Dan Blocker, Saint, Faerie.

I saw Dan briefly, edging Hwy 1 as the sun was making its evening adieus. Like a bronzed shadow chased by offshore winds and his stringy blond hair. Naturally, his trusty stead was grazing nearby, his 1975 Chevy van, its side made up like a mirror to the vista it faced. He grinned at me, smiling to say he remembered when we sat together waiting for that one wave, and when we sat waiting for the man. Like everything else, he was gone quicker than the last notes of Grand Funk jam. The last thing I saw was his 7'6" pintail fasted atop his ride, his beacon, his lighthouse, the tuning fork of his life.