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    Girding himself and shrugging off this latest cop-out, he moved on. The hot sand sifted into his loafers, the hurly burly of the Pier greeted his eyes and ears a scant few hundred yards to his left. But he had no time to muse over the carousel, nor the Playland Arcade and the Rollercoaster with its screeching passengers at the farthest end. At this point it was all as amorphous as the signs, omens and the dusty old truck.
    The offshore wind began to pick up again, blowing off the land out to sea. As he focused solely on the water, he noticed the rolling beach-break, one swell catching up with another forming a low, long line. His gaze took in the little kids flopping on their boogie boards directly ahead, barreling through the froth and scurrying towards him onto the sandbank. At a distance beyond the kids, a gaggle of Chicano teens were splashing and dunking each other.   
    Shielding his eyes from the glare, he finally caught sight of a figure in a wet suit far to his right, paddling out on his stomach toward the surfing area. In the haze it was hard to tell exactly, but the surfer appeared to be shifting position and sitting up as a new wave crested. Then he stood when the wave broke, dropped down the open wave face, lodged himself somewhere in the hollow of the wall of water, disappeared in a rush of foam and reappeared momentarily further out.
    Another wait; more minutes passed. Ben scanned the surfing area again. Finally, a second figure appeared closer by, as if accepting the challenge. He was clad only in white swimming trunks, knees bent, crouching low on a spear-shaped board. For a time, the wind seemed to blow harder, holding up the swells and freezing them in place.  
    Grinning, Ben glanced back in the direction of the borrowed Prelude but realized he no longer had a camera. It was doubtless clutched in Aunt June’s hands as she snapped away at a new listing, while here a true photo op was going to waste.
    In that same moment, he thought he heard something. Though the sound mingled with the myriad of other noises, the grinding gears made him wince. Obviously, it had to be the old pickup. Scanning the line of vehicles, he could barely make out the outline of the weathered tarp covering the truck-bed as it lurched away. How he managed to hear the gear shifts or catch the fleeting outline of a tarp cover and why he even bothered to notice was beyond him.
    Turning around, he again caught sight of the sinewy form that belonged to C.J. Rodriguez, drawing even closer, banking off the wave’s lip, in the pocket, cutting back and slicing across. Before the cresting whitewater fell on top of him, C.J. went the guy in the wet suit one better and flung his arms out wide, the haze glinting off his straggly black hair.
    It was a goofy move, greeted by wild applause from the splashing Chicano teens.  This, apparently, was his current mood. And this is what Ben would have to contend with if he had any hope of getting him to play back-up.  
    Instantly, there C.J. was, on his belly like the kids, paddling in Ben’s direction through the little breakers until he emerged. He flashed that toothy smile of his as his tangerine surfboard trailed by his ankle like a spent fish. The gang of Chicanos rushed forward and surrounded him, slapped his palms and dispersed, yelping the chorus to some hit Latino tune.  
    â€œSo, payaso,” said C.J., calling over as he tugged on the Velcro lash circling his foot. “You found me,