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NEW MOON RISING WE MEET FOSTER, WADES YOUNGER BROTHER, THE SURFER

April 28, 2013 at 7:59 pm 1 comment

Chapter Three

Santa Monica
Foster awoke and gazed into the captivating face of the woman sleeping next to him, partially obscured by long tousled blond hair. His eyes went from the small up-turned nose to her full lips he gently kissed while she slept. They were both naked and had spent the night making love in his tiny Santa Monica apartment. He let his eyes wander the length of her body, the small firm breasts down to the tangled triangle of blond hair to the long legs and delicate feet. She began to stir. He continued to appreciate her body as she awoke.
“How’s my surfer stud?” she mumbled.
* * * *
After high school, Foster made his way down to the Los Angeles area, found an apartment, a real dive in Culver City, and began looking for a job. He checked out the trendy restaurants in Westwood and landed a job as busboy. Eventually he moved up to the wait staff. Easily making friends, he immediately became popular with his coworkers, going out for beers after work and organizing trips to the beach on days off. A career in the restaurant industry was not his plan. The truth was, he had no plan. He just figured he would enjoy southern California and see where life took him. Most of his fellow employees had definite plans. Most of them were ‘really actors’ working at the restaurant until their big break arrived. Foster thought to himself, “I may not have a plan, but at least I’m realistic.” Slowly, he worked his way up to one of the better restaurants where the fare was expensive and the tips good. Along the way, at every establishment, would-be actors and surrounded him.
After closing time one Friday night in June, Foster was wrapping things up and preparing the tables for tomorrow’s opening when Ted, one of his waiter friends walked over to him. “Hey Foster, want to go try some surfing tomorrow at Malibu Beach?” Ted asked. “You already have the looks of a surfer; with a board under your arm the chicks will cream their wet suits.”
“Tell me, Ted,” Foster joked, “can you surf or do you just act like a surfer, every pun intended?”
“Hey dude, come out tomorrow and see for yourself. Meet me at the entrance to Malibu Pier at ten.”
“Okay, Ted, see you tomorrow.”
Ted had borrowed a wet suit for Foster. The southern California waters were usually cold and surfing without a wet suit would be agony. Ted surfed for a while, then came in and gave Foster a few pointers and let him give it a try.
After continuously falling off the board, Foster finally got in a ride. He was hooked. For the next few months, he met Ted every Saturday morning to surf. He bought a used board and wet suit and surfed every chance he had days off, weekends and holidays would find him at the beach. He soon passed Ted in his surfing abilities, which didn’t take much, and became a member of the Malibu surfing crowd. To be closer to the ocean, he found a small apartment in Santa Monica. It was actually a makeshift apartment. The woman living on the second floor owned the apartment; the first floor was once two apartments, now there were four. With the addition of some walls and minuscule bathrooms, the owner’s income increased. Foster doubted if what she had done was up to code, but it offered him a cheap place near the ocean, so he signed the lease.
One Saturday morning, the owner of a local surf shop approached Foster. “Hey man, I’ve been watching you surf. You’re awesome dude! Would you be interested in working at my shop and giving some private lessons?”
For some time now, his waiter’s job was getting in the way of his new love—surfing. This offer was a dream come true.
“How much you paying?”
“Can’t pay much more than minimum wage at the store, but you can really score on the lessons.”
“Let me think about it. I’ll give you a call.”
The men exchanged phone numbers and Foster left for home. By the time he reached his apartment his mind was made up. He called the restaurant and quit. He knew this was an impulsive move. He was making good money but saw no future for himself as a waiter. In his mind he saw himself jumping from one job with no future that he hated, to another job with no future that he would love. He called the owner of the shop and said he’d take the job.
“Welcome aboard, see you Monday at nine.”
Foster learned a lot about the boards he was selling, and with a generous employee’s discount, was able to buy a real beauty. If he was going to teach he figured he should have the best equipment.
The local rich clientele, long on money and short on ability, began to seek out Foster for lessons, resulting in more time in the ocean than behind the counter. This suited him fine, more ocean time and a bigger paycheck.
Foster was opening up the shop on a Tuesday morning when a little red Mercedes convertible pulled into the lot. Behind the wheel sat a stunningly beautiful blond in her mid twenties. As she made her way to the counter, Foster noticed that her outfit of halter-top and cut-off jeans left little to the imagination. “ I saw your sign in the window for surfing lessons. Where’s the instructor?”
“You’re talking to him. How may I help you?”
“Hi, I’m Heather Bonner and I’m just dying to learn to surf. My family is new to the area. We just moved from Colorado. I wanted to spend a lot of time at the beach and get some exercise too. So I thought, why not surf?”
Heather admired the young man behind the counter. He was tall, slim, with the wide shoulders of an athlete. His deeply tanned face and sun-bleached hair spoke of hours spent outdoors.
“We can start lessons tomorrow at one,” Foster suggested.
“Sounds great,” said Heather. “I need a board and wet suit and whatever else you can think of.”
Foster spent the next hour going over the qualities of various styles of surfboards and equipped Heather with all she would need.
“Since you’ll be taking lessons here, you can store your stuff in back. See you tomorrow.”
Foster appreciated her firm little butt as she left the store. Things were looking up.
* * * *
Heather was something less than a natural when it came to surfing. Foster thanked the surfer gods and knew it would take a few lessons to get Heather standing on the board and riding the southern California waves. Unless a storm was off the coast, the waves were good but not the best, affording perfect conditions to learn to surf.
Slight body contact was needed between instructor and student during the lessons. Foster found himself making contact as much as possible and Heather didn’t seem to mind. During weekdays the beach was practically deserted. They had privacy and a chance to get to know each other. They usually sat on the sand to rest after a lesson and Heather would tell Foster about her family.
“Dad’s an investment banker. When we moved here we bought a house in the Pacific Palisades. Mom’s mostly bored. Her major occupation is trying to establish herself in the Pacific Palisades social set. My younger sister, Nancy, goes to a private high school and when she’s not at school she’s spending money.”
Foster also learned that Heather had an apartment in Westwood and was planning to enter graduate school at UCLA sometime in the future and study art.
Heather had learned about Foster’s family during their conversations, they all seemed so motivated. “So what are your plans Foster?”
“Work at the shop and teach surfing.”
“No, after that.”
“I haven’t given it much thought.”
* * * *
Heather’s big day finally arrived; she had an awesome ride.
“I guess you just graduated,” Foster said as she made her way through the surf to the sand where he stood.
Heather put down her board walked up to Foster and gave him a hug. “Thanks for being such a great teacher.” The hug was followed by a lingering kiss. Heather could feel Foster’s response through her suit.
“Let’s celebrate!”
“Can’t, have to work till five.”
“Tell you what. I’ll meet you at your apartment about seven.”
“That’d be great.” Foster wrote down his address, phone number for her, and went back to work.
“What’s that stupid grin for?” asked his boss as Foster entered the shop.
“I think the surfer gods are smiling on me,” replied Foster.
* * * *
As Foster drove down his street, he could see Heather’s car parked near his apartment building. “Can I have a YES,” whispered Foster.
Foster drove Heather to one of the local seafood restaurants near Santa Monica Pier. After dinner, they walked down to the pier to watch the kids on the amusement rides. The end of the pier was the territory of fishermen. In the darkness, a few men stood watch over their poles, waiting for a school of mackerel to happen by. But for now, their lines rocked gently back and forth with the motion of the waves.
Foster did not want this moment to end. Taking Heather’s hand, he said, “Let’s go for a walk on the beach.”
Hand in hand, they left the fishermen to their night’s work, walked past the kids on the merry-go-round and stepped onto the wide expanse of sand. Removing their shoes, they walked south away from the lights of the pier into the darkness. After a while, they stopped to gaze out at the ocean. Heather put her head on Foster’s shoulder and sighed, “It’s such a beautiful night. I wish it would never end.”
She then turned to Foster, looked for a moment into his eyes and they kissed, and then kissed again. They lingered at the water’s edge a while longer then headed back past the pier to Foster’s pickup.
While they were walking, Heather asked, “So Foster, come here often with dates?”
“Don’t date much.”
This was the response she wanted to hear. When they arrived back at Foster’s apartment, he opened the door and helped Heather out of his old Toyota pickup. As she walked to her car, Foster hollered, “Guess I’ll see you around.” The disappointment in his voice was obvious and caused Heather to smile. A smile he couldn’t see.
She walked over to her car, opened the trunk and retrieved a small case. She turned and held it up. “Overnight bag.”
Now it was Foster’s turn to smile.

Entry filed under: MELANGE BOOKS, NEW MOON RISING, PUBLISHED WORKS, Walt Trizna, Walt Trizna's Stories. Tags: MELANGE BOOKS, NEW MOON RISING, Ring of Fire, surfing, Walt Trizna.