By Michael E. Miller
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The smooth, mellow sounds of the Grateful Dead reverberate throughout Luke Lukasik's black Land Rover in the early morning hours as he winds from his home in Port Orange toward New Smyrna Beach, 50 miles northeast of Orlando. "Ripple" is the song of choice this morning, from a recently released copy of Ladies and Gentlemen... The Grateful Dead: Fillmore East New York City April 1971; it was produced a year after Lukasik was born.
The windows are down, the sunroof is open, and the lyrics hit the outside world loud and crisp. "If my words did glow with the gold of sunshine," Jerry Garcia sings, "and my tunes were played on the harp unstrung..." Lukasik, dressed in board shorts and a gray T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, smiles.
The Land Rover makes its way to the coast via the scenic route, zigzagging through a lush, tropical landscape. This is pre- urban-sprawl Florida, a reminder of what the entire northeastern part of this state must have looked like before the advent of strip malls and high-rise apartments. Flourishing palm and pine trees coexist, yielding a fragrance that can be described only as green.
He drives past some old frame houses with chipping paint, through a countryside stocked with grazing cattle and covered by wild prairie grass, past what locals call the Satanic Ranch (recognizable because of two metal pentagrams, attached to the barn and atop a flagpole) and finally down Flagler Avenue, the main drag that leads to the water.
A series of people making morning commutes stares at Lukasik's Land Rover with envy. He responds with a snicker. "You know what's great?" Lukasik asks, leaning on his armrest while driving one-handed and taking in all the sights and sounds. Strapped to the top of his truck are three surfboards: one short board (six feet, five inches) and two long boards (nine feet and nine feet, six inches). "See all these cars? They're going to work. And I have surfboards on top of my car. That's just such a dig."
But his digs are just that, for Lukasik, a program manager for Avaya Inc., isn't condescending by nature. On the contrary he's completely sincere and doesn't have a mean bone in his body. He regards everybody with a genuinely friendly attitude and high spirits.
The music this morning, the timing, and the location of Lukasik's rendezvous with his surfing buddy, Jonathan Taylor (JT for short), are all carefully planned. In fact the proceedings are somewhat ritualistic. Prior to departure, Lukasik sat at his kitchen table in Port Orange and contemplated the breaks to come.
"I'm a surfer," he offered to some guests. "I love to surf."
And he does. Never mind that 20 shark attacks, more than half the world's bites, have occurred off the coast of Volusia County so far this year or that, of the 385 attacks or bites that have occurred in the United States since 1990, 248 have been in Florida. Never mind that scientists have said sharks are more likely to attack surfers in wet suits than swimmers because the boarders look like seals fluttering in the waves. And never mind that 8:30 a.m., when Lukasik arrives at the beach, is prime hunting time for sharks. Lukasik is searching or, as he puts it, just "trying to find my chi."
Lukasik stops at the beach entrance, and JT jumps into the Land Rover, then the two drive about a mile onto the beach, a luxury afforded to local residents by the city. They survey the surf to locate the best breaks without too much wash. They settle on the Inlet, a stretch of beach half a mile south of a jetty that juts out into the Atlantic and, combined with sandbars and offshore breezes, produces the biggest waves. For some reason that only scientists understand, this is also the kind of location that catches the attention of sharks.
JT, a local since high school, chooses his nine-foot-long board for starters. It's a sturdier ride in these rough waters, but it's significantly harder to paddle into the deep. Lukasik grabs his nine-sixer, named the Lady Katie(after his girl in Tampa), for its maiden voyage.
Before paddling out the pair take a moment to put on their game faces. JT is smiling. There are some big waves. The weather service has reported that a tropical depression is rolling in and will pour rain on the beach by noon. For now, though, it's just kicking up the surf. Lukasik can barely contain himself. "This is it," he offers. "This is what I live for."
The beach is practically empty. Only two other surfers are out here, significantly fewer than the number Lukasik predicted over Coronas the night before. His primary fear has thus been alleviated.
He worries about getting caught under a surfboard tail fin more than he is afraid of a dorsal fin emerging from the deep. "That hurts more than anything," he says. "The jellyfish, too. If you hit one of those square, it'll freeze your whole body up." In fact, he says, all the recent talk of Jaws-like assaults on swimmers has been somewhat beneficial to the locals. "We don't mind [the sharks] so much, because they keep the waters a little more vacant for us. There's certainly a danger, and we understand that. But this is just a way of life for us up here. There are surfers, and there are sharks. You learn to deal."