…I keep on painting.

I just told Adam “Wipeout” James, on the phone, he recounting how I ‘should have been there’ for a session Reggie Smart, who could have been painting with me, did attend. Great; all-time; yeah, yeah, yeah. I had to work. It happens. AND I hadn’t really recovered from my last outing; right ear still plugged-up.

Labor Day is coming up, real surfers have plans. Adam is headed to… oh, can’t really say where; it’s kind of an invitation-only deal somewhere on the coast. “Were you invited,” Trish asked me when I mentioned it. “No, but if I asked Adam…” “Oh, sorry, Dude, but, um, last time, friends of friends showed up and…” “Okay, I’m busy anyway. Kind of a tradition. Last time I didn’t work on Labor Day was… 1971. I had just quit Buddy’s Sign Service, in Oceanside; and was starting work with the government on Tuesday, so…” “Hey, got to go. 1971. Wow.”

Okay, so Reggie Smart, artist, tattoo artist, van restorer, frequent Hobucker, sometimes house painter (who ditched-out early to attend above-mentioned session- “Killer!” he said), is now, in coordination with Sequim/Port Angeles surfboard shaper/glasser Chris Bauer, designing and manufacturing Local Stoke wave machines.

Meanwhile, Stephen R. Davis, having survived Hurricane Lane (outside the usual hurricane lane) on the Big Island; and having helped Cap patch up the catamaran the good Captain (I’ve still never gotten a name) is trying to sell; is headed, and, with Steve, this could change; on a red eye to Seattle, ride (not with me- too late at night) to Port Townsend, work on the brakes on his van; drive to Portland to meet with Lisa, up from San Diego, and head somewhere on the Oregon/Washington coast. Again, I wasn’t invited. But, he claims he’s available to work on Tuesday. Great.

Here are a couple of shots Stephen sent from Hawaii:

MEANWHILE, I’ve got to get going; trying to finish this house before it rains.  HOPEFULLY, you have some plans for the Labor Day weekend.

Or, maybe I’m just saying I’m working so I can sneak off to some unnamed spot; not that you wouldn’t be invited; if you asked. Good luck; gotta go.

…his new board; the one he claims to have been ‘perving-out’ on a while. I forgot the name of the board; like, “Baby Blue,” or “Barely Legal,” or… thinking…

Stephen has been on a bit of a surf trip to the Oregon coast with his son, Emmett, and friend, Porter Hammer.

“Yeah, yeah,” you’re saying, “waht’s the story?”

Yeah, there’s a story- or three; must check on my retell status; but, with Stephen, there’s always a story. Or three- the difference between Oregon and Washington surfers, scenes in the water and a particularly interesting story involving a stranger asking Steve to buy him a beer.

Meanwhile, I’m working; sweating, smoke from fires mixed with the usual summer humidity; waiting for some sign of a swell; my surf rig loaded, my wetsuit totally toasty dry.

Okay, not talking about that right now. Not secret, just a gift; but, surfers know, wetsuits are made to get wet. Jobs can wait.

Well; sort of. There’s a certain amount of guilt.

A job that’s waiting for Steve to get back is for a husband and wife who are both Psychologists, Doctors; and, through clever questioning, we discovered that, though Stephen and I, and other surf friends, have thought we, and other surfers, might be sociopaths; the Doctor said we’re probably actually narcissists, surf addicts out for our own pleasure. What?

Narcissists?

We want a second opinion, but we’ll have to wait until Doctor and Doctor are back from a motorcycle trip, and we’re around to ask Mrs. Doctor.

“If you wanted other surfers to have a worse time, rather than you having a better time,” Mr. Doctor said (paraphrased), “You might be sociopaths.”

Well. Relief.

Anyway, I’m thinking about how some of us are like addicts, always saying we’re going to knuckle down and be regular kinds of people (who don’t check buoy readings every hour or so, don’t keep our surf gear ready to go, don’t just sometimes go on a hunch), but, really, realsurfers don’t want to be cured.

Hey, I’m working on the theory.

As far as Stephen R. Davis; the result is- somewhere between Short Sands, and Pacific City, and Cannon Beach, and Seaside, Steve traded a board, added $200, and, yeah; brand new, forward-trim, egg.

So, back to normal; working, sweating, checking those forecasts and buoy readings. Surf addicts. Not nearly anonymous.

Discovery Bay is on your way.

Oh, maybe accidentally clever. I’ve been working for a while on a logo for the DISCO BAY OUTDOOR EXCHANGE, but, yeah, if you’re going to go hiking, camping, surfing, kayaking, whatever other outdoor activity you’re addicted to, and you’re coming from just about anywhere other than the “STILL WILD” Olympic Peninsula, you probably pass through Discovery Bay.

And, another little slogan I’m claiming, once in Disco Bay, you’re “ALMOST THERE.”  If you’re passing through on a Thursday through Monday, might as well check out the new and pre-trained gear and clothing Tyler Meeks has to offer.

So, my daughter, DRUCILLA, Dru, helped immensely with this project. I wanted ‘machine’ lettering, the circle, rectangle… anyway, we went back and forth only a couple of times before…

…HERE’S where we’re at; and I haven’t sent this to Tyler yet, AND there might be some minor changes, but… hey, I have to go; see you around.

…well

SWAMIS

Almost leaping from stair to stair, I was looking at the water, the fuzzy horizon, the lines; counting, recounting the surfers already in the water; trying to beat any other surfers who missed the true dawn patrol. It was breaking, tide dropping, swell, hopefully, increasing. It would get crowded.

Two surfers were walking toward me, toward the stairs. I wasn’t focused on them; shapes, so familiar; surfer and board, nose-up, nose-down, more-or-less crosses in the shadows of the bluff. One was walking faster, trying to catch up. “Jim,” I heard, then, more like a question, “Jim?” Then, closer to the guy in front; “Jumper.”

“Jumper,” I thought. Jumper. Now I almost focused.

Almost. It was a moment, still just a moment, between a surfer reaching for, and touching the other man’s shoulder- it was Sid, instantly recognizable, wiry and thin and bow-legged. Sid, a locally-known surfer; Surfboards Hawaii team rider; known to thrash his boards; known to take on crazy waves, to burn valley cowboys and out-of-town surfers, even Orange County magazine surf stars who cruised down 101 to trade crowd for a chance at Swamis magic- Sid, featured in a small, grainy, black and white ad in “Surfer” magazine- I must have blinked; Sid was flat-out, on his back, parallel to that line where the sand turned hard with the receding tide. His board was floating in the shallows, Jumper’s board pressed, nose-first, to his neck; Jumper’s foot on his chest.

Jumper. Fucking Jumper. He was back in town, back at Swamis, apparently out in the dark, out of the water just past dawn.

I wished I had seen him surfing, he and Sid. Now they were almost motionless, a pose, frozen. An image.

If we could just ‘backspace’ time ten seconds, not all the time, but for those moments we witnessed but couldn’t immediately process. Maybe ‘replay’ is more accurate.

Fifty years gone, I’m trying to replay moments, bits and fragments and images and strings; strings of time; so many strings; some tangled, some free.

Oh, I broke free of the North County scene years ago; lost my contacts, forgot names, confused and overlapped stories from Grandview and Pipes and Cardiff Reef. I remember specific rides among thousands; remember, almost precisely, the times I was injured; held down, hit the bottom, was hit by someone else’s board, remember specific waves; but, and I’ve tried, I can’t remember Sid’s last name.

But I remember Jumper.

In another moment, with me trying to be cool, to not look, both surfers were sitting on Jumper’s board. I think Jumper, his hair now long, longer, a beard; still recognizable, though; and probably my second surf hero from when I started surfing; was quite possibly crying, his hand now on Sid’s shoulder.

I looked away. I did what every surfer does, and always has; studied the ocean for a moment before committing; disciple before the alter.

When I looked back, from out in the water, from my lineup, the inside lineup, they were half way up the stairs. Sid was one step ahead, one above. When two guys came down, Sid, probably because he didn’t know them, or because he did, made them split up and go around.  Jumper moved behind Sid.

A set approached. Surfers who were straddling their boards proned-out, started paddling. At this tide, some of the waves from the outside peak were still connecting all the way through. The first one didn’t; the surfer lost behind a section. Two surfers went for the shoulder as I stroked past. The second wave swung wide, peaked-up on the inside. I had it to myself; another takeoff, turn, cutback, back and forth to the inside inside, fitting my board into and through that last little power pocket, peeling over the palm of the finger slabs that spread out to sea. Swamis.

I can’t help thinking about the upcoming elections. So… harking back to Rocky and Bullwinkle, here’s:

More to come. Most likely. Opinions vary. We’ll see.