---

Reflections of the sun,
surf and a buddy’s grin

The first day of second grade, Dennis Casar hit me in the head with a big rubber ball. We were competing for the affection of a cute 8-year-old named Sherry.

Sister Mary Karen witnessed the skirmish, then made us stay after school to write 20 prayers on the blackboard.

The next day during a lunchtime baseball game, Dennis caught a line drive preserving a tie. I was first at bat in the bottom of the ninth and hit a home run for the win.

Dennis and I were heroes and, as it turned out, became lifelong friends through elementary and high school in Hollywood, paper routes, athletic teams, various girlfriends and failed marriages.

He was an altar boy at my dad's funeral; I was the best man at his wedding. We called each other right away when our children were born.

I learned to surf in 1963 because Dennis had. Then we traveled thousands of miles together searching for waves in California, Mexico and Hawaii, sleeping on remote beaches, in the back of one another's VW vans, in cheap motels. Being with Dennis often was as thrilling as the surfing.

One Cinco de Mayo celebrated in Mexico, women clamored to dance with the hip-swaying gringo. He sang in two L.A. bands during the turbulent '60s and often performed in clubs and bars on our surfing safaris.

All I have now are memories. My friend died May 3 after a morning surf session at Diamond Head Cliffs. Cause of death hasn't been determined, but Dennis was no weekend warrior.

As a respected and very busy carpenter and boat refinisher -- most of it at the Ala Wai Canal and his home base Waikiki Yacht Club -- Dennis would have been considered fit for a guy half his age, and at 6 feet tall and 165 pounds he was sinewy and muscular. He was the oldest surfer I knew who could still knee paddle a surfboard to reach and catch waves.

He moved to Hawaii more than 30 years ago with his girlfriend, who became his wife and mother of his only child. Dennis moved here because Hawaii made him "... feel soo free. People don't take so things so importantly here."

Fun was something Dennis actively pursued on the ocean, including sailing, and for years beach volleyball until most of his friends' bodies wore out. Recently, he took up golf.

"I'm no Tiger Woods, but I'm working on it," he told me, laughing.

Dennis' good looks got him modeling jobs in print and TV ads, and on Hawaii TV shows from "Magnum, P.I." to "Lost."

My friend had his flaws. Once when we paddled in from surfing Waikiki, he grabbed the back of my wetsuit for a tow, ripping it neck to waist. I was furious.

"But, but," Dennis pleaded, "It must have been old?"

"I could sue you and win!" I screamed.

"Now, Tim," he said in an annoying whisper. "Would you sue me over an old wetsuit?"

Then that smile.

I confess, my friend, it was old.

The angriest he got with me was after I dropped in on him on a perfect wave, causing him to fall.

"I can't believe you did that," he said later.

"I'm, uh, sorry," I said. "Really sorry."

He looked me in the eyes, flashed that smile, then screamed "Geeeez," and his childhood nickname for me, "Rybo!"

That was the end of it.

Dennis affected everyone he met, friend, stranger, client, rival. He liked people, talking, listening, exchanging ideas.

I miss his unique personality and even his quirkiness. There's a 52-year friendship clutching my heart and it's because Dennis isn't nearby. Life was so much more fun knowing he was here.

"We're gonna live a long time -- well, I am," he laughingly told me when he turned 40, gently poking my belly.

I believed you, buddy. Save a spot in the lineup, Dennis. I promise not to drop in this time.

---