Surf Like Nobody’s Watching
e called him “Crazy Craig.” He was, or, presumably still is, a surfer in the Central California beach town where I surfed growing up. I don’t remember if his name actually was Craig, come to think of it. Maybe it was Carl. Might have just been a fun bit of nickname alliteration we assigned to him. Nor do I remember if he behaved like a crazy person out of the water. Actually, he seemed like every other middle-aged surfer in the ‘90s when you’d see him at the taqueria after a session. Battered two-wheel drive Toyota pickup splattered with paint and ladders, he
