Ode to the Palisades
The Cultural Collateral Damage of the Palisades Fire
Even though I left my father’s house in Pacific Palisades in 1983, moved to Australia and never lived there again, the Palisades will be a part of me until the day I die. One of the reasons I felt so comfortable in Australia was that Palisadians are LA’s Larrakins (Australian slang for a mischievous, rowdy, but good-hearted person who acts with disregard for social or political conventions). My Palisades elders—Lance Carson, the Aaberg brothers, Jim Ganzer, Robbie Dick, Roger McGrath, George Trafton (and too many others to name)—set a very high bar for us.
All of them surfed great, had impeccable style in and out of the water, drove fast cars fast, solved problems with their fists when necessary, traveled the world to surf, and from Pali, to Samo, to Uni, to Westlake, to Marymount they could find their way into the hearts of girls, not to mention any party, concert, or club. However, when the sun came up the next morning, they were duty bound to paddle out like it never happened.
I always knew that one day I would outgrow Santa Monica Bay. As a young boy, Surfer, Surfing, Australian Surfing World, and the World Book Encyclopedia were my books of dreams. This was where I heard the first verse of the Siren Song that lured me into the perfect, sharky waves of Australia, shamed me into crossing the North Shore rubicon, and living a life of exploration and adventure in and out of the water.
However, like a Salmon swimmming back to its home stream to spawn, I always returned to Santa Monica Bay. On my way to Asia or during book tours, I always stopped in LA. I made time for an early morning run/swim/run, or a quick surf on a borrowed longboard. Reconnecting with my old friends in my ancestral waters always grounded and prepared me for whatever lay ahead.
Less than a month ago, I drove a friend from North Carolina through Pacific Palisades. First, I showed him my dad’s old house at 1076 Corsica Dr.
This was where I lived during junior high and high school—where my Baja missions started and ended, girls surreptitiously came and went up the staircase to my room, parties raged, and pot plants were harvested and lovingly processed. Today, the only reminder of me is the curb that is covered with my 40 year old left over resin.
From Corsica we followed my old skateboard route down the hill I once got the speed wobbles at 20 or 30 mph, face planted, and knocked off my braces. From Amalfi we stopped at the top of Mesa Road where I first checked the surf through the Eucalyptus trees. After we descended down into Rustic Canyon, we took a detour down Latimer Road. I showed him where, at 16, I was the victim of a “bump and run” car jacking. Although the perp got my dad’s Mercedes 450 SEL, I hopped into his stolen Cadillac, and gave chase. He finally lost me at Sunset and Bundy by crossing the double yellow and passing cars in the oncoming traffic. When I returned to 1076 Corsica in the stolen Caddy, I said to my dad, “You’ll never guess what happened, but I hope you like Cadillacs.”
Next, we stopped at our other old house, 8 Latimer Road, right across the street from Rustic Canyon Park, where I played baseball, basketball, football, and skateboarded with all my friends from Canyon School.
For a huge part of my childhood, it was the site of athletic triumphs and tragedies, fist fights with friends, and early games of truth or dare.
Then to 444 East Rustic Road where my ten year self kept a surfboard so big that it required me and another person to carry it down Channel Road, past the Golden Bull, Natural Progression Surfboards, the SS Friendship, and under the PCH. The final leg took me past the volleyball courts that produced some of the greatest players in the world and to the very ordinary beach break where generations of Palisades surfers learned respect and how to pull into the barrel.
There will be time for blame and recriminations, but that time is not now. My heart goes out to all Palisadians—rich, poor, young, old, democrat, republican, OGs and recent blow ins. I don’t know what, if any of this, is left. I fear that in addition to the unimaginable material losses, we have also lost a culture.
In a sad postscript to this story, a friend just send me a news article about a “harrowing scene” on the iconic Pacific Coast Highway early Wednesday morning. “A man, his body severely burned and most of his clothes incinerated, was found stumbling on the side of the road. He is now fighting for his life.” The man was George Trafton. Today he is undergoing surgery and skin grafts at UCLA and my thoughts are with him.