightly onshore Kona wind that often accompanied the arrival of a big south swell. The pushing wind made the already fast-breaking wave break even faster. Poor Grubby with his favorite 9’4” named ‘Baby’ was having a hell of a time. Baby was just a little too long for the quick takeoffs. Grubby and Baby kept getting stuck in the lip as the wave lurched up right next to the pole.

Grubby at Kawaihae Harbor on the Big Island. Photo: John Russell

The pole is a navigation aid to boaters, marking the edge of the channel. It also works for surfers, defining the takeoff zone on big south swells. On most of his waves, even before he could get to his feet, Grubby was thrown over the falls and into the washing machine wring cycle. But he kept swimming in, retrieving his board, paddling out, and going for it again and again. Rory and I kept looking at each other, both cringing every time Grubby took another beating, and wondering if maybe we had really screwed up making him come out here with us. The Kona winds were making a mess of the waves anyway, and after about an hour, we all decided to call it quits, go in, and look somewhere else.

Back in the truck, we thought we would go take a look at Diamond Head, as the surface conditions would be less windy up there. From the cliff lookout there is a great view of the surf from Black Point all the way down to Tongs.

As soon as we pulled up, we could see a pretty good set rolling through at Brown’s, and Grubby immediately said, “That’s our spot! I went out with you guys at your place, now you have come out to mine.”

Well, we couldn’t argue with that and, besides, that set didn’t look too bad. So we drove down by Black Point, parked in front of my friend F. William Littlejohn’s house, and walked down the road to the beach.

The paddle, although a long way out, was easy and pretty scenic as well, with all the beautiful homes that line the beachfront. Doris Duke’s famous mansion is perched on the Diamond Head side of Black Point, with a spectacular view of the ocean and all the surf spots in front. There is a pretty good view of her sprawling home when looking in from out in the water.

Brown’s is a great wave but needs a big south swell before it will begin to break, as it is a deep-water spot. On the right swell, it can be reminiscent of a south shore Sunset Beach peak at ten to twelve feet. On a few occasions in the past, I had found myself caught inside a stacked-up set, wishing I were back on the beach instead of in the path of the thick steamroller about to mow me down. Brown’s could be heavy and very scary because the deep water meant long hold-downs after a wipeout.

Grubby had not waited for us at all but just left us paddling slowly out on our shortboards while he blazed straight toward the peak. As we got to the lineup, we watched him ride a pretty nice wave past us. He gave us the sign as he went by, arm up and middle finger extended.

The next wave looked good, and both Rory and I paddled hard to catch it. With our little boards, we just weren’t moving fast enough, the wave wasn’t steep enough, and the swell rolled by underneath us. We tried for the next smaller wave and the same thing happened; we just couldn’t get into the wave. We paddled back outside and joined Grubby who was going on about how great the waves were. We hadn’t caught any yet so we didn’t have anything to add. Another set loomed up on the outside, and all three of us paddled for what looked like the biggest wave. Again Rory and I were denied, while Grubby easily caught the wave and rode off for another great ride.

“What are we doing wrong?” I asked Rory, who just shrugged since he couldn’t figure it out either. Grubby paddled back from his wave, beaming, and told us what a good wave he just rode. He proceeded out to his lineup position way outside, while Rory and I moved further inside thinking we could catch the waves there. The next set came, Grubby stroked right into the best wave and we floundered once again.

As he paddled back by us, Grubby yelled out, “Hey, what are you guys doing? Catch some waves, they’re really good.”

We both muttered something not fit to print that just made Grubby giggle. After all he was the only one catching any waves, and here we were, two supposedly hot-shot surfers, and we couldn’t even catch a wave. Rory and I tried everything we could think of, but the waves were just getting harder to catch. I did finally manage to catch one wave, stand up, and ride for about twenty feet before my board just bogged out and the wave rolled on without me. Rory was red in the face with frustration and I probably was about the same. Meanwhile, Grubby was catching everything he paddled for, and getting long, gliding rides all the way in.

Finally, after about an hour of complete and total exasperation on our part and some pretty good surfing from Grubby, he announced, as he paddled by us into yet another wave that we couldn’t catch, “I’m tired, I’m going in. I’ll see you guys on the beach.” Well, we couldn’t go in without catching a wave, so Rory and I stayed out there for another thirty minutes struggling and flailing, until at last we had no choice but to surrender.

“I think we are going to have to paddle back to the beach, I can’t catch a goddamn wave to save my life,” I whined to Rory.

He just looked at me with anguish written all over his face. Both of us had been completely humiliated by the surf out at Brown’s. The worst part was that it had been witnessed by Grubby who, we knew, would never let us live it down. So with our tails between our legs, we started the long paddle back in to the beach.

Walking up the beach, Grubby was nowhere to be seen. We didn’t particularly want to see him anyway since we knew the ribbing we were going to get from him. All of a sudden, as we approached the right-of-way up from the beach, we heard him say, “Hey you guys, up here.”

Looking around we saw Grubby sitting on the veranda of the beautiful beachfront home we had walked by a thousand times going surfing here at Black Point. It was an immaculate white colonial style home surrounded by a manicured green lawn looking straight out at the ocean. It was just across the right-of-way from Doris Duke’s mansion and, while not as opulent or as large, this home was just as elegant and regal in an understated way.

Rory went into complete and total shock. His jaw almost hit the table as he watched Grubby chew up the huge hunk of cheese.

Grubby was sitting there with an older couple, and they invited the two of us to come in. Rory and I were dripping wet in our surf trunks, surfboards under our arms, sunburned, unshaven, and feeling a little bedraggled after our episode out in the surf. The wrought iron gate swung open and Grubby waved us in. There was an elegantly dressed older gentleman with him, welcoming us into his home.

“Dr. Stevens, this is Gerry Lopez and Rory Russell, two of the best surfers in Hawai’i. You might have heard of them, although they aren’t as famous as your ex-son-in-law was; neither of them have made the cover of Sports Illustrated yet. You guys, this is Phil Edwards’s first wife’s father,” Grubby said by way of introduction.

We walked through the gate and vine-covered arbor onto the veranda, where we were introduced to an equally elegant Mrs. Stevens. She kindly asked us to please sit down and join them. Would we like something to drink, she asked. But we were both in such shock to be inside a home like this that she had to ask us a second time. Rory asked for a Coca-Cola, and I think I asked if she had any juice.

She brought our drinks and offered us some cheese and crackers that were already sitting on the table. I noticed that my orange juice glass was solid crystal; I hoped in my nervousness and dripping-wet condition that I wouldn’t drop it. Grubby, of course, was completely at ease with the Stevens and they were with him; it was obvious that they were old friends. Grubby went on to explain how he had been the best man at their first daughter Heidi’s wedding to Phil Edwards. Meanwhile, I couldn’t help noticing Rory hungrily eyeing the cheese and crackers.

Sitting on a fine china plate with a sterling silver cheese knife was a big ball of some fancy soft cheese covered in crushed nuts and surrounded by tiny gourmet crackers. I knew Rory, who dearly loved to eat, was dying of hunger because we hadn’t eaten all day. I guess Mrs. Stevens noticed as well, since she pushed the plate toward Rory and suggested he try the cheese.

Rory needed no further urging as he put a little dab of cheese on one of the crackers and popped it into his mouth. I prayed that he would chew with his mouth closed for once and wouldn’t spray the table or the Stevens with chewed food. He was on his best behavior and even stuck his little finger out when he took a sip of his Coca-Cola. The conversation went on around Rory while he attempted to be discreet, continuing to dab the cheese on the little crackers and put them into his mouth.

The size of the crackers, the small amount of cheese they would hold, and the newfound manners, all forced Rory to eat at a moderate pace. I was kind of laughing to myself because I knew he was barely scratching the surface of his eternally insatiable hunger. He would have liked to devour the whole ball of cheese and could easily have done it in a couple of bites. The surroundings, however, dictated a higher degree of etiquette and he was able to restrain himself.

Grubby must have been paying attention to Rory’s predicament. He suddenly reached across the table and pulled the plate toward himself. Taking up the knife while still carrying on his conversation with Dr. and Mrs. Stevens, he started to cut into the ball of cheese—all of this under the close scrutiny of Rory who was aghast that the cheese plate was now out of his control.

Turning his attention to Rory, Grubby proceeded to slice the softball-sized chunk of cheese in half. To Rory’s complete horror, Grubby took half the ball, put it on one of the tiny little crackers and somehow managed to stuff the whole thing into his mouth. Rory went into complete and total shock. His jaw almost hit the table as he watched Grubby chew up the huge hunk of cheese.

I bit a hole in my lip to keep from laughing out loud when Grubby looked Rory right in the eye and said, “Get it while you can, kid.”

I thought Rory would faint on the spot; the look on his face was one neither Grubby nor I will ever forget. For anyone else, it would have been as if the Dalai Lama himself had made a life-changing personal pronouncement.

“Get it while you can, kid,” would change Rory’s life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness for all time. Grubby would continue to issue choice one-liners, with his wry sense of humor, perfectly timed delivery, and profound implications, to everyone who ever crossed his path. Most would go over the heads or below the belts, but perhaps none would have such a lasting effect as the one that day to Rory.