The Turn

Hogan’s was my secret getaway during college, where I could get waves without having to hassle the crowds. I never imagined, however, that a turn there would change the course of my career.

A True Tale From The Files

A rule is never to look at your spray. Bad form. So I kept the arc, and didn’t look, and got some hoots from out back.

It was my junior year in college, and I was hip deep in the Political Science program. I was a teaching assistant and ran around in the super gnarly politico group. I helped run The Institute on World Affairs, which hosted ambassadors and diplomats at San Diego State University. I was vice president of the Model United Nations and traveled around the West to compete, swaying an entire room to my point of view. I thought I wanted to be a lawyer.

Was I ever an idiot.

But then I went surfing, and one turn changed everything. For the best? I have to think so.

Hogan’s is a nondescript bit of reef, just a few hundred yards down from the famous lineup of Big Rock in La Jolla. It was my secret getaway during college, where I could get waves without having to hassle the crowds. I was there at least four times a week and had it completely wired. I knew which tides would be best and which swell directions. So, I wasn’t really surprised when I pulled up on that one day and saw other people already in the lineup. The swell was just about right for Hogan’s that day.

I debated whether I should paddle out or keep driving, but then I saw Keith Sasaki, a pro bodyboarder from Hawaii I had known since I was about 13. He took off on a wave and just killed it. So, I parked the trusty Tercel, threw on my spring suit, and hopped off the rocks into the lineup.

Brian Stephan, aka Hank, was shooting from shore.

Hank was a pretty well-known photographer, worked with BodyBoarding Magazine and Surfing Magazine, and was generally a gnarly guy. Crazy junkyard dog Hank.

I couldn’t tell if he was pissed that I crashed the party — a photo shoot for O’Neill — but I really didn’t care. I knew the spot better than these chumps and wanted them to know it. So when a head-high left wedge formed up, I knew where to paddle. I burned off a few guys on the shoulder, came out of a little tube with speed, and laid it over.

It wasn’t my best turn ever. A rule is never to look at your spray. Bad form. So I kept the arc, and didn’t look, and got some hoots from out back.

About 40 minutes later I paddled in. “Hey,” Hank barked. “Who are you?”

I told him, a little intimidated. He nodded and said, “I got a few photos of you. Nothing great. But you should swing by the office and check them out. I’ll sell them to you for cheap. How about 30 bucks?”

The office. That was BodyBoarding Magazine. So I played it cool, and said something like, “Yeah, whatever. If I’m up there, I’ll cruise by and check it out.” He gave me his card — a real Surfing Magazine card! — and I headed home.

Early the next week, I called him and said I would be stopping by. The photos were ready, he said. “Nothing great. Certainly not good enough to run in the magazine,” he said, “but *you* might like them.”

I went into the office, which is up in San Clemente off Pico, close to where I used to live. I tried to be nonchalant. Fat chance. I was stoked just to be there. I think Hank sensed this because he offered to show me around, and I leapt at the idea.

He introduced me to Bill Dellefield, the editor of BodyBoarding Magazine. Hank told Bill I was “pretty good – nothing special though.” Bill looked at me and said, “You ever write anything?”

It was a question that changed my life. “Sure,” I stammered, stalling while I tried to think of something I wrote that I could tell an editor about.

He looked at me for a second, then said, “Well, there’s this contest this weekend, and we need someone to write a story about it. You want it? I’ll pay you ten cents a word.”

Ten cents a word! He was going to PAY me to write! In a magazine! One that had a worldwide circulation of 80,000! “Sure,” I repeated, starting to feel like the village loon.

That one story became dozens. I quickly went from contributing writer to associate editor while still in college. I decided to double major in Political Science and Journalism and settled into the six-year program (much to my parents' chagrin, after all, I was almost ready to graduate). I worked all summer at the magazine for a kingly sum of $700. I met and worked alongside some famous writers. I ate it all up.

Law school was forgotten.