I rubbed my eyes, realizing I had fallen asleep with my contact lenses in. I needed to get to the beach before all of the posers got there. Man, if there’s one thing that really gets me, it’s how all the weak surfers get the sweetest boards, always rockin’ the sickest gear, and can’t surf for their lives. They think because they know when the waves are riding high they can just show up and expect to catch a barrel like Kelly Slater. I tell them “No, dude! You’re weak! I know surfbettys that smack lips harder than you! You’re wearing Hollister! Who’s gonna take you seriously!?”

I don’t know how many surfers I’ve scared off the beach in my days, but I take surfing passionately. It’s important someone knows how to surf, especially if they’re going to attempt surfing on my beach. I’ve been living on his beach my entire life, ever since my grandfather’s death back in ‘83. He turned it over to me and I destroyed the family business of board rentals as soon as it went under my name. I just couldn’t stand watching people learn how to surf. I couldn’t lend my boards out to any more newbies and watch them disgrace my beautiful boards in so many manners.

 

 

After grabbing my lucky Volcom trunks out of the laundry basket, I snatched a Lucky Charms cereal bar and some dried mangoes. This was my usual breakfast. I never have the patience to pour a bowl of cereal, so the bar is perfect for me. I never drink juice or energy drinks because I always carry a bottle of god’s nectar with me. Water keeps me hydrated and energized and I don’t need artificial chemicals running through my body while I’m surfing

As I walked out onto the sand, I noticed the sky was still shaded dark, unusual for this time of year. Maybe this was an omen. Maybe I was going to get bitten by shark today. Maybe not.

I stepped through the bamboo stalks made out to be a decorative entry for my home and trudged forward beginning my half-mile journey to the water. Dragging the sand with my bare toes, I peered out into the distance and could see yellow caution tape squaring off a long portion of the beach. Some surfing accident must have happened, but who would be out this early, especially on my beach? What the nuts?

I walked suspiciously over to the “accident,” as three police officers and a search team gathered amongst themselves.

“What is this?” I asked impatiently, stepping to one of the officers. “What the hell is going on here?”

“Mr. Frothburn?” asked the Native American police officer.

“Yeaaah. This is my beach. What’s going on?”

“Yeah. We know this is your beach. Listen, we got a call this morning, about an

 

hour ago- some woman said her husband hadn’t come home that night and she said she last talked to him at 11:30 p.m. while he was out walking their pet poodle on this beach. Do you know of any common dog walkers on your beach either late at nights or in the mornings?”

“No. I hate dog-walkers. When I see them, I yell at them to stay off my beach, but the beach is so big, so they just keep walking anyway.”

“Oh, that’s okay. Well, this woman thinks her husband is missing and is playing with the idea that he got kidnapped.”

“Pshhh! Not here, man. How would a grown man be kidnapped?”

“Well, these people are both legally midgets, so I’m assuming the man’s a small fella, an easy one to nab.”

“What! That’s craziness, I’ve never seen a midget walking on my beach.”

“Hmm. Well this section of the beach is going to be blocked off for a few more hours while we search it for any clues since this is the place the husband told her wife he was going to be.”

“Wow. That really chaps my ass. Two more hours?”

“Yes. Sorry, Frothburn. We all know how much you love to surf, but this a little more important, I think,” the officer said in a sarcastic tone.

“Yeah. Okay. Whatever. I’m coming back at noon and you better be off of my beach by then.”

“Sure thing, Frothburn.”

 

 

 

Brockus Frothburn was a crazy guy. He owned a little private beach right off the coast of San Diego and everyone knew it was probably the greatest spot to surf in the entire world. However, he was very protective of his property and the entire community knew he had a few screws loose. Nobody really took him that seriously, except for all the beach bums that looked up to him as the greatest surfer ever. Brockus surfed everyday of his life and did absolutely nothing else. He had no job-surfing was his nine to five. He had no more living family-surfing was his mother, his father, his brother, and his sister. Frothburn was never brought up in conversations unless it had to do with going to the beach or surfing. He was sort of an angry fellow, but nothing anyone couldn’t handle. His wackiness worried some people, and the town figured that one day he would finally break out of his nutshell and do something completely crazy.

When the news came out about the speculation of the kidnapping of a Swedish midget, people began to suspect Mr. Frothburn, especially since it took place on his very own beach. Word came out on the news the evening of the incident and it didn’t take long for assumptions to be made.

“This is the largest load of kahuna crap I have ever heard,” Brockus said to his buddy, Charleton. “How can anyone believe I kidnapped a midget!?”

“I don’t know man, I don’t know...”

 

 

“I need to get my mind off of this nonsense. Let’s go hop on some waves, bro.”

Surfing cured anything for Brockus. If there was ever a problem he didn’t feeling like dealing with, he would just walk outside and go surfing. And that’s exactly what he did.

Brockus led Charleton out of his straw home and onto the beach. There were pieces of yellow caution tape littered in the sand, which angered Brockus.

“Oh, c’mon! Pick up the tape!”

As Brockus bent down to pick up the tape, a piece of red rope caught his eye. He reached for the rope and pulled a dog leash out of the sand.

“No kidding! A dog leash!”

“Why is there a dog leash, dude? Do you think it’s a sign from the surf gods?” asked Charleton.

“It’s not a sign. But it’s evidence that I’m not a freakin’ kidnapper!”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, shoot, I guess its not evidence, but check it out: The police said the man was walking his dog when he got kidnapped. Which means if this is the dog’s leash, the dog got kidnapped too, or ran away or something. I don’t know, man, but I think I’m on to something.”

“Yes. Nice work.”

 

I had Charleton drop me off downtown so I could show the police my new discovery.

“Frothburn, nice of you to show up. You realize you are our only suspect right now and that the lady wants to press charges as soon as we gather more evidence?” asked the same Native American police officer he saw at the beach sternly.

“Go to hell. Look at this.”

Brockus held up the red dog leash.

“A dog leash,” the officer said.

There was a long pause and then the cops busted out laughing.

“You said the man was walking his dog when he was kidnapped. Do you know what happened to the dog?”

“He ran away because you couldn’t catch him!”

Another round of laughter.

“No! I didn’t kidnap anybody or anything!”

“Sure, bro. So far, all this leash does is prove your guiltiness. A couple more days and you’ll be locked up and the beach will finally be open to the public.”

“You cannot take my beach away from me!”

“Sure, whatever you say, Frothburn!.”

 

Tired and pissed, Brockus walked home. The sand felt good under his feet, and he was happy to be back on his beach. He went inside and fixed up a tofu salad.

After composting his uneaten salad, Charleton showed up to Brockus’ door and walked in with a look of enlightenment.

“Que pasa?” asked Brockus.

“I know you don’t have a T.V. so it’s hard for you to obtain news. Well I obtained some news for you, man. Good news.”

“Lay it on me. I need to hear something good.”

“I was watching the local 6:00 news and a dead dog was found washed up on the shore of Cabernathy Beach.”

“What! Please tell me it was a poodle!” exclaimed Brockus jerking his head up.

“Yeah, man. A pet poodle.”

Brockus jumped out of his chair and hugged Charleton.

“Get off me, dude.”

“Dude! This is such good news. I mean I feel bad for the dog, but this is more evidence to show these bastard cops it wasn’t me.”

“Well aren’t they going to think that you killed the dog and threw him out to sea?”

“You’re right. I’ve got to think of something. I’ve got to figure out what really

 

happened...”

Brockus sat back down in his chair and stroked his chin. The two men sat for eight silent minutes until Brockus sprang up with his index finger in the air.

“I’ve got it! This wasn’t a kidnapping. Nobody freaking kidnapped a Swedish midget. Listen to this, Charelton, and tell me if you think this is too bogus.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Alright, from the start. A man walks his dog on the beach without a leash. He just holds the leash his hands for good measure, incase someone complains about the dog being off the leash, you know. The dog runs into the ocean because the owner is skipping rocks. You know how poodles fall for the type of play?”

“No, I don’t. But continue.”

“Well the dog runs out and gets caught by the current since the current has been so strong lately, and the man runs out to save him. He drops the leash reactively, and chases after the dog. The man, being a midget and all, gets taken under as well, and the two are washed out into the Pacific Ocean.”

“Wow! I think you’re dead on! Call the cops! Call the cops!”

“I’m on it. I’ll be set free in no time!

 

I was so delighted to hear Charleton’s news. I called the police and told them my story and before I had the chance to finish up, I had been interrupted by a phone call stating that the body of a four foot eight male with blonde hair was found floating by a fishing team out in the deep ocean. There had been no fingerprints and no marks, only sign of death was from drowning.

It was clear what had actually happened was what took me eight minutes to figure out. I was going to be free and forgiven! I was so happy that I went home, grabbed a Lucky Charms cereal bar and went surfing.