THE VERDICT:Beginning, end of our kite-flying

It was a thoroughly miserable day. The air was cold, the water was in the low 50s, the surf — if it could be called surf — fit the description of “ankle slappers.”

A group of us sat around feeling sorry for ourselves, debating whether we would rather be in Angola or Afghanistan. I doubt that in those days any of us knew where either country was, but since each started with an A, it was a good place to start.

Then Tad Devine spoke up. “What does one do on a miserable day like this?”

Since it was a purely rhetorical question, with the answer supposed to come only from the one who asked the question, the rest of us remained politely silent.

After a suitable time had passed, Tad looked around to be sure he had our unqualified attention, cleared his throat and declared, “One flies a kite,” as proudly as though he had just invented the wheel.

The rest of us were chagrined. The answer was so obvious. Why hadn’t we thought of it? For shame. And so was born the institution known as the Federated Union of Certified Kiters.

At first it was rather small, just our own group, which met on the hillside back of San Clemente where we flew our kites. However, the idea caught on like that proverbial wildfire, and soon we were playing host to kiters from Santa Cruz to Ensenada.

Teams were formed, categories named, and it became an annual competition, now in the Irvine hills.

We became so well-organized we had an announcer, the incomparable Hevs McClelland. Teams had their own canopies and T-shirts. One team competed in tuxes. Another arrived in a Sherman tank.

The competition was vicious. To be sure that the judges would not be subject to bribes or other influences, Virgil Partch, John Dempsey, Andy Devine and I were placed in a huge trash container and kept there under careful watch to ensure that no one could get close enough to bribe us.

We had the foresight to secrete a bottle of vodka, which helped tide us through our seclusion.

The kite-flying became so ambitious that it was eventually decided to launch a human. Mickey Munoz was chosen ostensibly because he was the smallest, but actually because he was the only one with the nerve to do such a thing.

A huge kite was built. Mickey was hitched to the kite, the kite was hitched to a Jeep, Mickey signaled the driver of the Jeep, and he took off in that proverbial cloud of dust, Mickey running as fast as he could.

Finally, the kite took off. It was a great spectacle, something in the nature of a nuclear explosion. Mickey got about 30 feet in the air when the law of gravity took over. Down came Mickey.

Fortunately, he hit on his head. Otherwise he might have been seriously injured.

As far as I know, Mickey is still shaping surfboards in San Clemente and doing a fine job. I just hope that when the yen overtakes him to take off into the great blue yonder, he does it over water instead of land.

As for the contest, after that stunt, the owner of the property became worried about insurance claims, and that was the end of our kite flying.