Viet Nam Generation Journal & Newsletter
V3, N3 (November 1991)
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Poetry by Dennis Fritzinger
Charlie Don't Surf
charlie don't charlie don't, charlie don't surf
charlie don't charlie don't, charlie don't surf
charlie don't charlie don't, charlie don't surf
Charlie Don't Surf
when i went over to vietnam
after i got in that war-torn land
i met up with a guy named murf;
first thing he told me, is "charlie don't surf."
charlie don't charlie don't, charlie don't surf
charlie don't charlie don't, charlie don't surf
charlie don't charlie don't, charlie don't surf
Charlie Don't Surf
i was crawling on my belly thru the mud one day
after that morning it looked like play
there was shrapnel everywhere but me
i looked up and what did i see?
a funny little guy not 5-foot-2
a thin white beard and a big stick too
he said, "i'm uncle ho and i've come to see
if you yank surfers are as good as me."
he gestured left, and underneath a tree
was a brand-new surfboard, just right for me
i grabbed it up and he led the way
to what appeared to be the local bay
now many's the eye that may deceive
and a person's word may be hard to believe
but 30 foot waves came crashing in
and i tell ya, they made one helluva din
he said, "you chicken?" and rushed on out
i followed him quick, for i had no doubt
for a california man, in his natural pride,
could show uncle ho one helluva ride
ho took off first; he was pretty quick
he did some things that were awful slick
like walking the nose and hanging ten
then he came back and did them again
but i said nothing, and soon he did see
you can't beat a californian so easily
i was so hyped up when i did my show
i coulda sold ice to an eskimo
i did everything that'd ever been seen
till ho he was looking awful green
but he doubled his efforts, and soon i saw
that he was well-seasoned, he was not raw
he turned his head with a terrible smile
and showed me my tricks, hanoi style
he did at least one, to show he was boss,
while wolfing down rice with the local fish sauce
but i smiled too, i would not run
and did more tricks in the setting sun
and when at last the sun sank low
i could see we were in for one helluva blow
the storm came quickly, rain and wind
and uncle ho signaled that we should end
we'll take up tomorrow said he
for you're pretty good for a yank, i see
i shook my head and i signaled no
and i rode right out in the teeth of the blow
and uncle ho followed, for he had pride
but this time luck was not on his side
for there, in the middle of the final set
came a fifty-foot wave, the biggest yet
ho wiped out in the crash and foam,
and me, i just rode the big wave home
so all you beach boys, i'll tell you free
a tip a short-timer once gave to me
if there's one thing we know on this God's Green Earth
it's Charlie Don't Surf
charlie don't charlie don't, charlie don't surf
charlie don't charlie don't, charlie don't surf
charlie don't charlie don't, charlie don't surf
Charlie Don't Surf
Dennis Fritzinger is editor of LZ Friendly. This poem previously appeared in The Zephyr, the California State VVA newspaper.