A phone call, right out of a bolt of blue, a name I haven’t heard for many years, inquiring about some old negatives. I am overwhelmed by a flood of memories for someone I have not seen in many years. When I finally collect my thoughts and call Sandra Luhn, a line from a song Jon introduced me to is reverberating in my head “hoping for the best but expecting the worst”. To say this put a damper on my day would be an understatement. I took me some time to visit his Forever Missed website and even right now I struggle to write this. But here goes…….
When I think of Jon, a myriad of emotions come to surface – some of the best times of my life and some of the most turbulent. To try and summarize or generalize my feelings for Jon during the time I spent with him is a formidable endeavor. Jon was an intense person, hard driving, concise, erudite, witty, warm, affectionate, and quite the charmer (remember this last one). I will start at the beginning, capture some highlights, and the rest will be small anecdotes, all of which left a poignant, indelible mark on my soul.
I first met Jon through my girlfriend, who informed me that the new employee working at the front desk of the Toll House hotel in Los Gatos, a tall, blond, good looking Germanic guy was hitting on her. I confronted him, he was all smiles, asked me if I surfed, and that was it. Four Mile was his stomping ground but we also surfed Steamer Lane, Labs, Davenport, Lumberyards, Waddell Creek, Manresa, Moss Landing, on bigger days (10 to 12ft) Three Mile, and towards the end Ocean Beach in SF. We also made forays south of border. Two stand out.
The only pictures I have of me surfing were taken by Jon at a small left in Popotla, just south of Rosarito Beach in Baja California. Any surfer will tell you it takes a true friend to get to get out of the water when it is breaking 6 to 8 feet top to bottom to take pictures of you. Trust me, it was NOT easy for him, but he did it. The second was a small cobblestone multi-directional break called El Socorrito just south of San Quintin. What made it special is that we had the whole place to ourselves with the exception of a few fishermen. The mornings were spent surfing, the afternoons beachcombing, and later on back in the water for the evening glass off. The day concluded with dinner, reading by the campfire, and long soulful conversations. Jon was sober at this juncture in time and the stories he conveyed about what he was dealing with scared the living sh** out of me. One morning when it was completely flat we dug for clams and ended up with about 40 steamers and 1 humongous pismo. I cooked them up with a little butter, garlic, and lemon juice – by far the best clams I have ever eaten tasting of the ocean and air. My last thought of that trip that comes to mind is stopping just before the border for a couple of burritos and Jon biting down and looking at me with incredulous eyes. I shook my head as in “what?” and he spit out a small rock. “Dude, what the F***! Are you kidding me?” I looked at him, sighed aloud, and stated “Dude, welcome to Mexico”.
Jon and I were kindred spirits beyond the ocean as well. Along with the aforementioned personality traits, Jon and I shared an affinity with the mountains. Both of us learned to ski in Tahoe and then in the early 90’s I spent two winters with him at Steven’s Pass in Washington State. That first winter, I believe January of ’91, within a few days of my arrival, the resort received 2 to 3 feet of fresh powder. Jonathan was ecstatic. We hit it early and hit it hard. It soon became apparent that I was a bit more adept than he was at navigating the steep and deep. Although he complimented me on my style and technique, below the surface he was livid. As most of you know, Jon was fiercely competitive. The following year he invited me back up and proceeded to kick my ass on every medium. I remember him launching insane air, landing flawlessly, skiing up to me with a big smile and saying “It’s your turn”. Yeah, right. This was also the year I went snowboarding for the second time in my life. Instead of wearing surf booties strapped into an edgeless Burton Backhill, we both donned Sorrels and mounted Tom Sims Boards with edges. Needless to say, Jon left me in the dust.
The rest of my memories are small vivid snapshots, firmly ingrained and precious:
Singing his heart out as the frontman for The Winnebagos at the now defunct Essex Junction (in El Paseo de Saratoga).
Enjoying a “Coit Tower” at North Beach Pizza and espying a cockroach skittering along the wall. I point it out to Jon who immediately whacks it, and then garnishes the rest of our pie with its still twitching corpse. He then flags down our waiter, points out the problem, and we leave without dropping a dime along with a fresh pizza.
Him holding me while sobbing in his arms after seeing my ex girlfriend with another guy at Club Oasis in downtown San Jose.
Waiting for a set to roll in at Four Mile and yelling at me in his broken Mexican accent “Joo know I am a Rippa! Joo know…………….”
Driving over the hill and Jon singing A Victory In Love by Alphaville showing off his dynamic vocal range.
Spending an incredible weekend up in Geyserville, surfing the Sonoma Coast, and preparing a delectable lamb dish for our girlfriends (my wife still has fond memories of that culinary masterpiece).
Simply put, I will miss Jon. We ebbed and flowed on the same wavelength, taking life by the horns and embracing Mother Nature both on land and sea. I can still see that infectious smile, hear that incurable laugh, and feel the poise in his eyes when he was about to take on a challenge. One of my favorite photos that evokes that last statement is a B&W shot of him I took at Four Mile standing on the bluff, eyes scanning the horizon, ready to jump into action. I believe my Photo Journalism teacher, a photographer for the SF Chronicle, used the term “majestic” when she critiqued that picture (I also received an A grade). Jon will always be with me, our spirits inextricably linked. I will miss you my friend……….