141
(Above): Tony Hawk tucked before
Old Glory. (Facing): Dick Steele,
Ralph Hardy and Voodoo Funk.
(Right): The Hickolds are a hard
rockin', foot-stompin', shit-kickin'
band.
腐
stringy rope with beads of red crab claws
and seashells, escorted us toward the fire.
At length, the procession stopped and we
stood before the flames. To our left the
Crawdaddy reclined on a great straw
throne. To our right, a large granite rock lay
on a tall platform. The music stopped and
all eyes turned upon us.
A powerful quiet pervaded the scene.
After a few moments someone yelled, "Let's
hear some music!"
The warm air sat stagnant in saturated
silence. "Let's hear some music!" he again
bellowed. "You know what happens when
someone tries to back out," he snarled, star-
ing at the gathering with menacing eyes.
Soon, the rhythm resumed and the soft chant
followed.
"Welcome to the Island of Austin, in the
Sea of Texas," the Craw-King said. "Eat,
drink and make merry...for tomorrow we
skate and celebrate like cannibals. That,"
he said, pointing to the large granite rock
that sat on a tall platform, "is our National
Monument. Come and dance beneath it; it
will not smash you like helpless ants."
After a feverish disco digression we were
taken to a long and low table where bowls.
of liver-colored pudding topped with
shriveled black raisins waited.
"Eatlll" the Chief commanded.
Everyone quickly dug both hands into the
glop and cupped it to their mouths. My part-
ner did likewise, but I nonchalantly dumped
the stuff underneath the table while the feast
raged on.
Afterwards, the man who had demand-
ed music introduced himself and his king.
"I am Lyn Carter, proprietor of the Austin
Cruzer Shop and organizer of tomorrow's
festivities, and this is Chief Bowanota."
"Ralph Hardy," I said and politely shook.
their hands. My partner tipped his hat.
"The name is Dick Steel," he said. He
then turned and smiled, "Ladies, I am here
to service you."
Conversation began and a big fellow
named Biscuit told us about the local
religion, which the mainlanders called the
"Cargo Cult." How, one day, a high flying
and ferocious winged beast roared over the
island. The great animal dropped a big
brown box with several shining objects in-
side. The people were not slow to realize
this was a gift from above and had since
prayed for more.
I asked about their pastimes and their
lifestyles. The one called Tim related stories
of two renowned skate tribes, Team Love,
from the Islet of San Marcos, and Team
Gerbil. "They shred," he said.
After a while the party wound down and
Tim took us to our hut, saying he would meet
us in the morning to show us the sights and
partake of the celebration. We stayed in the
"Hy-hut," which stood about 13 stories tall.
Ours was a room on the third floor that
featured a balcony overlooking the village
lagoon. It had all the primitive conven-
iences, from vine-TV to hut service. Dick
stayed up long into the (Continued on page 68)
"If you thrash,
you go to jail."'