Ever since I can remember every Saturday morning I'd wake up to either The Beach Boys or The Beatles blaring through the house as we reluctantly did our Saturday jobs. Dad would sing along happily and dance through the house filled with memories of surfing. He'd often recount all the different exciting parts of surfing. The perfect wave, making it into the "pipe", going over the falls and getting stuck in the laundry-machine attached to the surfboard. He'd tell us about the riptides, the sea turtles popping up like dinosaurs rising out of the murky waters. He'd tell us about his friends little brother who could lure the girls to the bonfires by playing the guitar so well. Dad loved to surf. He did it non-stop growing up. His hair would bleach on the top from when he'd shake the water from it. He'd skip morning classes to go surf all the time. I loved hearing about it and imagining him out there tearing it up. I find myself imagining it still; I hope they have waves in heaven.
