http://dnasab.net/category/lifespan-of-electronics/ Buzzy Trent

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Written by Anna Trent Moore

Everyone must have something to love.

Without that, one is like a ship adrift at                

sea, yearning for wind.

                                         Buzzy Trent, 1995

    They say a fisherman found it lost at sea. My father’s last surfboard. I emailed Randy Rarrick, the shaper, to inquire. If it was the one, it was the board he gave up surfing on. He left surfing behind without looking back, and he left it on that board.

I recall it well. It was blue…completely blue; the only color board my father, Buzzy Trent, ever owned. All his others, shaped by Dick Brewer, were clear. But what I remember most about it was what took place one winter day on the grass in front of Val Valentine’s house at Sunset Beach. There was a good swell and my father invited Ricky Grigg to try out his new board. He did, and when Ricky came in his words were, to say the least… critical. My father’s temper responded with, to say the least…furious words. He packed it up immediately and drove us home leaving Ricky in the wake of our Volkswagen’s dust. My father later forgave him (he always did), but he stopped surfing soon after. I’ve often wondered what happened to the blue board. When I heard where it was found, I wasn’t surprised; because when he released surfing from his life, from that point on, there was always a part of him adrift…lost at sea.

 It has been said to me by a few people who knew him well and knew him long, that no one has accurately portrayed the real Buzzy Trent. The persona that follows him describes a physical power house, a risk taker who was quick to express judgment, and possessed a bit of an ego. In reality he was quite the opposite. Rather, he was gentle (he loved animals and children), could be quite conservative (was shy with women), took calculated risks (shrewdly assessed every situation), and was emotionally vulnerable. What I believe most people found intriguing about him was that he lived a life set around surfing big waves during a unique time. He set the blue print for big wave surfing; in some opinions, one of the very players to create the sport. Known as an individual who lived life on his own terms, without apologizing for his actions and viewpoints, he presented the fearless big wave rider image that was mirrored not only in the water but in his personal life as well. He possessed a steely eyed temperament with a chiseled physique that epitomized the powerhouse image of the big wave rider of his time. But perhaps what was most loved about my father (by the people that really knew him), was that he possessed an ideology within himself in which he modeled to live a life by. He talked like he lived and he lived like he talked.

    Born to Buster and Dorothea Trent, he was named Goodwin Murray Trent, after his father. His mother was the only daughter of the renowned and wealthy Los Angeles architect, John Parkinson, who designed many of the cities most important landmarks which include L.A. City Hall, USC Campus, and L.A. Coliseum. In fact, sixty-four of his buildings still stand today.

    As a wedding gift, Buzzy’s grandfather gave Dorothea and Buster a completely furnished five hundred acre ranch in San Marcos (the site now of Palomar Junior College) where he was born on Mother’s Day May 13, 1929. The youngest of five children, he was the baby of the family born to Mama Trent who was then in her forties. Nicknamed Buster (like his father), it was soon shortened to Bussie, and later evolved into Buzzy, although he was always Bussie to his mother.

    Buzzy grew up on the Trent Ranch until the age of ten. His recollections were reminiscent of a happy childhood, though marred by some sad events; One being when his sister drowned in the well and another, witnessing the railroad tracks carrying hundreds of homeless men seeking work and food during the depression years. He described how my grandfather would have to chase them off the ranch with a shot gun, there would be so many. For the most part, it was a good childhood with fond memories of picking giant tomatoes off the vines and eating them like apples, and hunting for deer with his twenty-two rifle.

    But troubles arose in his parent’s marriage forcing them to seek a divorce. Shared to me by my Uncle Marty (my father’s brother), during these times, while custody issues were being decided by the courts, rather than make the decision to place the children with one of either parents, the children would instead be placed in foster care until a decision could be made on who would receive custody. Buzzy and his brother Marty were placed together in foster care for two years. His parents would later decide to reconcile, sold the ranch and moved into a three story Victorian home on San Vicente Boulevard in Santa Monica. The attempted reconciliation of his parents was soon to prove unsuccessful and eventually his father left the family for good and his parents divorced. Papa Trent’s abandonment of his family was to have lasting effects on the then twelve year old Buzzy. Effects that were to influence how he later chose to deal with family bonds much later in life. When his father returned to reconnect with his children, Buzzy was the only one in the family who refused to ever speak to him again.

    The transition from ranch life to Santa Monica was an abrupt change but Buzzy acclimated. Always an individual, he maintained being his own person and the Trent boys were permitted to continue running around shirtless and barefoot in their overalls. Indulged by their parents, they were given a quarter for lunch, which at the time was an unheard of amount for kid lunch money. He was a mama’s boy with an independent spirit and free reign to do as he pleased. He thrived in Santa Monica and it was where his love for the ocean was born.  

    As a young gremmie, he would peddle his bicycle to State Beach to rent a paddle board from Ninhausners Boat House and use it to fish for mackerel and halibut. It was there that he said he saw a guy catch a wave and ride it all the way in. He began surfing the paddleboards until one day, when returning it to Old Ninhausner, it fell through the window. He ran away with Old Ninhausner yelling and chasing him, never to return again.

    Convincing his mother to buy him a redwood surfboard, he hooked up a rickshaw wagon to a balloon tire bicycle, and peddled his hundred pound board the ten miles to Malibu:

    When I started going to Malibu World War II was going on. There was gas rationing and no cars to speak of on the highway. The first time I saw Malibu I just couldn’t believe it. I fell in love with Malibu the first time I saw her.

    He became friends with Matt Kivlin. They became buddies in tow, riding their bikes to Malibu together until Matt got a car:

    It was a thrill peddling our boards from Santa Monica to Malibu on those balloon tire bikes…that was a big trip for us, dragging those hundred pound redwoods. When we’d come around the corner and see those tiny two foot waves, we’d peddle faster and faster just to get there. We’d bury the boards in the sand and leave them there for the week, come back and pick them up the next week. Life was different then. You didn’t worry about it. When we got a little older, Matt got a car and started driving us to the beach… we didn’t have to bury our boards anymore.

    At an impressionable age, abandoned by his own father, Buzzy found a role model in Bob Simmons. I don’t recall him ever speaking about another surfer the way he spoke about Simmons. I knew he was an important figure in his young life:

    At Malibu during the forties there was absolutely nothing. The beach was white sand and covered with driftwood. There was only one house- Mrs. Rindge’s house. There was also a Coast Guard station. They were supposed to be watching the beach but there was no one there. Nobody. It was very rare for a car to drive by when you were surfing. It was beautiful!

    The bottom of the point was covered, literally covered with abalone. Steel Headed trout… there was Steel Headed trout that swam up Malibu Creek. We’d chase them and hit them on the head with rocks.

I met Bob Simmons at Malibu and for some reason he took a liking to me. He was very much an individual and you knew that there was something exceptional about him. Intellectually he was head and shoulders above the rest. He was a 4F, which meant that he didn’t have to enter the military. A bicycle accident had sent him through a car windshield, shattering his arm and permanently setting it at a ninety degree angle. When he started surfing he was so crippled in that arm that he couldn’t paddle his board fast enough.

    Simmons was my hero and I was a young gremmie aching to be his test pilot. I hung out everywhere with him and we got into a close relationship. He would come to my house to pick me up in his Model A. It was the funniest thing! Like I said, he was brilliant. With gas rationing going on he had devised a way to adapt his Model A to burn on cleaning solvent. He had a fifty gallon drum in the back seat of his car. We drove up and down the coast in that thing. We rode all over. We even made trips down to Mexico…

     Although early on he felt a strong pull toward the ocean, my father was also a natural athlete who excelled in every sport he attempted. He ran track and field, and played football; He was a boxer for awhile, boxing in the Golden Gloves. Abruptly leaving boxing, he focused on football, and went on to play for USC. Maintaining his connection with the ocean, he began life guarding at Santa Monica Beach where one day he saw a little nine year old boy in the shore break. Hey Kid! Want a ride? Propping him onto his surfboard, he paddled him into a wave-his first wave. My father’s lifeguard tower sat in front of this little boy’s house, and after that ride he appointed himself the mascot of Buzzy’s tower. The little boy’s name was Ricky Grigg and their friendship was to last the duration of my father’s lifetime. It was bonds and friendships such as these that no doubt influenced the trajectory of the California surfing migration to Hawaii in the fifties. The roster of big wave surfing pioneers was a short list. They all knew one another and were poised to follow each others lead to the islands.   

     When I asked my father what brought him to the islands he told me that it was Walter Hoffman, who was in the Navy and stationed in Hawaii. Walter was sending back pictures of the surf with the call of, you guys gotta get over here! A spot on a crew to enter a Trans-Pacific race gave him an opportunity to sail to Hawaii in 1953. It was to be the first Pacific Catamaran crossing from California. It was an adventure that brought him to the islands in search of surfing the biggest waves; to the place he was to spend the rest of his life.

He fell in love with Hawaii. But mostly, he fell in love with Makaha…

     It was so unique looking at a point wave the way it turned and rolled into Makaha. They’re so blue and pure. When the wave starts to break there’s the spray that goes right across the top as it breaks from top to bottom. It’s a powerful thing grinding across the point with a perfectly formed shoulder. It’s a fantastic experience to be out there and see these perfect sets coming in. You’re sitting in the perfect position, the line up is perfect, you’ve done everything right, and here it comes around from Kaena Point. A great feeling comes over you. You’re not thinking about anything else in life except that wave and that moment. It’s just you and that huge wave. You’re totally involved in what you’re about to do and nothing else matters.

    He returned to California but the lure of big Makaha Point surf was to draw him back. At that time his brother Marty was bedridden from a serious leg injury playing football. He recounted the story to me one day;

     I had just broken my leg from playing football at UCLA and was in the hospital. Buzzy walked in carrying a duffle bag over his shoulder. He said, “I’m going back Marty.” I yelled and swore at him and told him that if he left he was a coward for not finishing school and leaving like that… and that if he left I never wanted to see him again. He just said, “I’m going Marty.” He turned around and left. I never saw him again for over twenty years. I have always felt that your father might have had a very different life if he had not met your mother…

    And she did change his life. He loved Makaha, and she was a Makaha girl. If you want to know where you’re going, look at the path behind you. There were three things that my father truly loved; surfing Makaha Point, his two children, and my mother. It is no surprise to me that my father chose my mother Violet. His path in life led him there, and in turn, led him to her…

    The first time I saw your mother she was walking out of the Makaha Supermarket. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen!

    And she was beautiful. The dangerous kind- beautiful with a hot temper. But then, my father always loved a challenge. Dark flashing eyes, large full mouth, and the tiniest waist…she possessed a charm that left you with an indelible impression. And that voice… she took Buzzy Trent by storm.

    Bud Browne knew them both well and often told me they couldn’t live with, or without each other. In truth, their relationship encompassed all that we desire, yet all that we fear in one. I believe we measure our own relationships by what we’ve observed in our own parents. Although I was witness to their many heated moments, I also remember my father treating my mother in a romantic way; picking her gardenias or finding her shells.

    It’s ironic that my father chose to marry a woman who hated the beach. Raised in Makaha, the driest part on the island of Oahu, she longed for the cool rains and lush greenery of Manoa Valley. In fact, of all the times my father took us surfing with him, I recall my mother sitting on the beach only once; it was at Yokohama. Near the water’s edge on a cool evening, she sat on the sand near my brother Ivan and me, while we played army with pieces of driftwood. This was unusual for her as she always sat in the car watching my father surf from the passenger’s seat.

   When she died, it was the greatest tragedy our family has ever endured. In fact, I don’t think we really survived it. Devoted to her until the end, his final gesture to her was to scatter her ashes, mingled with gardenias, deep in the Niu Valley; far, far, away from the ocean and Makaha.

    When my father gave up surfing he followed true to how he handled everything in his life. He said, when you go, you go…go and never look back. Never.

    He left surfing and Makaha behind, like the day he left his brother Marty in California, and never looked back. For a time, he replaced surfing with hang gliding- and diving…he always dove… until the body just couldn’t do it any more. I knew his life was never the same since Makaha. He wasn’t living his life anymore, he was passing through it. He even called it, the homestretch. I knew he missed it; missed that part of himself.   

     Not long ago I had a dream. It was so real that I woke up with a start and a huge hole in my heart.

    I was in a place surrounded by black lava that stretched for miles and miles. It was endless. Above was blue without a cloud in the sky. I was walking alone and looking ahead, I saw a figure outlined in the distance. Walking faster and faster, I began to see it clearly as I drew closer. It was my father. I began running and the whole time I was fixed on his face.  He had a great big smile. The same smile that lit across his face when I was a young child. I cried out to him, and heard myself yell out the word no! But he simply lifted his right arm high above his head-almost in a strange greeting, smiled, and turning his back toward me, fell forward into the bluest ocean.

   The dream felt so real it was as if I could touch it. Later, I retold it to a Hawaiian friend. Her response was, Anna, it was Kaena Point. I felt like I had been hit. Of course it was. I should have known it all along. Although he didn’t surf Kaena, it was his special place. The southern most tip of Oahu, barren land untouched by time, it was the place he loved to dive; the place where Hawaiians believe your soul enters the next life. He knew where to go.

    When my father died in September 2006, he was scattered in a place I would not have chosen. It was a town beach; a place he had no connection to.  No matter, because even in death, I knew he was in for the swim of his life. I’m certain he made it back to Kaena Point, eventually… by way of Makaha.  

   Lost at sea? I think at some point in each of our lives, we’re all temporarily lost. It’s probably the only way to really find ourselves, know who we are, and what we’re really made of. Is it the one? Is it my father’s blue board come home? I hope so.

Wedding of Kim Chilman-blair and Michael Frampton in NZ, Feb27, 2010
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