PHOTO GALLERY | Baggin Waves

Back in August, Kyra and I borrowed a pair of Victory Motorcycles (the mid-sized Octane and a full-dress Cross Country), then proceeded to pack wetsuits, swim fins and an inflatable surf mat onto the bikes before making our way from Southern California to Seattle, riding waves and windy roads along the way. The story about our adventure was recently published by Outside Magazine (read it here). The number of photos Outside was able to publish was limited to just six shots, so I thought I'd share an assortment of images that both Kyra and myself took while riding up the West Coast.

Baggin Waves

Can't divulge the details, or too many images for that matter, but basically we've been riding a pair of Victory Motorcycles from Southern California to Seattle, with inflatable surf mats, wetsuits and swim fins strapped to the tail. Check the #BagginWaves tag for a few photos, and stay tuned for the full story on Outside!

The Return of the Pale Pig

When we last spoke, Kyra and I were headed to Long Beach for the International Motorcycle Show, having spent the week prior surfing 38th in Santa Cruz and C Street in Ventura, among other things. The show was exhausting as always, but fruitful in many ways. We talked about motorbikes, shook a few unfamiliar hands, had a dinner party that swelled from four to plus-fourteen, and then talked of upcoming adventures with people who've spent more than a decade riding motorcycles around the world. We shuddered at the obvious excuses people use for why they're not riding, avoided the overzealous individuals that just want to talk, and then eventually escaped. The following week was spent in-and-around San Clemente, surfing San Onofre, slugging Betty's at Gnar Gnar's new compound in Silverado, eating plenty of Pizza Port and visiting a few (old) friends. I suspect the photos will tell the tale better than my re-hashed ramblings...

Twenty and Ten is Ten

Surfing with snow on the sand is pretty rare in these parts. If we're lucky, clouds will accumulate during December and litter the ground with cold little crystals, leaving the city of Seattle and surrounding suburbs frozen for a few days. Snow being such an odd occurrence, city officials and citizens alike are wholly unaware of what to do when the ground is white and the temperature remains a few degrees below freezing. Panic ensues. Car accidents everywhere. People slipping in the middle of the street. There's a run on milk and canned goods at every store in Seattle. People stay inside Starbucks, dreading the commute back to their homes, offices or apartments. It's silly. And so Karissa and I escape. Driving west at the first signs of a freeze. Better to be where there are waves than trapped inside some coffee conglomerate, waiting for it to warm up.

Honestly, though, we weren't sure what to expect this weekend. Cold, yes, but snow on the ground and ice on all the roads?! Shit. We fled on Friday, riding a six something ferry across the Sound. We stayed the night near Port Angeles - a rather cold night I might add - before continuing our search for surf first thing on Saturday. The roads were alright. Icy at times, some snow on the shoulder, but once we rolled onto the reservation the conditions became increasingly worse. Side street were now sheets of ice, and the long gravel road out to the end was covered in a light layer of ice and snow itself. We took our time. Fargo, being but one wheel drive, would not easily escape the ice, if we so happened to get stuck. But alas, we arrived alright. And after surveying the situation, we decided we'd better surf while there was still some sun in the sky.

Cold? Yes. But bearable. With our wool-lined Patagonia wetsuits, lobster claws and 7mm booties, the water was not what we were worried about. It was the offshore wind, blowing anywhere from five to fifteen mph at times. Cold across your face, a frozen, gives-no-fucks kinda cold. I surfed first while Karissa stayed ashore to take a few photos. It didn't last long, though. I was outta the water within the hour, shaking and mumbling my way back to the van. Karissa paddled out while I was taking what may have been the longest shower of my life. I did, however, get back to the beach in time to take a few photos myself. Waves? They were alright. Small, but clean. With offshore wind and sets separated by minutes instead of seconds. That night Karissa cooked on our camp stove and we sat inside the van and drank beer and consumed copious amounts of chili with cheddar on top. The sun set shortly before five, and by six we had both climbed into bed, trying desperately to stay warm. The temperature that night was said to be sixteen.

A Balanced Diet

For some people, long weekends can be difficult to deal with. Too many days away - a rupture in their routine. Maybe they'll drink brewed coffee in ceramic cups and eat eggs and bacon, as opposed to their usual iced americano and eight-grain roll. They'll take a six minute shower instead of two at twenty. Or spend a few hours in the ocean in replace of an evening at the gym; watching other peoples athletic achievements on an overhead screen while music plays in their ears. Or maybe they'll find themselves surrounded by friends and familiar faces instead of ordering takeout Thai food on a Friday night. And maybe they'll drink bourbon and beer instead of diet soda. Most people enjoy the juxtaposition. Others find the uncertainty a little unsettling. But if you're like me, you'll indulge in this new routine, or rather the lack thereof. You'll make last minute decisions, stay out an extra hour, eat a late lunch, drink three cups of coffee or surf until your fingers are frozen and your shoulders are sore. Because when Monday comes knockin, when your weekday routine returns, you'll regret not enjoying all those out of place activities. Guaranteed.

Till You Can't Feel Your Feet

This is the time of year when I am supposed to be thankful for things. Friends, family, good food, a healthy heart, etc. It's easy to overlook all of the good shit I've got going on, though. Overwhelmed at times by a whole bunch of bullshit, bad people and even worse weather. But when I can step back for a second, you know, really digest some of this shit, it becomes apparent that I've got it really good. It's easy to complain, however. To want more or yearn for something other than what you've already acquired. The grass being greener and all that. And so I struggle. Like a lot of people I presume. Wanting what others own; a bigger van, a different sorta surfboard, some new shoes. Whatever it is. But when I stop to think, to take into account where I am at versus where I was, the desires disappear. Instead I smile, thinking about all the waves we had this weekend, the campfires and the cold beers, the offshore wind and the candid conversations. It was incredible. And I couldn't be more thankful. Because in the end, all the crap we've acquired won't matter that much. It'll be the experiences - daydreams and nightmares alike - that define who we are, or who we were.

Whiskey Was The Word

I won't get into it all, but lets just say last week(end) was not wonderful. Two funerals, a lot of whiskey and some sleep left us exhausted come Sunday evening. We'd driven from Federal Way to Port Angeles following the second service and were eagerly anticipating our dinner date with Angel and Quinton. My mother was in town all week and traveled north with us on Sunday evening. After eating and drinking, we all took a seat in front of Angel's tiny television to watch Invasion! From Planet C for the umpteenth time. And while we drank whiskey and ginger syrup and talked about all the bad things that had happened that week, my mother tucked her self into Angel's refurbished guest room, and somehow slept through all of our silliness.

Monday morning we ate bagels for breakfast before heading west in search of surf. We skipped the first spot in favor of the second, and found two of our friends slipping out of their wetsuits as soon as we arrived. There were waves. Reasonably sized ones. But the tide was too high and the swell was reflecting off a steep shelf, creating that baby-in-a-bathtub effect. We paddled out anywhoo, and found a few fun ones. My mother snapped a some photos, poking her head out the passenger side of Fargo every few minutes as to avoid standing in the rain. We kept it short and sweet, donned the Cloak of Stoke and headed back toward Seattle sooner than I would have wanted. It was a rough week, but a salty dip in the sea made everything feel a bit better.

Bedazzled!

Goddamn we got it good! Saturday, out at the end, with wind blowing outta the east and a sliver of sun in the sky. We dragged our feet all the way out, stopping for snacks, checking some other spots, etc. Wish we wouldn't have waited. Oh well. You take what you can get this time of year. Fargo was full-up, with Karissa and Angel up front, and Zoe and I buried in the back with four boards and six wetsuits. Cold beer from the cooler and a warm shower followed three or four hours in the ocean. It was crowded by comparison. Some Stand Up Paddle people, a few friends and a collection of kooks on the inside. We drove back after dark, ate dinner at Angel's, drank whiskey and apple cider and passed out early. A text message woke me up Sunday morning. "Waist high and offshore." But by the time we ate breakfast, drank coffee and dragged our asses out there, the swell had died down a bit. Wind was still outta the south, though. I slipped into my suit and paddled out to the east. Karissa, who wasn't feeling well, stayed ashore and snapped a few photos. The waves and weather could have been better. I'm just glad we got it so good on Saturday.

Sprinkle Frosted Cake Donuts

Apprehension: anxiety or fear that something bad or unpleasant will happen. Not sure why I felt that way. We found what we're always after; shoulder high sets, intervals, etc. I paddled out atop a Silver Spoon. But it was blue. Not the stick I usually surf. Sans leash. Long lines lay ahead, stretching across sand, standing up and then closing quickly. I paddled out to the east, drifted west, and surfed south. Soon I was surrounded by a handful of like-minded loggers. Solid surfers with a disposition different than what you'd normally encounter on the coast. Optimistic. Excited. We shared a few fun ones. Laughed when someone survived a section. Cringed when someone got stuck inside. I surfed like shit. Hungover from three too many martinis and two pieces of pumpkin pie. I couldn't keep it together. Balance was bullshit. Footwork fucked up. Timid at times. Oh well. We left early that afternoon. Obligations on the other side of the sound. Suppose I'll keep my fingers crossed for similar waves this weekend. And perhaps this time I'll skip the pie. Or maybe the martinis ;) Follow the link for a few more photos.

Somewhere Suddenly

It'll arrive unexpectedly. Suddenly sometimes. Without warning. You're at the right place but the wrong time. Because you never really know where you'll find waves. Your guess is as good as mine. Swell size, angle, etc. Taking note of the tide, or what about the wind. I remember our earliest excursions, traveling from spot to spot, searching for that surprise. Something unexpected. We found it a few times, stumbled upon the swell, surfed for a few and then kept quiet. Other times we told; a few friends, my father. We learned our lesson, though. How to keep it Hush-Hush.

This weekend, however, we found the fickle. The right place at the right time. We could hear it from the front seat of Fargo, breaking over a shallow rock bottom. Small stones leading to a sandy shore, with tall trees flung this way and that. We watched it for awhile. It was us and an eagle. We'd been on the road and were eager for anything. Waist high? Maybe a bit bigger. Clean, but closing quickly. We surfed until sundown. Flying down the face, pulling in and out, trying not to stuff our sticks into the sand. How better to spend a Sunday than surfing somewhere, suddenly, with someone you love.

That Unexpected Offshore

As you may have noticed, Fall is my favorite. A season that can surprise, October offers unexpected offshore winds, sunny skies and cold evenings spent around a campfire. I really can't complain. We surfed for six hours on Saturday; waiting while the wind shifted from east to west and then back again. Oh, and did I mention that the waves were wonderful?! Waist high, with wind in your face and lots of long peeling lefts and slow running rights. That evening, Karissa cooked something simple (penne noodles, chicken sausage and red sauce) and we ate, and drank a bit of bourbon. I stayed up late talking to my friend Todd about Voodoo Acupuncture, while Karissa climbed into the van and fell asleep shortly after eight. Unfortunately, Sunday morning sorta sucked. A mess of white water and a shapeless swell had showed up. So with exhausted arms and an unwillingness to waste what little energy we had left on something shitty, we decided to eat a big breakfast and then hike into the woods to shoot a few photos. We stopped at some spots on our way outta town, but the waves weren't any better. So we decided to head inland in search of (better) surf. I'll save that story, though.

Color Correct

Our friend Derek Sparks is an incredible artist. Different, no doubt, but his photographs are a form of art that few people are familiar with. He'll take what might otherwise be an ordinary image and expand upon it; exaggerating the color and condition, making the sea sparkle and the grey skies look good. It really is incredible. So anytime we see Derek standing on the shore, tripod set securely in the sand, his face buried into the back of his camera, we know something cool will come of it. With that being said, follow the link and take a look at some of the images Derek snapped last Saturday.

We Don't Get Waves?!

With the surf report calling for long period groundswells and some strong wind outta the east, my friend Tom Hanny skipped work on Monday and headed south in search of surf. He expected to see something sizable. Some big waves wouldn't be bad. But I don't think anyone was expecting to see what actually rolled in that Monday morning. Honestly, I'd prefer to let Tom's photos do the talking, but I will say it's days like these that remind me that we do get waves. Real ones. Big ones. And that if you're willing to work for it, they can be better than anywhere else. So with that being said, follow the link and take a look at some of Tom's photos from that secret spot down south.

Out There On Our Own

Rare are the weekends spent surfing without anyone else. Camped out in the corner, alone, with nothing more than a small fire, a bottle of wine and a couple of camp chairs. It happens in October. When the kids are back in school and the conditions can be, well, uncertain at best. It's good, though, the days and nights we spend together, uninterrupted. It can be quiet. Picking a peak, maybe fifteen or twenty feet apart, and surfing the shoulder. We come in only to snack on something. Then we surf some more. The evenings are incredible. A quick shower followed by a beer. She'll sort out something else to eat - Karissa always cooks. We can see the sun set from where we sit, in front of a fire, with out feet up, chatting about waves and whatnot. We go to bed early. An opportunity to sleep more than we do during the work week. Coffee is followed by something simple to eat, as soon as the sun shows up on Sunday. And then we surf some more. Fargo is filled with the sound of Seahawks as we drive back from the beach. Football in the fall. Maybe we stop to watch the end of the game. Maybe we don't. Another cup of coffee before we board the boat. And then we park and unpack at our apartment, and spend the dwindling hours of daylight dreaming about the waves we had. Or the waves we'll have next weekend.

Offshore in October

They fade so fast, all the waves in a weekend. The good and the bad. Gone before you know it. You try so hard to save some of them, to put them in the back of your brain, so you can take a taste a little later - maybe Monday morning, or Wednesday after work. But when you close your eyes, all you see is the sun and sand. For some reason, the waves went away. Which is why we're here, on the internet, so I can see the size and the shape. So that maybe I'll remember. That long left, with offshore wind blowing white water into my face - a blind drop followed by a big bottom turn - tucked low toward the top, skimming my fingers across the face. Or maybe I'll remember one more. A reasonably sized right, held open long past its prime, taking steps to increase speed. It's as if they need some time to settle. The memories that is. To take their place amongst all the other waves that weekend, or weekends past. Because I can see clearly something I surfed six weeks ago. Maybe more. But the ones this weekend, well, I might as well have been blindfolded.

Rain, Trees and Leaves

We all know the fall is fickle. Staring at surf reports, listening to weather band broadcasts or making a few phone calls to friends. Some of that shit can help. Most of it is a waste of time, though. But you roll the dice and drive out to take a look - fingers crossed all the way there. Sometimes you score, more often you don't. It's the inconsistency that makes surfing this season so special. Because when it's good, it can be real good. And so went our weekend. An early exit followed by a ferry ride. Dinner at Angel's and then coffee and some kind of cereal the next morning. We found it flat. So we drove back to town, went to the gym, snagged some socks at Moss and then (inadvertently) celebrated Oktoberfest at Toga's with Angel, Quinton, Steve Abandonato and his wife, Dana.

Sunday morning came too quickly. Maybe it was the White Russian(s). In search of surf, we found the road blocked by a rather tall tree. Parked Fargo, chatted with the kid stuck on the other side, and then decided to cut the fucker down and clear the road using a small handsaw we'd purchased last winter. Took about an hour. In the rain. Afterward, we ate a late breakfast at the Blackberry Cafe and then drove the long way round, avoiding what was now a closed road. Some surf showed up while we were away. It was small, but we found a few fun ones. Wearing our winter suits sure did suck, though. After a couple of hours, Karissa got cold and paddled back to the beach. I called it quits when the wind picked up. So was it worth all that effort? Sure. Better than sitting on our asses in Seattle.

Surface Tension & The First Days of Fall

I'm no good at gambling. I think blackjack is boring and I still can't understand why poker is on ESPN. And don't even get me started on slot machines. To be honest, though, it's not that I am bad at it, it's just I don't like the idea of losing. But as winter grows ever closer, gambling becomes an increasingly more important part of my life. Risk vs. Reward. Do we drive all the way out? Is this a good weekend to go? Should we surf right now, or wait on the incoming tide? Every choice offering an opportunity for failure. 50/50 at best. Because when you surf just two or three days a week, your Wave Window grows smaller by the second. Missed moments. Waiting in one place while waves break in another. Sorta like Saturday. We had planned to stay in Pacific City, hoping like hell the wind and waves would die down a bit. But it was ugly. And with no desire to surf the soup, we decided to drive north. Dice rolled.

It's roughly 325 miles from Pacific City to Port Angeles. The drive up Highway 101 can be incredible... after Olympia. We didn't waste any time along the way, though. Stopping once for coffee and again for fuel. Blazing a trail, if you will. It was five minutes after five when we walked across the street and into the ocean. Two of our friends had been there since early that afternoon and said it had been small, but surfable. As luck would have it, however, the waves were waist high when we arrived. Straight Flush! Karissa and I surfed until the sun went down, sharing waves and taking turns shooting a few photos. As the tide filled in, the swell began to die down a bit. We showered and then headed to Angel's house for our first fall feast of the year. And while I can't speak for the conditions on the coast, I can say that the two hours we spent surfing that evening were worth all the extra effort.

Faraway Friends

Friends are funny. Some of them you see all the time; maybe once or twice a week. Some you only see on certain occasions - like at birthday parties or baseball games. And then there's that whole other group. The ones you see like once or twice a year... if you're lucky. But what's funny is not the fact that you are "friends" with someone you see so seldomly, but that you can be such good friends with said people. Maybe they moved, or perhaps they reproduced, and the time you once enjoyed together has since been cut short by other obligations. Example: I have an old friend coming into town today, someone we lovingly endowed with the appellation, 'Fuckin' Eddy.'

He and I partied played lacrosse together in high school and surfed every summer when he would come home from college. He moved to the southern part of Spain a few years following the end of his education, and although we rarely see each other, when we do, it's as though not a single day has passed. Fuckin' Eddy is a good friend. And so are a lot of the people we surfed with this weekend. People we hadn't seen since last summer. People that can't come out often, but sure know how to have a good time when they do get away for the weekend. And as much as I wish we could surf and camp together more often, I'm glad we have a group of friends that can withstand the test of time.

Augtember Sessions

I love this time of year. When school starts and the summer surfers return to their suburban surrounds, eagerly awaiting winter so they can start snowboarding and stuff. It's also the time of year when offshore winds and early morning fog are a common occurrence. When the sun sets a little earlier and the evenings become a bit more brisk. Campfires are more important this time of year, providing warmth as well as an easy way to cook big cans of beans and buffalo burgers. I also like to layer - Tellason from top to bottom, and a Cowichan I acquired on accident. I don't, however, enjoy wearing wet wetsuits. Or boots. Or gloves. Oh well. That being said, the surf on Saturday was incredible. With wind howling from the east and waist high waves rolling in at reasonable intervals, it was everything I could ask for. I don't deny it was difficult; extra effort was required to catch a couple. But fuck they were fun! We surfed for six or seven hours and ended the evening with an Invasion! From Planet C screening on the side of Fargo the Cargo Van. A mess of stoke was mined. Follow the link for a few more photos.

Some Friday Fog

Labor Day weekend is traditionally a shit show - the final few before the fall, the last days of summer for some. Everyone is out... everywhere. So we took an extra day, the Friday before, just in case it was crowded. To save our spot on the island and setup for our first Mobile Surf Movie. We left Seattle shortly after six on Thursday. Traffic was unusually alright. We stopped for fuel, followed by a cup of coffee at one of those lingerie latte joints. A little odd. Fast forward a few hours and we were circling the aforementioned island, looking for something level. To our astonishment, the campground was all but empty. So we pitched a few tents to save space, drank some cider and passed out early.

A light fog had settled overnight, and the wind was offshore when we awoke. It had rained. We slipped on our suits and paddled out early. The only ones if I remember right. It was exhausting. Paddling as hard as possible. Fighting the wind in your face. Your body becoming a sail as soon as you stand up. But when it all worked, when you got a good one, goddamn were those waves wonderful. After a few hours Karissa donned a pair of swim fins that Shawn gave us and paddled, er, swam out with our often forgot Canon PowerShot D20. It was an excellent afternoon. Follow the link for a few of her photos.