A handful of surfers may determine the final tally. It’s critical. There’s a lot of pressure. So far, though I keep telling everyone that I want to hear the truth, all the truth, from all of the pertinent witnesses; insisting I haven’t made a final decision, that I’m not closed off, I’m not stonewalling, not denying the facts; though I’ve tried to sidestep (and sideslip- love a good sideslip), and, in the opinion of some, tried, desperately, to evade answering the main and constantly-asked question with a straightforward admission that there may, indeed, on some rare occasions, with some perfect alignment of the moon and stars; some elusive but correct formula, some fortuitous recipe of the primary ingredients, wind and swell and tide and period and direction; one might, with repeated trips, most resulting in severe skunkings (a lesser skunking meaning surfing weak and sloppy closeouts), and, one might, after trekking down slippery trails, enduring the death stares (aka stink eye) of fellow surfriding enthusiasts who consider themselves more prepared or more deserving (the metrics of this ranking system vary and sometimes include who has the more expensive surf rig, who lives marginally closer to any waterfront considered coastline, who once almost went out at Rocky Point) might find a few minute’s worth (all windows close, most quickly) of barely-rideable waves on the Strait of Juan de Fuca; despite all that, I may be forced, by socio-political pressures I cannot fully explain without revealing myself to be a total sellout, little more than a spineless piece of shit, comparable, perhaps, to landmines left behind by some dogs-must-be-free proponent who let his or her Papered-and-Pedigreed Purebred Showdog (great, glad to hear it) or Mixed-breed-Rescue-Animal (revealing the owner to be the animal’s savior- super great) leave several piles of (let’s say ‘scat’) shit (it was too late- I’d already said ‘shit’ for ‘scat’) for some future beachcomber, inexplicably excited and almost into his or her wetsuit, to step in (“Fuck!”- might as well say it, already said shit), because, possibly, as you profess, you have an allergy to putting plastic on your hand, and, anyway, you were planning on throwing any poop you were forced to collect (only because someone was observing), plastic bag (oh, plastic) and all, into the ocean, the bone-chillingly cold water that just might, might, might possibly have…

Oh, I can’t say it. Could you just quit asking?  Waves.  Talking about waves.

“Evidence,” you say. “What evidence?”  I ask.  OH. Evidence of wave activity in the Strait is frowned upon, photographic images in particular; and particularly when displayed, breathlessly (as in “I scored! Me! ME! MEEEEEEE!”) on social media; and, even more so when accompanied by such revelations as when and where you lucked into a few side-chopped and… Oh I forgot to mention the rocks… waves. Lots of small rocks between the big fin-snappers. Ride a one-foot wave with a one-foot fin in one foot of rock-riddled waters, and, yeah; you’ll lose the occasional skeg. Oh, and while you’re revealing not-necessarily-secret surf locations to others too busy deciding the exact last moment he or she should pull out of the stock market to actually do any real research, you may as well let anyone onto your feed (are you on theirs, are they on yours- confusing) whose fashion you were wearing, in and out of the water, which artisan brew and/or bud you were enjoying, and which custom board from your extensive quiver (has to be more than three to qualify as a quiver) you were riding.

Oh, wait; I seem to be sounding a little cynical here. Sorry. That’s not like me. I love dogs. Do I have a fear someone, some turncoat, some former proponent of the ‘let’s keep it our secret’ philosophy, possibly with some hidden agenda or some soon-to-be released book will blow the whistle; go on Rachel Maddow and reveal endless days of endless swell wrapping endlessly around an almost endless succession of perfect points and reefs?

Yes. Definitely. But I know the truth. If you want to know; here it is: I could head to the Strait today.  I would love to go surfing, and I would if I thought there was any real chance of real waves. Or maybe I’m not telling the truth.

I really wanted to write some hopefully-clever piece actually about the frustrating impeachment situation.  Bring in the witnesses; get the truth out there.  That truth.