The late-November forecast predicted a聽decent swell, and already we鈥檙e seeing six-foot walls of blue water. It鈥檚 10:30 a.m. in Manhattan Beach, California. Surfers are in the lineup, in wetsuits, bobbing like little black buoys. I鈥檝e finally made it to the beach my father surfed more than 55 years ago.聽

The author with the board he helped shape

The author with the board he helped shape

In the shop with Noll

In the shop with Noll

I鈥檓 a jumble of nerves, and I鈥檝e asked my fianc茅e, Robin, to come along for support. I pull a 37-pound balsa-wood surfboard from our rental van and lug it to the waterline. One young couple gawks at the pristine reproduction. It鈥檚 pretty, but, at 10 feet long, it鈥檚 the size of a door.聽

The idea of venturing into 60-degree聽water with a Malibu-chip longboard isn鈥檛 as daunting as my reason for being here. My father, whose ghost hangs over this beach, abandoned me when I was three years old. Now I鈥檝e come all the way from Iowa to his old surfing spot to try to find some connection to the man.

Robert Stanley Waters, my father, was once known around these parts as Little Bobby. As a young man, he surfed in Hermosa Beach, Malibu, and Santa Barbara. He hung out with some of the sport鈥檚 innovators, including early surf-film star Dewey聽Weber. My father also snuck under the railroad tracks near Camp Pendleton to ride Trestles, but Manhattan Beach is where his love for waves originated.聽

Nearby is the concrete pier where he once stored his own Greg Noll surfboard. It鈥檚 also where, in 1952, he passed his swimming test at age 10. In my backpack is a paper-clipped copy of his unpublished autobiography, as well as a small plastic bag of his ashes. I intend to scatter them in the聽water. I haven鈥檛 focused on my father this聽deeply, or for this long, ever. Just thinking about him now creates an uncomfortable pressure in my chest.

Manhattan Beach is a city of surfing origins. In 1949, Dale Velzy opened the world鈥檚 first surf shop here. This stretch of coastline is where the sport spread to the rest of the country after arriving from Hawaii. It鈥檚 where Dennis Wilson of the Beach Boys first paddled into the water.

Up and down the beach, the lifeguard towers are shuttered for the season, but fresh tire tracks in the sand indicate a recent聽patrol. Robin stands beside me, and we watch a blond teenager launch off a solid five-footer, somersaulting through the air.

I put my feet in the water. It鈥檚 going to be cold, even with a wetsuit.

I NEVER KNEW my father in any meaningful way. At 37, with years of therapy behind me, I still find it painful to acknowledge this truth. Any man whose father leaves can understand the shame, confusion, and anger generated by such a primal loss.聽

Early on, my mother would joke that she was Mom and Dad. I was an only child, and she provided for me and managed the best she could, but it never kept me from wondering, during the lean years when we shared a bunk in a one-bedroom apartment in downtown Reno, Nevada, if our situation might have been different with a father around. Along the way, she enlisted men from her clerical job with the sheriff鈥檚 department to dole out nuggets of paternal advice. I recall sitting down one evening with a homicide detective who鈥攂adge on his belt, holstered gun on the dining room table鈥攚anted to talk to me, man-to-man, about sex.

As a teenager, whenever someone asked about my father鈥攚hat he did, where he lived鈥擨 felt ashamed, and I lied. I looked to my friends鈥� fathers for cues. I absorbed their attention as leaves did sunlight, and I quietly learned which ones to appoint as role models.

Why my father left remains a mystery. That part of my past is full of holes and聽silence. The questions I鈥檝e asked have聽yielded bewildering answers. As unbelievable as it may seem, I鈥檝e been unable to get any family member on either side to share more than a scant few details. Over time the topic of my father slid from taboo to never discussed. (Eventually, my mom began dating other men, and now she鈥檚 happily remarried and content to leave that era behind.)

Unsatisfied, I eventually decided to do a bit of research myself, going so far as to purchase copies of my parents鈥� divorce papers at the county courthouse. They cost nine dollars. Here鈥檚 what I know: I was conceived out of wedlock. I don鈥檛 know how my parents met, but they married in April 1974, in Virginia City, Nevada. It seemed to be a shotgun wedding. According to the documents I鈥檝e gathered, my father was no longer living with us at the time of the divorce three years later. By then he was working in the mining business in Arizona. The stranger was free to visit, my mom often told me, provided he contributed financially. That never occurred. On my 18th birthday, my father reentered my life via Hallmark card. Tucked inside the card was a check in the amount of $50. His signature was in cursive. The ink he used: blue.聽

Few people can recall the details of nearly every moment spent with their father. I can. I met him five times as an adult, and each time our disconnection was obvious and massive. Our last encounter happened in 2009 in a hospital room, where he was dying, his brain too fogged by oxygen depletion to form intelligible sentences. The morning I learned of his death, I drove to a nearby river and leaped in. I needed to feel something other than numbness, and water always brought me solace.

Prior to his death, at 67, my father wrote a slim autobiography and sent it to me. He knew I was a writer, and as a final effort to bond, he typed out 68 single-spaced pages separated into nine chapters. Titled The Story of My Life, it was his attempt 鈥渢o help my son understand who his father was, and help him heal.鈥澛�

Six years passed before I finally read it. The disappointments from the past were too great, too insurmountable. When my father鈥檚聽father died, I finally opened the book.

What I read brought the gauzy contours of his life into focus. My father loved the water. As a young man he was a Navy submariner. Later he crewed aboard yachts in sailing races throughout Southern California. But what stood out most: he grew up surfing.

I loved water, too, but because I was from the desert, I never had much access to the sea. Despite that, I had fallen for surfing in my early twenties, when a friend of mine in Huntington Beach, California, introduced me to the sport. Discovering that my father was a surfer amazed me. According to his 鈥淪urfing鈥� chapter, he was raised in Manhattan Beach, several blocks from a young guy named Greg Noll who gave my father his first surfboard.

I was captivated by my father鈥檚 beachside youth鈥攁nd his relationship with Noll. I knew enough about the sport to be familiar with the big-wave-surfing pioneer. In his black-and-white jailhouse trunks, Greg “Da Bull” Noll was legendary for bombing down a massive 35-foot wave, in 1969, at a break called Makaha in Oahu. At the time, it was the biggest wave ever surfed. Many surfers can still recall the exact date of Noll鈥檚 feat.

My father wrote of Noll: 鈥淗e lived at home with his parents, and their house was on my way home from school. … One day he was out in the side yard shaping a balsa-wood surfboard. So, being a kid, I decided to stop by to see what he was doing. As time passed I stopped by more often.鈥�

That my father had orbited around Noll intrigued me. He referred to Noll as his 鈥渙ld friend.鈥� For the first time in my life, as I reread the 鈥淪urfing鈥� chapter, I actually wanted to know more about my father. Surfing felt like some kind of bridge.聽

I began to wonder what Noll might know: Did he have stories, memories? Soon I began fantasizing about riding a balsa-wood board like my father had. This, I felt, was my own Makaha. Even though I knew it was a long shot, I needed to track down Noll.聽

It turned out Noll liked being left alone. For five months I called and sent letters, postcards, and emails. Finally, I heard back from the Noll family. They agreed to a visit. Not only that, they granted my other request. Together we would build a surfboard.

GREG NOLL鈥橲 HOUSE overlooks the Smith River, 10 miles north of Crescent City, a sleepy port town in Northern California.

When I drive through the gate in mid-October, Greg is sitting in a chair and聽inspecting a rubber dinghy. He鈥檚 trying to devise a way to attach a fiberglass fin to the dinghy鈥檚 keel, he tells me. He wants to try surfing in the boat at a local break called Chickenshits. Apparently, Chickenshits forms waves only when conditions are big.聽

鈥淭hey call it that because everyone is too chickenshit to try it,鈥� Greg says. His eyes narrow behind his glasses. At 75, he may have thinning gray hair, but he still has the gleam of a daredevil in his eyes.聽

Greg鈥檚 wife, Laura, who is 65, met him while she was working as a secretary at his Hermosa Beach shop in the 1960s. She tells me that Greg recently fractured his tenth vertebra and collapsed his fifth falling off a stepladder. He has orders from his doctor to wear a back brace, but during my three-day visit I don鈥檛 see him with it on once.聽

My arrival coincides with a partial family gathering. Greg鈥檚 son Jed, whom Greg calls Pinch, is here, along with Jed鈥檚 three-year-old daughter, Trinity. It occurs to me that Trinity is the age I was when my father left.聽

My father didn鈥檛 just abandon my mom and me. He also left surfing behind. In the 1960s, he disapproved of the way surf culture 鈥渨as beginning to dabble in drugs. … I was聽opposed to that.鈥� Leaving surfing is something Greg knows about, too. Several years after catching the Makaha wave, and right around the time my father was growing disillusioned, Greg sold his surfboard factory and walked away. He was fed up with Hollywood鈥檚 exploitation of the sport, so he moved his family north and took up commercial fishing.聽

But, unlike my father, Greg slowly found his way back. The sport was too much in his blood. After a time, he began building recreations of classic wooden boards with his son. Nowadays, he and Jed handcraft about 10 each year.聽

Though I鈥檓 eager to pepper Greg with questions about my father鈥攚as he cool? funny?鈥擨 don鈥檛 want to come off as solemn or impatient. Jed leads me across the sprawling, remote property. The well-tended yard looks a bit more SoCal than NorCal. Scattered among redwood trees are a koi pond, an outdoor pool, imported palm trees, and a scarecrow in a wetsuit near the garden.聽

The workshop is a converted three-car garage. It鈥檚 full of wood, tools, and surfing memorabilia, overhung with vintage boards made by Hobie Alter, Gerry Lopez, and other renowned shapers. For a moment, I wonder where my father鈥檚 old boards ended up. It would be nice to have one. Everything I have of his fits inside three cardboard boxes鈥攄eath certificate, mining tools, not much.

Jed has arranged nine balsa sticks across two sawhorses. Since Greg鈥檚 back is broken, Jed and I perform the majority of the labor. Over the course of the weekend, Greg will periodically wander in to give advice and comment on our progress, like a principal architect. For our surfboard, a nine-foot-10-inch Malibu chip, the same as my father鈥檚, there are about 15 stages of construction. We鈥檒l shape the board here, and then Jed will finish the laminating at his shop in San Clemente.聽

Jed impresses me, but I鈥檝e often been impressed by sons who emulate their dads. At 35, he鈥檚 slipped comfortably into Greg鈥檚 well-worn sandals. The youngest of Greg鈥檚 four children, he strikes me as a gentler version of his dad; he鈥檚 not as boisterous, but, like Greg, he laughs just as easily as we prep the blank.聽

Once we set the vises, our board doesn鈥檛 look like much. We could be building a simple raft. The glue requires 24 hours to dry.聽

Jed and I step outdoors. The family鈥檚 Australian shepherd ambles over and sits on my feet. Jed tells me that they never let anyone participate in the building process. Usually, it鈥檚 just him and his dad.

I admit to Jed that I鈥檓 slightly jealous of his relationship with his father. The only thing mine ever showed me was how to vanish. Speaking forthrightly about my absentee dad seems to make Jed uncomfortable for a moment. He averts his eyes, and I quickly change the subject.聽

YEARS AGO, WHEN I WAS in my twenties and living in San Francisco, I would drive down Highway 1 to Half Moon Bay to stare at the waves at Maverick鈥檚, the notorious big-wave surf break. At the time, I knew nothing of my father鈥檚 past as a waterman and, despite my odd fascination with the sport, didn鈥檛 surf. Now I ride whenever I can.

Greg Noll gave my father his first board in the early '50s. As the decade wore on, my聽father bought other boards鈥攆rom some of the same guys whose creations currently hang in Noll鈥檚 workshop鈥攁nd loaded them into his 1940 Ford station wagon, the archetypal woody surf car that he bought from a former lifeguard for $250. He embraced the lifestyle before the Gidget movies turned everything into a clich茅.聽

By 1960, my father had gone from a young 鈥済remmie鈥� to opening his own shop on聽Stearn鈥檚 Wharf in Santa Barbara. Noll, by then a major surfing figure, supplied him with his inventory of boards.聽

Though by his own admission he was just having fun, my father was at the forefront of the surfing movement. He shared waves with Renny Yater and George Greenough, the surf photographer credited with inventing the modern surfboard fin. He was one of the earliest members of the exclusive Santa Barbara County Surf Club, which formed to gain聽access to the Hollister cattle ranch, now known as the Ranch. At Hollister, my father and his friends hung out in shabby beach shacks, surfing 鈥渢he most perfect waves anywhere in the world.鈥� (Abercrombie and Fitch picked up the name for its Hollister brand.)聽

Nearly always in trouble for ditching school to surf, my father failed to graduate with his high school class. When he was drafted into the Army in 1960, he chose to enlist in the Navy instead. On shore leave, he surfed in Hawaii and San Diego, where he was stationed, but by the end of the '60s he began turning away from the ocean. He spent the rest of his years pinballing around Arizona, New聽Mexico, and Nevada as a mining engineer. He last surfed in 1970. He was 28.聽

It strikes me as odd how, around the time I entered the world, my father trained his eyes on excavation. It鈥檚 as though he leaped onto a different set of tracks the moment I was born. The man went from living in California, riding waves, and sailing the Pacific to fathering a son, leaving the son, and then hiding out, literally, underground. He wrote that he was propelled by a need 鈥渢o push myself, and confront the unknown.鈥� Scattered among his adventures, he offers numerous apologies for his absence, but they don鈥檛 compensate for the fact that, in the span of 68 pages, he barely mentions having a son.

Still, there was a time when my father was young鈥攁 waterman. I feel a tinge of pride whenever I read his 鈥淪urfing鈥� chapter, but it鈥檚 pride in an apparition. He was a terrible father, but before I was even a wispy notion in his mind, he fell in love with the ocean, which is the only part of him I understand.聽

BEFORE SHAPING THE board, Greg and Jed want to show me around town. On our drive to scope out Chickenshits, Greg points to a rock poking out from the water several hundred yards from the beach. The ocean roils around it. It鈥檚 a long way out. And that water is frigid. Near shore a dozen surfers are braving it.聽

I ask Greg about the last time he surfed.聽

鈥淚 don鈥檛 know. It was sad,鈥� he tells me. 鈥淏ut by God, I鈥檓 going to put my ass in the聽dinghy.鈥� He looks at Jed in the passenger seat. 鈥淚鈥檒l catch a wave that way. Right, Pinch?鈥�

It occurs to me that I鈥檝e never spent time around any other 75-year-old who uses the word 产颈迟肠丑颈苍鈥� so often. Or one who laughs about the time he caught a 15-foot wave in his 26-foot fishing boat while motoring back into the harbor.聽

And I鈥檝e never met a father and son who talk so passionately about wood planers. Greg will only use the Skil Model 100, which is no longer made and which he collects. Jed went so far as to enlist a friend to build a聽series of prototypes. His latest is the JN2, or Jed Noll 2. A planer is, father and son insist, a shaper鈥檚 magic wand.聽

Greg doesn鈥檛 know it, but as I listen to him confab with Jed, he鈥檚 sliding into the role-model category in my mind. He鈥檚 cool. And look鈥�just look how he treats his son.

After days of milling, gluing, skinning the top, and finding the blank鈥檚 center point, it鈥檚 time to draw the surfboard template. We聽return to the shop.聽

In the shaping room, Greg lays a template across the blank. I notice markings on the template that read MALIBU … LIKE THE ONE I MADE WHEN I WAS TEN YEARS OLD. The sight of it startles me. I wonder if Greg used a similar one to build my father鈥檚 first board.聽

Hanging on the wall are dozens of other templates, including the one from the board Greg rode that fabled day at Makaha. After Greg quizzes Jed about our board鈥檚 dimensions, Greg gives me a pencil and asks me to help trace the board鈥檚 outline.

What remains after sawing around the lines is a hunk of wood that resembles a very thick surfboard. Next, Jed shows me how to run the planer. He eases the JN2 back and forth and then hands it off to me. Since I鈥檓 new at this, I notch ugly grooves into the nose section, which he later corrects.

After a while I head into the house. I want to talk with Greg. When we sit at the kitchen table, he lays his hand on my shoulder.聽

鈥淚 think it鈥檚 great you鈥檙e doing this,鈥� he says.

We pass around a photo of my father.聽

鈥淵our dad,鈥� Greg says, 鈥渨as one of the very first kids to come by my parents鈥� place. He was a quiet, 产颈迟肠丑颈苍鈥� little guy, and I could tell he had all the makings of a future surfer.鈥�

鈥淗ow so?鈥� I ask him.

鈥淓agerness, a twinkle in his eyes. You can tell. One day I had a board on the heavy side. The shape was no good. Every once in a while I鈥檇 see a kid who didn鈥檛 have much money. So I gave him the board. Over the years, I鈥檇 see him hanging out with the Marine Street gang and surfing at the Manhattan pier.鈥�

Greg squints at the photo and goes quiet. He can鈥檛 offer much else. There were so many people circling around in those days, he says, and it鈥檚 easy to see how he wouldn鈥檛 remember them all. The conversation leaves me questioning my father鈥檚 autobiography. Was Noll really an 鈥渙ld friend,鈥� or is Greg鈥檚 memory just hazier than I had hoped it would be?聽

I put the photo away. I鈥檓 tired. Piecing聽together the life of a phantom is taxing.聽Besides, I don鈥檛 know what information will help me better understand Robert Waters. Later I realize that the details aren鈥檛 as important as the experience. Building the board, and hanging out with Greg and Jed, has helped me create the first positive memory of my father鈥攐ne that I鈥檒l forever associate with him.

A RUSH OF WATER delivers me to shore. I ride in on my knees. Water drips down my face from my hair. My arms are noodled, and I鈥檝e been out for so long that I can鈥檛 feel my toes. Robin helps me bury my feet in sand. After an hour, I haven鈥檛 caught one wave.聽

It鈥檚 a struggle. Because of the board鈥檚 weight, it blasts through oncoming waves like a freighter, but it鈥檚 difficult to control when faint rips catch the large fin and pull it sideways. And without a leash, I have to chase down the board whenever I fall off, which is exhausting.

For a while we sit in the sand and stare at the Santa Monica Mountains. I tell Robin I鈥檝e decided I can鈥檛 leave my father鈥檚 ashes in the water. For one, I don鈥檛 know how to transport the plastic baggie outside the breakers without losing it. Secondly, I鈥檓 not ready to let him go. This isn鈥檛 the right place. Manhattan Beach is different than it once was. It鈥檚 cushy now, the sandy beach lined with multi-million-dollar palaces, and around my father鈥檚 boyhood house, on Pine Avenue, few of the trees that gave the street its name remain.

Earlier, when we retrieved the surfboard from Jed鈥檚 shop in San Clemente, I told him I鈥檇 try my best not to ding it. He laughed nervously. An identical board sells for around $6,000 and gets wall-mounted by collectors. Now the Malibu chip is in the sand, waxed up, a nick in the fin, and I take pleasure in returning it to its rightful purpose.

At the end of his autobiography, my father writes, 鈥淚 wish things could have been different, but it was not, and for that I am truly sorry.鈥澛�

I seize the board and head into the聽water again. I lift the nose over smaller beach-breaking waves, jump on, and paddle. An oncoming wave washes cool water down the neckline of my wetsuit. There鈥檚 a lull, and the water flattens. Then another set approaches.聽

It takes half an hour to arrive, and it鈥檚 not the prettiest wave, or the biggest, but I set a line and paddle. Like my father, I ride goofy foot. All focus is on the mechanics.

I feel a euphoria that鈥檚 more significant than any I felt in my father鈥檚 presence.聽Other than our shared name, water is our only connection. It passes through my fingers鈥攊nvigorating, cold, and baptismal.

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