Lessons Learned From A Year Living In A Van

A little more than 14 months ago, I was moving into an apartment on Queen Anne, one of Seattle's more well-to-do neighborhoods. A phone call from my friend Chris prompted a six week long search for surf in Southern California, a project later dubbed The Peelgrimage. My hasty return home and ensuing divorce motivated me to move. Anywhere. So I went south... Check out the story I wrote for Gizmodo about the lessons I've learned after living in Fargo the Cargo Van for more than a year.

Blue Panel Pig

Chris from POA Films shot this at Sliders Point during our #peelgrimage to Southern California.

Spring Sessions

Worm, also know as Erin Ashley, is a Seal Beach surfer with a style and grace few can compose. She's funny, full of life, and one of the most interesting people Chris and I met on our #peelgrimage from Seattle to Southern California. While parked at Camp Pendelton for the better part of two weeks, Chris and I surfed with Worm more times than I can count. When the winds blew offshore and the high school kids crowded the lineup for a few hours after school. When Church was choppy. When it wasn't. When everyone else was surfing the easy rolling right, Worm went left. When we suggested she surf a pig, she did. When we went north, and Malibu was empty in the morning. When we went south, and surfed near the sand cliffs of Cardiff. She was always good to go. Always up for it. And so when we started looking through the footage we'd shot during our two month adventure, Erin was ever present. So this short bit of film, produced by Pursuit of the Arbitrary, is the first of many from our #peelgrimage project.

Akela Surf's Zebra Dress

I’ll admit, at first I was skeptical of Akela Surf’s Zebra Dress: the material, the shape, the stripes. These were qualities a bit unfamiliar to me. I’m a petite lady, meaning loose fitting, thick strapped items tend to display me on the “frumpier” side. It was only on a surf trip to Malibu that I understood what had been missing from my life.

Triangularly cut with wide arms, a crew neck and, yes, thick straps made the dress incredibly easy to put on and off. This could be a feature completely overlooked by the average vested woman, but to an avid nature dweller, ease is as important as comfort - which it was just that. Covered in sand 'n salt and sticky from sweat, I had no problems slipping on my Akela dress to slip -more like peel- my wet suit off. I typically opt for a towel which can be cumbersome and precarious. The dress however gave me plenty of room, kept me modest and draped me stylishly. Best of all, because of the thinner (bathing suit?) material I was hardly concerned about getting my dress wet. It warms and dries on a quick stroll in the sun to your post-surf gelato.

Mike Black's Math Lab

An article I wrote regarding Mike Black's "Math Lab" is currently featured on Slide Magazine!

Click here to see the full feature.

Morning Wood

I pull into the parking lot, pay the guy at the gate and then find a spot for Fargo. Most mornings are a mess. Weekday, weekend, holiday, who knows. The crowd is always out there. Increasing exponentially as the day drags on. My earliest experiences were awkward. Where do I wait? How deep should I sit? Can I drop in on this kid? He looks like he knows what he's doing... Wait... No! He doesn't. Dammit!

High tide keeps the kelp from fucking with your fin, and also offers a fun inside section, where you can get waves if you wait. I slide my board out the back, slip into a short suit and walk down to the beach by myself. I knew no one those first few weeks. Surfing solo. I watched the old guys on the end snag some of that 'low and slow' stuff. And then a set would show up. Three, maybe four if we were lucky. Everyone at attention! Some people share. Some get upset.

This place gets a bad rap. Crowded with kooks, angry assholes and grumpy old guys. Sure some of that is true, but if you're willing to accept that you - like everyone else - is there for the same reason, it becomes better. Bearable. Dare I say... Fun?! Like Alex Swanson said to me in Seattle at the end of last summer, "I don't know why everyone gets so upset, we're all just playing in the ocean." Too true.

And so after a few months of surfing Malibu in the morning, I'd like to reflect on all the fun I've had, the waves I've caught and the people I've met. From Joel Tudor and Kassia Meador, to that old guy from Indiana, and the eye surgeon from San Clemente (who did not suck at surfing). Good people. Good times. I will also miss my morning routine: peanut butter toast, two Oreos, a cup of Cuban coffee and the 45 minute drive from Los Feliz to the lagoon. I'll even miss the mayhem. Sharing a wave with four or five people, dodging tourists, or blocking boards. And the ones I had on my own.... They were few and far between, tis true, but better than just about anything, or anywhere else. I'll be back, 'Bu. Promise.

Lessons in the Lab

The more time I spend with Mike, the more I realize he's experiencing the true state of Stoke. The fully immersed. All the way out there. He's disconnected in one way, and yet completely hooked in another. He works during the week and surfs on Saturdays, which can suck, but somehow stays Stoked. He doesn't let the little things sour his mood. He moves on. He picks a pig. And when it too big to slide the swine, he pulls out his piglet, puts on a pair of fins and gets fully shacked at the San Clemente pier. We showed up late to The Lab this particular night. I wasn't sure if he'd be up for an evening. Boy was I wrong. We drank plenty of IPAs, played 'Siete' - that goddamn game I couldn't recall a couple of weeks ago - listened to Slayer (on repeat) and entertained the animals. It was an epic evening. Unlike the last, and yet somehow very similar. Perhaps because Mike is magic and his Stoke is kinda contagious.

From the Phone - Vol.6

These last few weeks have been rather wild. Living in Los Angeles, I've been surfing Malibu in the mornings, spending my weekends in San Clemente, drinking beer with Mike Black, eating chicken and waffles at Roscoe's, filming, photographing, and little bit of everything in between. They tried to tow Fargo the Cargo Van, I watched a dude drowned, have had plenty of Pizza Port, one too many margaritas and am getting sorta sick on living inland. Like I've said so many times before, though, the sweet wouldn't be as sweet without the sour. And so, due in part to my lack of time and energy, I give you the latest selection of cell phone shots, some of which you may have seen on our Instagram.

Southern Summer

Sounds like I'll be spending the summer in Southern California. Maybe Malibu, or somewhere near San Clemente. Surf is certain, but so are long afternoons spent sitting inside, making money with my Macintosh. And so for the latest edition of #duds, I've decided to include a few indoor essentials - coffee from my part of the country, some bad ass blues, beer that'll make you feel like it's Friday and a briefcase-turned-backpack so you can make that money come Monday. Follow the link for a list.

Bob Ross

I think this short bit of film from our #peelgrimage project will speak for itself. Produced by POA.

Tales from the Tropicana

Overindulgence: the action or fact of having too much of something enjoyable. Also: excessive gratification of a person's wishes. Sounds like my Saturday. I mean, it was my birthday after all. And what better way to celebrate the end of eight and the start of nine than renting a room at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel?! It may not be a good idea to discuss the details of the day, but lets just say that shit got a little wild. One too many mango margaritas, inflatable Orca Whales, espresso martinis, steak-frites, old fashioned's in The Library, top-floor tomfoolery and pizza well past my bedtime. It was an excellent afternoon. The kind that could kill you. But in a good way. Get it?

Mornings with Mike

The sound of big white knuckles knocking on a window awoke me. I peeled my face from my pillow and peered out the side window of the van, which faced west toward the water. It was dark. Not even the slightest sign of sun. Chris was standing outside the van. "You awake," he hollered. "Kinda sorta," I said from inside my sleeping bag. "Gimme a few minutes and I'll be good to go." We had made arrangements to meet Mike, also known as Gnar Gnar, at the Carl's Jr. near the trail to Trestles... at 5am. Mike is a math teacher and this was a weekday. Maybe a Monday. So we had a small slice of time to shoot something before Mr.Black had to teach trigonometry. I slipped into a pair of pants, pulled on a wool sweater, a brimmed hat, flip-flops and climbed outta the van. We loaded the truck with camera equipment and headed toward the hamburger stand.

You'd think that a mid-week(?) morning would be kinda quiet, maybe ten or twelve people. Wrong. This is Southern California, kid. Everyone is waiting for waves. Eager and up early. We parked behind a line of cars and unpacked. Mike drove past in the Midnight Creeper, parked and pulled out his pig. We hiked the trail together, talking about his board the entire time. A blue panel pig with no name, Mike's board is a mystery. Matt Calvani and Jim Phillips both ran their hands along the rails and couldn't come up with anything. Some kind of secret. When we walked beneath the train trestle and over a sand dune to see the surf, we were greeted by wind swept waves that stood up, fluttered and fell - rolling right with a great deal of gumption. It was glorious. We filmed and photographed while Mike mined some stoke. A damn fine way to spend a weekday. Follow the link for more photos.

Left of Center

Meet me in the middle. Somewhere south of center. To the left a little. We're all alright. Doing the same damn thing. Trying hard to stand out in an activity that rewards no one, for nothing. You think you've got it good. You think you're a solid surfer. And then you head south. You surf a spot with consistent waves, where people skip a session, where the wind will keep you outta the water. It opens eyes. Exposes the obvious. Teenage girls hanging ten. Man, you sure suck. Look at those ladies! Reality is so bittersweet. It tastes like a fistful of limes. Sour and yet satisfying. Because at the end of the afternoon you realize none of it really matters. You're Stoked. So who gives a fuck what everyone else can attest to. Maybe you're mediocre. Maybe you're somewhere in the middle. At least you aren't an asshole.

The Tale of Ten Thousand Tacos

You fuel the machine. Add the appropriate ingredients. A Breakfast burrito. An Iced Americano. Maybe a Morning Glory muffin, or some kind of soup or salad. But sometimes the machine requires things it ought not to. Rye whiskey. Pizza with jalapeño peppers. Ice cream in the afternoon. Overindulgence. You get the idea. You do it too. So stop looking at me like that! Yes, this is my second slice. Go fuck yourself! All of those inappropriate ingredients, however, have an ill effect on how well the machine works. How well the machine surfs. Etc. Living on beer and pizza for a few weeks will leave you feeling like fuck. Your heart heavy, stomach stretched. Dehydrated and discombobulated. A different type of tired. You'll sleep later than you should. You'll skip the sunrise session. You'll search for excuses. Because living on the road isn't for everyone. It requires a rather unhealthy amount of alcohol and ice cream sandwiches... No, that's not true. That's just what happens when two dudes decide to spend six weeks driving up and down the California coast searching for surf. Two dudes who have a similarly small amount of self control. Who say 'yes' when they should really say 'no.' But what fun comes from avoiding everything that seems inappropriate? What experiences are you obviating when you go to bed before midnight, when you eat just two tacos instead of eight, when you turn the music down and order plain pizza?! Live a little. Just don't die. Yet.

Click here to see all of our #peelgrimage posts.

From the Phone - Vol.5

I've gone back and forth about cameras and overpriced image capturing equipment. Stumbling around with tripods, filters, lenses, et al. I love the color and clarity they can capture, the consistency and the confusion. And yet I find myself, like a lot of people I presume, not carrying a camera, but instead relying on a device that is my all-in-one, work from the road, Skype your friend Steve in Albania, email your mom in Arizona, take silly pictures and, on occasion, talk with words not letters. That said, during my six week long #peelgrimage to Southern California, I shot an odd assortment of images, some of which you may have already seen on Instagram, others I've kept quiet. Follow the link and take a look.

No City in Sight

The road, it rules. Steering your wheels, aimed somewhere south. Searching for some kind of conclusion, an answer to that question you can’t quite ask. Fuel moves fast. The tank full and you feel free. Options are endless. You look ahead; a long stretch of pavement, at the end is another side of yourself. A new edition, modified by your experiences. You talk about The Timeline. From a distance it seems straight, but the closer you look the greater each experience, each action becomes increasingly more important.

Ups and downs. Like a heart monitor at the hospital. You push on the pedal. Time travels. The plateau passes. As the sun begins to set you see a city at some distance. Tall, dark towers. Smoke stacks and skyscrapers. Etc. An ever important part of the process. Producing. Reproducing. Consuming.

You find a place to park.

If you wondered what matters most, that thing that’ll wake you up from some kind of drug or alcohol induced delirium, you need look no further than the peeling waves of the Pacific. The sound of surf. Waves crashing over round rock. It’ll take everything in you. You’ll pull your face from that pink sparkle pillow that your mom made you. You’ll put pants on. A shirt. You’ll climb out of the van and rub your eyes, your brain trying to bang its way out the back. The sun shines. Bright, with big shadows stretched across the parking lot pavement. You’ll wear a wetsuit. You’ll stumble over the stones.

You paddle your Pig.

The first one won’t work. Tired. Alcohol still in your system. A fuzzy spot in front of your face. An hour will pass and then, like a dial turned to ten, you’ll connect. Section with section, lines across the face, trimming, tip-toeing toward the tip. Words you’ve used to describe your experiences once or twice - wasted words. As this experience, this blip on your terminal timeline, will disappear into the distance, just as the road rolls on endlessly at times. With no city in sight.

The Bing Surf Shop

After nearly two years of planning, Royce Cansler, in conjunction with Matt and Margaret Calvani, has opened the new Bing Surf Shop in Leucadia, CA. Located along the Pacific Coast Highway, a stone’s throw from Beacon’s, the new shop is a surfboard showroom that highlights the wide variety of shapes, shirts and other equipment that Bing has to offer. Inside the shop you'll find all kinds of eye candy, from Pucks and Ravens, to Silver Spoons and the new Mr. Rodgers Model. Clothing, eyewear and apparel is kept to a minimum, allowing the shop to focus on what Bing does best, building beautiful surfing boards. Follow the link for some more photos of their new surf shop.

The Lab

Passionate pursuits.... What drives a man? You might ask Mike. He seems to be fueled by fire, or perhaps Pliny the Elder. He's someone I hold in high regard, set atop some kind of surfing-meets-science pedestal floating above a slow peeling left hand point break - pig perfect. He's a math teacher, a father, a friend. He surfs pigs, shoots long riffles, enjoys an IPA and is an integral part of this project, as well as the progression of my surfing. To tell you the entire tale would take too long, and honestly, it'd be best told above a beer. But with that being said, I think it's important to shed some light on 'The Lab.'

Nestled in a Cookie Cutter, White Picket Fence, Mom Yoga type neighborhood, The Lab takes up two-thirds of what was once a two-car garage - the other third occupied by an assortment of princess paraphernalia and a fifteen foot long, eight foot tall chalk board, upon which Mike does math. And doodles. Four pigs are perched on the wall to your left as you enter; three other boards occupy the space above a small desk on the opposite wall.

Art, items, words of wisdom and an eclectic mix of things known and unknown are scattered around the room. An octopus light sits on the desk, one eye covered by a beer cap. Paintings of pigs and people surfing pigs hang in the free spaces between boards, while a meteorite that Mike found as a kid hangs from the garage door opening device. Eclectic is an understatement.

We downed a brown bottle of Ballast Point and then plotted our search for Pliny the Elder, a much sought after IPA. Tom, Mike's old mate, came through the back door with wonderful news: the pretentious pizza place down the street (no idea the name) had Pliny on tap, for a limited time. Onward!

One dog, one daughter, four dudes... eager for an IPA, and some tiny corndogs. We ate cumquats from a tall tree in the parking lot before taking the first table within our reach. An odd bunch, undoubtedly. The little lady took photos with her toy ATM while Tom ordered a round (unfortunately our hostess felled the first four). One turned to three. Conversation ensued. By the time we paid for our Pliny, all three of us were feeling the effect. We wandered back to the The Lab.

Here's where things got good...

There was this game - I can't remember the name - it involved a metal loop attached to some string that hung from the ceiling, a hook in the tool closet across the room, and a long sheet of paper upon which Mike had written the rules. Something about a pirate, or a man who'd lost three fingers? I can't be certain. We swung the circle. "MISSFIRE!" must be called before the pendulum swings past half. Ten tries. An abacus at either end to keep track of how many times you've looped the hook, or whatever.

Tom cooked chicken. Which we ate. Stuffing our faces and licking our fingers. We sat in a circle and consumed a custom Rice Krispie, after which we all lost our minds. Or so it seemed. Then Mike took down a well read copy of Natural History written by our famous beer brother, Gaius Plinius Secundus. He read from within; ideas, inspiration, the seemingly obvious, something about suicide and then, after a few hours, and perhaps additional IPAs (?), the part which Mike felt was most important: "God is man helping men. This is the way to everything glory."

The Peelgrimage: Part Five

We been parked at Camp Pendelton for more than a week now. A stones throw from Churches. The weather, as with so much of Southern California, has been wonderful. Good and glassy when you get up, windy in the afternoon, alright in the evening. We've had decent days, riding waves that wrap their way around, trimming, tip toeing, twinkling. We've had early evenings; nights spent sitting at Starbucks, working on all sorts of shit. We've also had the pleasure of harvesting stoke with the likes of Alex Swanson, Joel Tudor (!) Erin Ashley and a handful of high school kids that were laying down some serious log-sense. It's been interesting, to say the least. Here's a few photos.

The Peelgrimage: Part Four

Internet friends are funny. Because of a common connection, you know almost everything about them - from where they work and what they do for fun, to where they've traveled, the friends they keep close and more often than not, what they eat everyday. So when you sit down for dinner with a table full of internet friends you've never met, not in person anyways, it's interesting how easy it can be. Conversations come naturally, as you already know what sort stuff they're into. You ask a couple of questions, and then fill in the gaps that Facebook or Instagram haven't been able to harvest.

You drink wine and beer and eat potato tacos and explain Elephant Ears to the uninitiated. You laugh. You tell surfing stories. And then, at the end of the night, you part ways better friends than you were before. Because the internet, in all its glory, cannot replace a dinner served on a long wood table outside someone's house in Ojai, a stones throw from the Los Padres National Forest. And those experiences, those people, are what make a trip like this worth while.

The next chapter, however, involves a top secret surprise, surfing a cove in a rather upscale community, excessive whiskey consumption, a place called Beverlywood, a pit bull puppy named Kurt, a BBQ with the Eastside Moto Babes, Venice Beach and our eventual escape from the shit show that is Los Angeles. Stay tuned. The Peelgrimage continues.