The damn thing was a lot to deal with, though. Around your wrist, it was in the way. Around your neck, it was hard to get your hands on. And with those lobster claws I wear in the winter, it wasn't easy to re-wind. All that to say, I only took ten or twelve photos with the fucking thing. The rest were wasted; taken when I was out of the water, where frozen fingers wouldn't fuck up a photo. Anyhow, here's a few that came off that camera. Funny, but Karissa_Would take all these images, as most of the ones I tried to take didn't turn out. Go figure.
This weekend, like the last, a buzzing sound beneath the bed woke both of us up. It was a text message from our dear friend, Dr.Jake: "Waves are waist high. No wind." Well hot damn! But by the time we ate breakfast, drank coffee and paid to park, there was wind. Lots of it. We stood on the sand for over an hour, hoping it would die down. Bored, Bricky decided to put on his man pants and paddle out. I stayed ashore. Sometimes you score. Sometimes you sit. It's a goddamn dice game. Anyhow. Here's a few photos from the time we spent standing around on Saturday.
My thoughts come quickly. One or two sentences at a time. Frustrated. Feeling as though I'm the only one aware that none of this is going to last. That whatever you want is not worth it's weight in whiskey. That you should acquire experiences - be them good or bad - and not all the accouterments. All that excess. Surfing seems to help. And perhaps all this is the result of me not having surfed for what feels like forever (two weeks?!). But even the best wave, the one you chalked up as your finest work that weekend, fades from memory faster than the time you spent on the tip. Flickering. Because if you're lucky, you might remember a moment of that moment.
Or maybe it's that I'm surrounded by people that I have little in common with. Preoccupied with house wives and house work and all the other shit that you're supposed to do following those few years you're allowed to say "what the fuck." Is it age? Or is it that I'm wholly unwilling to let the little shit stop me from pursuing some sense of serenity? Why the fuck do I feel this way?
For whatever reason I think of a conversation I had with a woman I once worked with. She was in her late fifties and well aware of the fact that those with a lot almost always want more than those with very little. She said to me one morning, after a beautiful young woman had walked past our window - husband hanging back a few feet, obviously uninterested in what was right in front of him - "Show me a beautiful woman and I'll show you a man that's tired of fucking her."
- Allan C. Weisbecker
Sean Tully surfing a 9'10 Zamora PMP at Malibu. The board, which they describe as "a pig inspired log with a twist of the modern noserider," features a wide point aft, fuller deck, deep blended nose concave, flatter rocker and just enough tail kick to help you twinkle all ten toes. As seen on Stoke Harvester.
Defined in the dictionary as an informal adjective, hush-hush is how some of us say "secret" - shut up for the less enlightened. It's also a word one might use to describe a wave: "It's an A-frame, that breaks over black rock. You can only get to it by boat, so it's sort of hush-hush, you know?" Clear and concise. A surfer will understand what you're trying to say; that you're not going to tell them where to find this wave. They should, however, enjoy the idea of it. Because this sort of silence, this hush-hush stuff, it's pretty important. Especially when it comes to waves. "Never kiss and tell" is what my mother would say. "It's not good to gab." And now that I've been there, to that secret spot breaking over black rock, I understand what my mother meant. Some things are best kept quiet. Some things should stay hush-hush.
Originally a seasonal beer offered by the brew pub, the India Pelican Ale quickly became an official offering after numerous people demanded a pint. Made with both Cascade and Centennial hops, Pelican's IPA is full of flavor... but not bitter. And with 7.5% ABV, it'll definitely grab you by the boo-boo! Lucky for me, it's one of the many IPAs available at the Long House. So on our way outta town last weekend I bought a tall bottle. And when the surf didn't show up on Saturday, it was an excellent alternative.
Two years ago, Karissa and I took a trip to PDX for what I believe was the first custom motorcycle show curated by the See See Motor Coffee Co. We drove down following work on Friday, stayed at the Ace Hotel, and then had one hell of a good time the next night. Funny, but I think that's when I met Todd from Twinline. Anyhow, we weren't able to attend last year - something about ten feet at twelve seconds - but it looked legit. Which is why I wanna go again.
This year, however, The One Motorcycle Show will be a three day thing starting on Friday, February 8th and ending sometime on Sunday, February 10th. The show, which will be held at the Sandbox Studios in the northeast part of Portland, will feature bikes built by Chabott Engineering, Deus Ex Machina and 4Q Conditioning, as well as 21 helmets decorated by all sorts of artists. If you're interested, additional info is available here.
So, in order to acquire said surfboard, I've decided to sell a few sticks. A friend already bought my Becker, and, thanks to the salty scum at Stoke Harvester, I should be able to sell the Blue Banana before too long. But what do I want my new log to look like? Howsabout a bright red body with big black-and-white jail stripes?! You can see the shitty sketch I sent to Margaret this morning. I'm pretty sure it'll be prettier in person. And since we're planning to pick it up sometime this spring, I should be able to surf it in So-Cal. Stay tuned!