I was Robbed in Panama Part 3!

The epic conclusion!

Panama Part 2 here!

A few days later Timmy brings home another girl, but this one looks especially wounded. A C-tier hooker with drawn-on eyebrows who appears to live off Cheetos and cigarettes. They spent all day in our room; I stayed away as much as possible.

When I returned for the evening they were still in the apartment, the chick staggeringly stoned. I never saw any hard drugs when I was there, but it was clear this girl had moved beyond the confines of weed. She could barely talk and was constantly running into walls. Her eyes like black pearls.

I shuffled to the bedroom with hopes of falling asleep before they decided to knock out for the night, but was soon followed by the stumbling duo. While in bed I was forced to experience the stomach-curling sounds of orally engaged flesh, in what form or direction I care not to know. I woke up around 6:30 and decided to cleanse my mind with a surf.

“Hey Timmy,” I whispered. “Can I get the key to the room? I’m going surfing and wanna make sure I can get in later.”

“Bro you know what, I actually can’t find the key, but I’ll be here. No worries.”


Before leaving I grabbed a cab fare from my stash and deposited the remainder, something like $27, into my suitcase under the bed. The two appeared fast asleep.

My session consisted of a mediocre left point filled with disgruntled locals, and was capped off by a rainy, choppy boat ride back to town. At this point I was feeling rather disheartened with the trip as a whole. A combination of iffy surf and my increasingly uncomfortable living situation had taken its toll. I hoped that if nothing else, his chick would be gone by the time I got back.

But when I returned to the house she was still there, and still monumentally fucked up. The first thing I did was check that my cash was still there. Nope. Twenty-seven-odd dollars gone, and the little bag they previously resided in had been thrown haphazardly on the floor.

I took Timmy aside.

“Hey man… so I put some money in my bag before I left and now it’s gone. You think your chick coulda done it? She looks pretty out of it and I know how desperate addicts can be.”

“Shit man, you know, she could have. Let me ask her.”

Timmy left for a minute and returned with an amused expression on his face.

“Bro you won’t believe this. She said when she was in the kitchen this morning, Carlos (Luis’ roommate) went into our room looking for the AC remote, and came out looking all suspicious.”

He went on to tell me how Carlos is a crackhead that once stole money from Luis and is always getting in trouble. He said we’ll talk to Luis when he gets home and sort it out from there.

Then he drops this bomb on me:

“So bro, I’ma be straight with you… basically the property manager came in today to collect the rent and we don’t have it, meaning we might have to move out next week. So what do you think about renting this place for the month, and we’ll pay you?”

I almost burst out in laughter.

“Sorry man, I’m leaving pretty soon. Can’t do that.”

“Oh ok, well you think you can pay me for the next three days at least, so I have something to give them?”

I thought about it for a second and decided, out of pure laziness, that it was easier to stay there than to pack all my things and move elsewhere. That, plus the fact Timmy’s girl was leaving, led me to justify staying in Timmy’s apartment for the remainder of my trip. I handed him $60 cash.

“Thanks bro!” Timmy replied, as he and his lady left for lunch. Little did I know, I’d never see Timmy again.

As I sat in the living room watching TV, still oblivious to what had just happened, Carlos “the crackhead” started unloading a bunch of packed bags from his room. I asked where he was going.

“You mean where are we going,” he chortled. “You didn’t hear? We’re getting kicked out of this place. Can’t make rent.”

Confused, I asked, “…Today?”

“Yeah. Talk to Luis. He’ll be home in a few minutes,” Carlos stated as he walked out the door, belongings in tow.


Immediately I went to my room and started searching for essential items. Passport, wallet, computer, surfboards: check. Aside from the money I had just handed to my friendly assailant, plus that which was taken from my bag, the only things missing were a set of John John Futures fins and new Dakine leash. It roughly comes out to a $200 loss, which sucks, but is also a fairly reasonable idiot tax. I deserved this.

After a quick bout of anger, I started packing up my gear for what appeared to be an inevitable eviction. Just before I was about to depart, Luis walked in.

I’ll spare you the dialogue, but the short of it is this: the apartment was Luis’s all along, and he was letting Timmy stay there under the pretense that T would bring in clients (me) and pay Luis a certain percentage of the profits. Because Timmy (and I) lied to Luis about how much I was paying, Luis saw no money from my visit, thus rendering him incapable of paying rent. Meanwhile Timmy made off like a very literal bandit.

Apparently Luis had received ample warning about Timmy from people around town, but like me, decided to give him a chance because he seemed like a decent guy. That stings.

But do you wanna know what’s the worst part of this whole ordeal? What’s the thing that really gets my goat? It’s that my towel smells like that thieving son of a bitch!

Timmy always lathered himself in this distinctly odorous baby oil, and now my towel absolutely reeks of it. He must have dried himself off with the thing after his last shower, just before walking out of the house with my cash, leash, and fins. Now I have to be reminded off his swindling, baby-oil-smelling ass every time I use it.

So Chas, on account of your awful advice and my ensuing loss, I think it’s only fair that you cover the damages. That’s $87, a set of John John fins (medium), a 6’ x 5/16” Dakine leash, and a new fucking towel.

Or… maybe this story just proves your point? Dammit.

One of the stars of the 2017 Rocky Point Classic, Mr Keoni "Cheeseburger" Nozaki. Watch how he flings himself vigorously into martial arts gyrations at the famous little peak.

The one surf visual to watch today!

It's a bracing parable of racial politics and white imperialism!

A surf contest, but only just.

One week ago, North Shore locals ran their annual Rocky Point Classic, a shoot-out style event where each surfer drops twenty-dollars into a pool for a total of one thousand dollars prizemoney.

The contest is a bracing parable of racial politics and betrayal, of white imperialism!

Can you imagine the thrill of hustling good four-foot Rockies, a gift from your imperialist forefathers, and this demographically diverse pack swings down the trail? As it turns out, the Rocky Point Classic is a good-natured contest where even surfers with modest abilities are celebrated.

It ain’t the Pipe Masters. But what is?

Ready to throw your hat into our ring?
Ready to throw your hat into our ring?

Play: BeachGrit’s Dead Pool!

3,2,1, who's it?

Yesterday, after it was revealed here that sometime BeachGrit writer, vet, scammer, junkie prose master Michael Kocher had been cut down under a hail of police bullets I got a wonderful text from a caring friend. It read:

Sorry to hear about Kocher. My money was on Tellkamp in the dead pool. An ill-fated Pokémon accident.

And I thought, “How has your third favorite surf-based gossip website been alive for over two years and not had a dead pool yet?”

As anti-depressive as it comes!

In case you are unclear as to what a “dead pool” is, let me explain. Everyone puts money on who they think will die and when. Celebrity dead pools usually involve an exact date, I think, but that seems like too much work for us. So just put your money on which one of us is going down next and how.

Chas Smith, Derek, Michael C. (who is busily getting scammed out of $100 in Panama right now), Giancarlo, Steve Shearer (longtom), Matt Warshaw, Tellkamp (I guess), Dave Prodan (honorary) .

And for even more laughs lets add the best part of BeachGrit too! You! Julian’s Postie, Super Jr., mullet, Nick Carroll, Negs, throwing disqus, stewie, Jimmy the Saint, TomHouse, plug-butt, wincy, Superworm, Don Jon Florence, Dogsnuts, etc.

Wait. Is this anti-depressive?

Michael Kocher dead
"An Englewood police officer shot and killed a suspect to end a standoff that involved hostages Friday afternoon. No hostages or officers were hurt. The situation began shortly before 2 p.m. inside a house in the 2800 block of South Bannock Street. Officers said they attempted to negotiate with the suspect to release the hostages and during those negotiations, an officer shot the suspect." | Photo: Fox31 Denver

BeachGrit writer shot dead by police!

The former US marine, writer and cancer scammer Michael Kocher killed in shootout.

Yesterday, the sometime BeachGrit writer Michael Kocher, who was thirty two, was killed by police after taking two hostages and barricading himself inside a house.

(Read here)

Kocher. Remember him? Here’s the story.

A couple of years ago, a surfer turned US marine announces himself to me via email. His name was Michael Kocher and he wrote eloquently about being a solider in the American invasion of Iraq, quitting surfing to sell heroin and, later, said he was dying of spinal cancer and wrote about his terminal illness.

He also set up a GoFundMe account which raised $8600. As it transpired, the cancer story was a scam. 

All of which made great theatre. And even though I lost a few shekels on the cancer thing, I felt it a small price to pay for the laughs.

Two months ago, Michael told me he was living in Denver and whooping it up on the electronic dance music scene. I asked him to send me a story. He said he was surprised I didn’t hate him after the cancer scam. What can I say? I liked his writing.

Ultimately, it was bullets and not cancer that ended his life.

In a fitting self-penned eulogy, he concluded his last story with,

I was born at 11:56pm on April 27th, 1984. The same day as Ulysses Grant and more or less no one else. I was the result of too much to drink in a small rail town, and the herculean effort of seventeen hours of labor. My father never wanted children, my mother was supposedly barren, and yet there I was, being born. There I was, coming into the light. There I was, starting on a path that would eventually lead me halfway around the world to Iraq and then back to the States for a life of jail cells, parties, and the most devastating and wonderful year and a half of my life. That was still far down the road, though. For now it was enough to be born, dragged screaming and yelling into existence. I didn’t ask to be born, who the fuck was going to pay my bills?”


I Was Robbed in Panama Part 2!

The drama continues!

Part 1 here!

Timmy continued to play the best friend role, which was actually kind of nice. He seemed genuinely interested in my happiness and comfortability, often performing nice gestures like buying me a drink or offering a piece of his candy bar. Of course I understood this was all part of his plan to eventually get inside my wallet, but that knowledge only made our dynamic more absurdly comical in my eyes.

It soon became apparent that Timmy dabbled in the narcotics biz. Mostly because after asking whether or not I was a cop (is that really a law, where cops have to admit their punitive intentions if queried?), he offered me a giant nug of the green stuff for a “great price”. I declined, and he assured me that if I ever needed weed or anything else, he was the guy.

No big deal, I thought. We’re in Latin America and even back home I have friends who are, shall we say, entrepreneurial.

A couple days go by and nothing out of the ordinary happens. My money and supplies are seemingly in order, and Timmy and I are getting along fine. He had a girl over one of the nights, which put me on the couch for a few hours, but that’s to be expected in a shared-living situation. Then one day, out of nowhere, he pulls me outside for a chat.

“Bro, look… if either of the guys here (they were living in the first room) asks, tell them you’re only paying me $10 a night.”

“Errrr… why?”

“Because man, if they know you’re paying $30 a night they’re gonna think you got money, and they’re a little sketchy, you know?”

I had met the other guys. They seemed normal, but who’s to say what evils lurk beneath?

He continued, “Oh and hey, you got $20 I can borrow?”

“I just gave you $90 the other day (for my first three nights), what happened to all of that?”

“Man, those ninety bucks were gone like that. I had to buy food and supplies and pay off a couple utility bills. You know how it is. So yeah if you could give me $20 right now I’d really appreciate that.”

This was an obvious red flag, but seeing as how I’d have to pay him for rent the next day anyway, I conceded. And considering Carnaval had just ended, I talked him down to $20 per night for the remainder of my stay. I didn’t expect to get the money back, but rather wrote it off as a down payment.

Later that day, one of the guys from the first room, let’s call him Luis, pulled me aside and asked how much I’d been paying Timmy. I’m a terrible liar, especially when put on the spot, so decided to tell the truth and see how things played out.

When I told Luis about the $30 rent, a bit of air escaped his mouth as he shook his head.

“Uhhh… is there a problem?”

“Yeah, but not with you,” he responded. “I need to go have a talk with Timmy.”

Five minutes later, Timmy whistles at me from around the corner.

Psssst. “Mike, come here!”

I approach Timmy and shoot him a “what’s up” look.

“Bro what did I tell you? Why you went and told Luis about our deal?”

“I… uhhh… kinda panicked and told the truth.”

“Maaan that’s fucked up Mike. I thought we were friends bro. Why’d you do this to me?”

“I thought you only wanted me to lie for my own protection, so I don’t see the problem.”

“Ok man, here’s the thing. Those guys want a piece of the profit right? But they don’t do shit. I’m the one who found you, right? I’m the one who takes care of you, y’know? So we have to go back and you tell Luis you were confused is all.”

We had a back-and-forth about it but eventually I caved. I returned to Luis and told him I was confused by the language barrier and what I’d meant to say was that I only paid Timmy $10 per night.

This didn’t bode well with Luis, and ultimately led to the dramatic conclusion of this story…

Coming tomorrow!