The devil is alive and well and living in New Haven, Connecticut. Didn’t Jim Morrison say that, or something to that effect before he got arrested? I don’t think that’s the quote, but it’s generally how I feel about the Constitution/Nutmeg State. Nutmeg State? What the shit?

Maybe it’s the fact that there’s no surf that makes it seem like purgatory.

Here I am, mildly hungover on this Sunday morning. No waves back home in Rhode Island so I made the two hour drive to Craigslist Kevin’s house. The aged, faded pink paint chipping and peeling off the façade. Dilapidated, unkept, and out of place in this ring of hell. This cursed and unfortunate stronghold of the upper-middle class. White picket fence dreams, two kids, one dog, mortgage payments, divorce, and murder/suicide. Bored housewives on methylphenidate to make the day interesting.

I found Craigslist Kevin on Craigslist, obviously. His post stated that he had over a hundred copies of Surfer/Surfing mags from the golden age, mid ‘90s to early ‘00s that he was looking to get rid of. He didn’t want to just chuck them out but was giving them away for free to whoever wanted them. His post was three months old. I was the first person to respond.

Kevin notices me through the window and motions for me to come inside. I was really hoping this would be a quick, painless, and outdoor exchange. Nevertheless, I enter his abode and we greet each other with an awkward fist bump. Kevin looks old, he could be in his fifties but looks to be in his sixties if not older. Tired and weathered. Beat down by relentless storms of life and being forced to reside in this waste of an excuse for nothing more than a freeway connecting New York City and Boston, (Rhode Island being the small, often overlooked Shangri La between Sodom and Ghomorrah).

Kevin tells me he just got back from church. Kevin has obviously been drinking. Evidence in the form of assorted empty beer cans litter the living room. He doesn’t seem to discriminate, Coors, Bud, Miller, the usual suspects. The smell inside is stale and musty and there seems to be a thin layer of dust covering most surfaces. There is a lot of Jesus however. Framed portraits of The Messiah, torn cushions bearing his likeness, even a small replica of Rio’s Christ the Redeemer statue on the mantle. Too much Jesus. Don’t get me wrong, in the immortal words of the Doobie Brothers: “Jesus is just alright with me,” especially since he blessed me with the opportunity to slip digits into Tineal Marais in a tent on a church mission camping trip all those pubescent years ago. Sweet girl, we still keep in touch. Still, too much Jesus.

Kevin and I exchange a few pleasantries and before I can pick up the box containing the mags, he asks if I want a beer. Please, God no. Don’t do this to me. I can’t wait to get out of here, the revenge of the cheap Shiraz coming on slow, sickly, and anxious this morning.

“Sure!” I exclaim to my own surprise. What am I doing? Kevin has already cracked a golden Coors Banquet tin and is handing it to me with a grin on his worn face. Why not, one won’t hurt. I might actually feel better.

He leads me out to his overgrown backyard, complete with weeds and rusted scrap metal heap. We take a seat on dirty old lawn chairs and take in the weak, midday, late winter sun which actually pairs fairly well with the warm beer. We flip through his old mags and get to talking surf. Over the next few hours we polish off multiple warm beers, Kevin regaling me with tales of his past, his journey, how he and his love once travelled the world, surfing, camping, hitchhiking, fucking, fighting. Both his love and surf stories came to melancholic ends but he seemed glad to relive and share them with an interested stranger.

At one point Kevin went inside to retrieve a thick, grubby scrapbook. Paging through the photo filled album, I’m in disbelief at first but on closer inspection it’s undeniably young Kevin. His now ash grey, wispy hair, pictured then lashing behind him as a golden mane. His frail arms, shown strong, vascular, and glistening in sunlight and salt water. He’s riding a very short, very bright teardrop shaped board and absolutely tearing the lip off of a blue head-high section.

Over the page, posing clad in short shorts with the same board, a beige VW Beetle and a gorgeous, young and bright eyed Lolita with caramel skin. Another spread of Kevin this time crouching extremely low into a squat, hips between his knees, threading through a turquoise cylinder at high speed judging by the blur. I’m awestruck.

Back at home later the same evening, buzz of warm beer fading, I’m glad I met Kevin. I’m listening to the best ‘90s punk playlist I can find on Spotify and am transported back to gromhood in bright neon flashbacks through the mags. The boards all longer and slimmer. There’s Kelly with a full head of hair. Reef and Black Flys hawking bronzed tits and ass alongside sandals and sunnies respectively. Hot Buttered and Sunny Garcia surfing on PlayStation 2. Andy alive and obliterating a heavy section, big, bold, black MCD diamond on the nose of his sharp Arakawa. Quiksilver – ‘If you can’t rock ‘n’ roll don’t fuckin’ come.’ The essence of cool. No quarter asked from the establishment and none given.

I’m glad I made the drive and I met Kevin and I’m thankful for the fresh nostalgic fire he gave me through his stories and these old magazines that nobody wanted. Mostly, I’m just glad to be out of fucking Connecticut. –Joel van Wyk.