Memo from the Surf Desk: The Walrus

Lemme tell you a lil' tale about a man we call The Walrus. A salty scoundrel. Rotundus. Rude. He wears a wide, white mooostache and looks at you through small, black, beedie eyeballs. He surfs a SUP sometimes. You've probably seen him, surfed with him, been snaked by him, shot the shit with him in the parking lot, E: All of the above. He's there, and that's unfortunate. Because unlike a lot of other places, we put up with his bullshit. We let him bitch. Complaining when it's crowded. When you're suiting up and he's standing on the shore - "This would be fun for maybe four people." Then he starts counting: cars, kooks, boards and bystanders - "Six, seven, eight..." He'll choke it, the stoke, his fat fingers around its throat, and all you can do is stand quietly at his side and watch as it fights for it's final breath. The Walrus always wins. That heavy breathing sea sweeper. Bastard! But we musn't let him any longer. No more rides in the back of the bummer bus. No more bullshit excuses about crowds and kooks and senile stoke seniority. You can go to hell, Walrus!

Sincerely,

Duke Dangerpants

Memo from the Surf Desk: Salty Stink Eye

It didn't last long. Maybe just a moment. I was interested to know what he was riding. It looked long. And old. Yellowed from years under a southern sun. A dozen dings. Open sores and bandaged battle wounds. Some call it character. It was shaped by someone I sort of know, someone that's shaping me a stick. So I asked, "Matt make that thing?" It was an honest question. But I'll be damned if I didn't get some salty stink eye in exchange. Cause only kooks ask questions, right?

Shame on me for giving a shit. For acting interested. I guess you're supposed to stay steely-eyed at all times, staring straight ahead, acknowledging no one. Just you and your wave. Everyone else can go to hell! No, wait, that sounds like a buncha bullshit. All this hard as a fuck, salty stink eye stuff needs a new home. It's the ocean. You don't own it. And honestly, you probably suck at surfing. So lighten up. Smile when you see someone else sliding. When they're excited and you're envious. It'll make for more fun.

Sincerely,

Duke Dangerpants

Memo from the Surf Desk: Man Make Board

A lot of ingredients go into shaping a surfboard. Wood, foam, fiberglass. But most importantly, some stoke. The soul of a surfboard. Made by the hands of a man. Scraped and shaped in some small, well lit room. Or maybe an empty trailer parked in their driveway. It takes time, you know. Deciding which way to go. You have an idea of what you want. And what you want it to do. But no matter what, not one board behaves like another. Too much tail rocker. Just the right kind of rails. Narrow towards the nose. Every little alteration effects its performance. Gives it a personality. Some of your stoke.

And then came epoxy. Pop out pieces of shit, made in a mold. Soulless sticks. Not shaped but squirted - direct injection. They're vanilla to Bing's bubble gum. White rice to Almond's joy. I understand the appeal. They're fun and affordable. But they're anything but beautiful. There's no 10oz Volan or tinted resin. No glassed-on fins or five stringers. And you can't see the shaper's signature. The mark of a craftsman. Putting his name on something he's probably proud of. No. Instead you get a hollow hunk of expanded polystyrene, covered in epoxy resin. An ugly aesthetic and a sad signature. The mark of a man who's sold his soul. Sold his shape. So that GSI can sell more shit. More soulless surfboards.

Sincerely,

Duke Dangerpants

Memo from the Surf Desk: Drinking & Drowning

I'm not one to limit my libations. Drunk bastard? On occasion. But don't drag that shit into the surf. Last summer, maybe Memorial Day, I saw some asshole with a can of Coors in his claw - waiting for a wave. When he finished his Silver Bullshit, he tucked the can into the hood of his wetsuit and paddled pathetically. I shouldn't have been surprised. Summer sends them out. A parade of people. Fair weather wave riders. Kooks. But that's no excuse. Surfing is a sport. An activity that, as far as I am concerned, should be taken seriously. Sometimes.

Now I'm not promoting some kind of sober surfing society. Shit, have a can. But wait. Wait till your out of the water. Until you're having lunch, or sitting around the campfire. And don't drink a dozen. There's no need to be inebriated. Every time I see a sonofabitch out in the water, five cans of crap in their belly, I can't help but hope they go under. It would save them from a future full of clean-and-clear meetings, swollen hands and sour beer shits.

I know, I'm not supposed to say these sorts of things. But do I look like someone that gives a goddamn? And lets be honest, you don't wanna be in their way - that drunk bastard, dropping in, waving their arms around, losing their board. I'm just suggesting you take it a bit more seriously, this surfing stuff. Try to be better. Improve. It's not easy, and you'll suck if you don't surf sober. So stop treating it like a fraternity for drunk dipshits. Have a can of Coke, or whatever, and paddle out to surf, not puke.

Sincerely,

Duke Dangerpants

Memo from the Surf Desk: Leashless

"Outside!" someone will scream. You can see it, something surfable. But what if I get closed on, swallowed whole by that big blue bastard!? And what if I let go - loose my stick in the soup? What will keep me afloat? Enough with all that noise! You know how to swim, you sonofabitch. You can make it to shore. Wait it out. Hold on tight when you have to. Size won't matter anymore. Just something you can surf. You'll appreciate the ones you have. Forget the ones you failed.

Dora did it, surfed sans leash. Shit, they all did. All of those bronze gods of the surfing '60s. No one knew any better, I'll give you that. But you have to think someone said it - "Why don't I tie a rope to this damn thing!? Save myself the swim?" Good idea, I suppose. But what was lost? Surely some soul. When that first guy wrapped rubber around his ankle. Secured himself to his surfboard - died, an era did. Over were the days of cautious consumption. Forever changed. Forever carefree. Facing monsters without worry. No need for well rounded watermen. We're all out there with our own little life raft. Safe and sound.

I'd like to see some digression. Back to a time when surfing wasn't so serious. When waves were fun. Not all this big wave little board business. Leashes and tow ropes. Back to a time when you were happy with the ones you had. When craftsmanship was common and your board was made by the hands of a man. Ramble on.

Sincerely,

Duke Dangerpants

Memo from the Surf Desk: Six One & Shameless

They usually look like a sunflower seed. Always a little taller than I am. You see so many of them - these soulless surf boards. Sold to someone that wants to surf a swell we rarely see. Someone that wants to look the part. Play make-believe. All lip and no trousers. The result of reading Surfer magazine, or perhaps watching too many Red Bull meets GoPro videos on YouTube. Then reality sets in...

You see him struggle, arm over arm, hopelessly trying to catch a wave. “It’s not big enough!” the poor bastard screams. He'd rather Huntington hop than walk to the nose. Six one and shameless. Three fins and a squash tail. Ingredients that won’t work well. Not here. Not when it’s waist high. I’m not saying they don’t have their place. Shit, I own one. But what good is it to struggle. All day and no waves. On the inside, looking for leftovers. You see it so often. Sad surfers chasing wet dreams. Just buy a bigger board and surf smaller waves. But remember, save for the stache, you're no Derek Ho!

Sincerely,

Duke Dangerpants

Memo from the Surf Desk: Tres Generaciones?

Jesus. Look at these sorry bastards. Tres Generaciones? More like a couple of potheads and a pompous asshole. Imagine these three in the water, playing Grab-Ass in the lineup. No one would have a wave. But let's be honest, can they even surf? My guess is that they'd need a canoe to catch a goddamn wave. Where'd you find this photo, Mr.Coffey? Clearly some idiot thought you three looked good together. History in the making? How about has-been's and a never-was. Let me suggest something, gentlemen - forget this surf shop slash blog bullshit and just stick to riding desks and delivery trucks ;)

Sincerely,

Duke Dangerpants

Memo from the Surf Desk: White Devils

Strong off-shore winds create walls of white water. Tumultuous, terrible waves. Pushing in from across the Pacific - or a storm somewhere to the north. You surf them, though. I have. But they're more fear than fun. Sliding down the face of that big white devil. Feet at the back of your board. Arms outstretched, reaching for something... stability perhaps. Bottom turn is always a bit late. Back up that bloody thing. That face. Into the pocket, down the line. Too afraid to look over your shoulder. You know the bastard is back there, chasing you. But you don't want to see its face. The bully. Looking to pound your chest, knees on your elbows so you can't fight back. The bastard. There's ways to avoid these confrontations. The beating you'll likely receive when playing with white water. You can stay home. Stay warm. But where's the fun in that? What good would that do you? Someone has to dance with the devil.

Sincerely,

Duke Dangerpants