This was unbelievable! He had transformed from Lieutenant Wicker, annoying lifer, into a Little Leaguer shaking hands with Mickey Mantle. He wanted to be my best friend and I hadn’t spoken one word in two minutes. My mind raced, searching for the correct approach. I realized this opened the door for me and I sought desperately for the perfect response that would get me back into the game. The one thing I knew not to say was “I’m a good swimmer.”
“Sit down, Whalon,” Lieutenant Wicker said. He had calmed down slightly and his breathing had returned to normal. The last thing I needed right now was for him to have a heart attack. “Tell me about Redondo Beach. Is it near San Diego? Wow man, this is sooooo cool—what’s the biggest wave you ever surfed?”
Lieutenant Wicker laughed and shook his head like a impatient child. I decided my best approach was to stay with the California theme for the moment and ride it as long as possible.
“Yeah, I surfed with Weber and Bing,” I lied. “Malibu is a butt-kicker. If you come to Redondo, I’ll set you up with some really cute’ beach chicks—you dig blondes?—my sister is twenty-one and surfs every day. (I didn’t have a sister, but setting him up with her seemed like a smart move at the time.) You’d love it there. The weather is great and the chicks wear bikinis all year round. Lieutenant Wicker…”
He interrupted me. “Come on Whalon, you call me Jimmy,” Wicker demanded in a goofy voice. “What’s your first name, dude?” He stood and shook my hand. “Pete.”
I decided to go for the kill. “Jimmy, this is so cool. Is there any possible way I could get the lifeguard job at the pool, any way at all? I’ll do a great job, I swear to God—can you give the other guy a different job or have both of us be guards?” I crossed my fingers, legs, arms, and eyes.
“Are you kiddin’’ me, Pete?” the lieutenant boomed. “There’s no other guy, dude. I was BS’n you to get rid of your cherry butt. The job is yours—under one condition: I can come down to the pool and chug a brew with you once in a while and BS ’bout California.” He now talked in a whisper, making sure the flabby sergeant up front couldn’t hear him. “I can’t drink too much around here being an officer and all that bull. Also, you’ll have to talk to your CO and get reassigned to B Company. If they release you, I can transfer you here and you can start immediately. Want the job, Pete?” He leaned forward and began laughing, waiting for my reply.
I wasn’t sure what had just happened. I couldn’t process fast enough the bizarre events that had unfolded over the past five minutes. I expected to see chubby Allen Funt pop out from behind the wall and crush my dream by chirping, “Smile, you’re on Candid Camera!” One thing was crystal clear—I wanted that job!
“Yes sir, Jimmy, that gig was made for me—great! What’s the best way to get reassigned? What do I say?” I knew that would be the tricky part, but hoped my surf buddy, Jimmy, could help me out.
“No sweat, GI. I’m good friends with Captain Frank Fuller,” Wicker confidently remarked. “Ask him to call me right away. Go see him today; he owes me one. Unbelieveable, Redondo Beach, surfin’ U.S.A., dude—surfin’ U.S.A.”
I had never seen anyone so ecstatic over the mention of a city before. It creeped me out a little, but it brought me a tremendous reward. As I left the office, Jimmy enthusiastically began singing “Surfin’ U.S.A.”
During my jog back to C Company, I silently thanked my parents for having the foresight to move from Connecticut to Redondo Beach, California in 1955.
Pete Whalon, author of “The Siagon Zoo” has called Southern California home since age five.
