The Legend of Ed “Pop” Proctor | By Ghost

From what I’ve heard, we’re gonna talk a lot about freedom here in The Pit. So, what you’re likely to hear from me is a lot of talk about the roar of a combustion engine, the refusal to bow down to any 9-to-5 death march, and the grit of the gravel on the road less traveled. But in this digital age, where "Van Life" is a hashtag and nomads are sponsored by energy drink companies, I believe, wholeheartedly, that it is vital to look in the rearview mirror. We need to, out of the respect demanded by this way of life, pay respects to the giants who paved the road we ride on.

With that bein’ said, if you go diggin’ through the genealogy of the 20th-century American nomad, past the hippies, and past the beatniks, you hit bedrock. And what you find solidified in the history of that bedrock is ol’ Ed “Pop” Proctor, aka “Waterman”.

Ol’ man Pop wasn’t doin' it for “likes” back then. No, he was the original asphalt ascetic. A true legend who bridged the gap between the Depression-era drifter and the golden age beach bum. I’m tellin’ ya, read this man’s stories. He wasn’t any ol’ hobo just out there survivin’ on the fringes of society; he thrived there. I’m talkin’ lived it, breathed it, conquered it, and carved his name into the foundations of American freedom.

You see, from the start, Proctor was always a creature of oil and gears. Born in the late 19th century, he spent much of his early years as a mechanic in Central California. He built race cars and ran many of his own garages. He even claimed to have employed a man who worked for the one and only Nikola Tesla, or “Teddy” Tesla, as Pop liked to call him. But when the Great Depression came down and shattered the American dream, Pop didn't crumble and stand in a breadline; he grit his teeth, straddled a motorcycle, and hit the fuckin’ road.

Throughout the 1930s, Proctor took to what he explicitly called “motorcycle hobo’n.” Now this ain't any weekend joyride, no sir. This was his way of wagin' economic warfare. He ran his bike up and down the California coast, not as a beggar, but as an nomadic tradesman of sorts. He carried everything he owned in his saddlebags, takin' odd jobs and stoppin' at hotels to do maintenance. He proved a point that I would encourage any Venom & Truth reader to tattoo on their brain: competence buys freedom. If you can fix things, hell, you can go anywhere.

In 1937, at the age of 56, just when most men were lookin' for a rockin' chair to die in, Pop found the ocean. He discovered surfing at San Onofre and eventually dropped anchor at Doheny State Beach. He traded the motorcycle for a customized panel truck (first a Dodge, then a Ford), becomin' the pioneer of the mobile home decades before the concept existed. He lived in that truck, right there in the State Park, with the tacit approval of the rangers.

He was the first true Waterman of the coast, becomin' Doheny’s first lifeguard. He’d go on to patrol the break well into his senior years, snorkelin' for lobster and abalone, and that is how he kept his belly full. A deeply philosophical man, in his own right, he taught every man he came across that the ocean wasn’t a battlefield to be conquered but a playground to be respected.

Truth is, though, it wasn’t his philosophy that cut deepest. Pop rejected the American obsession with material things and the accumulation of wealth. He was a scavenger poet. He got by with whatever he could get his hands on. His famous recipe for “Chop Suey,” immortalized in the San Onofre Surf Club Cookbook, began with the instruction: “First you find some spaghetti…” That is the mantra of the road. You don’t buy; you find. You make do. You drink your “Drago Red” wine by the fire, strum your ukulele, and you tell stories.

And goddamn, could he tell ‘em. He spun yarns ‘bout ridin' freight trains, gettin’ jailed for vagrancy while carryin’ a concealed straight razor, and trekkin’ through Mexico with nothin' but a coffee grinder and a rifle that he shared with a Yaqui Indian.

At 93, you better believe, he was still sharp as a tack, joggin’ the beach, paddlin’ out to surf, and livin' outta the back of of his truck. He proved that the nomadic impulse isn’t just a phase for the young. It is a strategy for life. For pop it was the only way to stay young forever. He passed away at 97.

So, the next time you fire up your engine or wax up your board, pour one out for Pop. He was out there first, findin' the spaghetti, fixin' the circuits, and ridin' the wave of an unpredictable life.

Stay dangerous.

- Ghost