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One summer when I was a kid, my cousins, Mike and David Pollard, and I walked down to Nags Head Pier where there was a good break on the North side. I'm a goofy foot surfer so naturally I like lefts when I can catch them. A left ride on the North side of any pier on the Outer Banks puts you heading straight for the pilings where paying fisherman have their lines. Back then every pier had a sign that read in big red letters, "NO SURFING 300 FEET OF PIER". This particular day I was catching lefts and worrying the pure hell out of a burly bearded long haired fisherman who kept yelling at me to stay away. What did I care he wasn't going to jump in the water and get me. After a while he pulled his lines and moved to the South side. About an hour or so later we left the water and walked up to the Footsball Palace to get something to eat. As I was sitting at the counter getting ready to lay into a cheeseburger, the pier fisherman walked in, put a coin in the juke box, and, I'll never forget, played "Sultans of Swing". He then sat on the stool right beside me, ordered a basket of fries and ate everyone with his bowie knife as he stared straight at me with ketchup running down his shiny blade.
We politely left and went somewhere else to surf. That spot wasn't so hot anyway.
