“What for?”
“Let’s go inside. I’ll show you.”
Late that night Casey wanders his little clapboard house in Laguna Canyon, flip-flops around his backyard, checking the closed-for-the-night hibiscus, the abundant sage, the tangerines, and the roses. He’s got on his Muhammad Ali robe and a cup of herbal tea in one hand. Bette is hard asleep.
He’s taken to this routine since Bette got here, his ears tuned to the cars out on Woodland. Not many this time of night. But he’s out here for Bette, because he doesn’t trust Jimmy or his people no matter how headed for prison they are. Any guy who’d have his own daughter beat up is capable of a whole lot more than that.
Not on my watch, thinks Casey. I’m dumb but not that dumb.
Finally he knows that he should make the call. It’s time. It’s past time. It’s not in time. Fudge … who knows what it is or isn’t?
“Yo, bro,” Brock answers. “’Sup?”
“I know you burned the boats.”
“Had you for a minute, didn’t I? Thank you for believing I didn’t, at least for a while. You kept me out of jail.”
“I wish you hadn’t lied to me.”
“It was for your own good, Case. I’m not sorry I did.”
“I am. Hey, Brock, there’s a great big magenta ball out in the Atlantic. They’re calling it the Hell Swell. Headed for Nazaré.”
“I’ve been tracking it.”
“Interested?”
“I’m in. The mission is broke. I have to win some dough. You?”
“Bette and me are going if it holds.”
“You’re the man, Case. You’re the greatest big-wave surfer in the world.”
“Well, for now.”
“Everything’s just for now, bro. See you tomorrow. It’s supposed to rain.”
43
By noon, the Breath of Life Thanksgiving Feast has drawn a hundred people to Brock’s behemoth cinderblock church in Aguanga.
The day is sullen and gray, with an unusually configured storm expected to hit late in the afternoon: an Alaskan system coming down from the northwest, set to meet an atmospheric river of warm tropical moisture streaming over the California Coast from San Francisco to Mexico. NOAA says the merging fronts are ripe for a bomb cyclone, a sudden drop in atmospheric pressure that can bring extraordinary amounts of rain in a very short time. The atmospheric river will be carrying five times the flow of the Mississippi. Snow above seven thousand feet. Tornados possible along the coast and inland valleys. Very unusual this early in the year. Yet another example of climate change from greenhouse gases, they say. Man-made calamity. The new normal.
Brock’s buddies at Surfline are tracking the storm, of course, telling him that it won’t hit Aguanga until late afternoon or evening, but it’s going to be “nuclear.” They’ve nicknamed it the Pineapple Bomb Express.
Brock has flooded his media and the church web page with Thanksgiving Feast invitations to anyone who is “hungry, ready for the breath of life, ready to help those who need help.” Roughly a thousand people claimed to be coming. But the enthused “we’ll be there” messages from California, Oregon, Texas, Arizona, and Nevada haven’t panned out.
He’s planned to feed five hundred souls, but more like a fifth of that are here. The storm, he thinks. But shit, if it rains we’ll just go inside.
Where the church stoves and rented kitchen ovens are turning out pots of stews and vegan casseroles of rice, broccoli, cauliflower, and corn; ham and bean soup; chili, both spicy and mild. Go Dogs—some wearing their operational black-and-Day-Glo green T-shirts—serve with long-handled spoons onto outstretched paper plates and bowls, many of them doubled up for quantity.
Outside in the gravel churchyard, Brock, Jen, Juana, and some of the Go Dogs have set up a hundred folding chairs around ten rented tables.
A shuffling crowd of thanksgivers serve themselves from the chafing dishes—carne asada, fried chicken, a tuna casserole, vegan kabobs, and five enormous roasted turkeys carved by Mahina.
There are food trucks semicircled in the churchyard—Teddy the Greek, Taco Motion, Wok On, Curry in a Hurry, Thai Guys—but the lines are short.
Since midmorning, Brock has been watching the vehicles coming into the big dirt parking lot just beyond the churchyard, their windshields and tires caked with dust. And the three-wheelers, travel trailers, and dirt bikes. Bicyclists. And a motorcycle club of old guys on growling Harleys.
Anza Valley locals on foot.
A small multitude of people in:
Jeans and sweatshirts, athletic shoes and work boots.
Cowboy hats and western wear.
Bright sports merch: MLB, NFL, NBA, FIFA.
Dickies and flannels.
A family in faux deerskin tops, moccasins, and feathered headbands.
A family dressed as pilgrims.
My motley congregation, thinks Brock.
From his surfboard pulpit—set up on a raised stage facing the churchyard audience and food trucks—Brock looks on with minor satisfaction. Maybe closer to two hundred people, but still, his best crowd ever. He and the Dogs can take the leftovers down to the San Diego homeless shelters. It’s taken a good hunk of money to finance all this—the Random Access Foundation declining to sponsor a Thanksgiving extravaganza—citing the tech downturn and early European mistreatment of indigenous New World peoples.
