First, I guess, excuse me for not keeping to a pattern I have only recently tried to set: Posting something new on a Sunday. Yes, it was the Super Bowl, but, no, I didn’t watch it. The Seahawks weren’t in it and I really didn’t care. Besides, I had to work.

WORK.

Work is, theoretically, what we do so we have some money and some time to go in search of surf. Oh, yeah, and it helps with the eight hundred dollar electric bill from the mid-winter water heater fiasco in which the failing heating element caused the water heater to be on, two-hundred-twenty volts, like, way too much of the time. It has been fixed. Nightmare. AND, two months before that, there was the leaking pipe situation that turned the old laundry room into a steam room. I tried to ignore, and then downplay the problem. Four hundred dollar heating bill. Fixed it. So easy, so quick. Two hundred and twenty-five dollar month. Then, the biggie. ANYWAY, paid the bill.

NOW, surf.

No. Even though the predictions and rumors and stories of waves have been going off like a, I don’t know, Super Bowl halftime show, I sort of kind of promised not to run off until the job that is helping to pay for the above mentioned… problem, so, no surf. WORK.

If I haven’t actually written about this subject, it certainly has come up several times recently. I am and have always been a sort of surf whore. There may be two sides to this:

ONE, I have historically passed on waves for the opportunity to make some money. And often, not that much money. So, admitted Paint-whore. There’s a whore’s regret with this; I never remember the project I committed to, but I always remember what I missed. Example: Side job, 1970s, on the bluff above perfect and glassy waves at Stone Steps. So beautiful. Sob.

TWO, I have, again, historically, traded the joy of my presence on a surf trip for a ride to the beach. This started with my mother. “Please, please…” and continued in high school with upper classmates; “Please, please…” And, even when I got a license and a car, the cars were always junkers and frequently broken and awaiting my mechanic father’s repair work. So, as I was telling my high school surf friend, Ray Hicks, on a call the other day (just to see if he’s doing, slash, maybe surfing), I quite frequently accepted rides to the beach with, well, pretty much anyone who was willing. Surf Whore. Of sorts. The only incentive for any of these volunteers, some of them pretty much kooks, was that, and a lot of this was because Fallbrook is not exactly a beach town, they got to surf with, possibly, arguably, the best surfer in the school. Not that I was in any other way cool.

NOW, because I do discuss whatever is going on with pretty much anyone, I have been bringing up the current situation in which my trusted 1987 Toyota died an inglorious death, and my work rig is in some state of advanced breathing problems (cough, cough, choke- runs fine on the flats and downhill- at 45 and under), and I have been put in the position of having to ask others if I can go along with them if they head out. “Please, please…”

IN MY DEFENSE, my current deal is, in addition to the snappy banter and impolite patter to and from, and getting to surf with some old guy with a big board and bad knees, I will offer to share the price of gasoline and/or treat the driver to a delicious meal at Frugal Burger. An opportunity to cruise through Costco for just a few items is, of course, optional.

THE REASON I am using this is this: Shirley MacLaine wrote that her portrayal of a Paris prostitute was one thing, but talking about it on TV was another. It was not appreciated. An interviewer rushed to a commercial when she described the character as not a high class escort, but as a sort of bargain shopper’s choice. Yeah, I get it. Surely, Shirley.

Maybe I didn’t make the benefits of having a ridealong like me clear to CHIMACUM TIM. I very recently got a text from Tim, saying, and I will quote, “Sorry man I didn’t give you a call to go surfing no friends on powder days.” I believe that’s a skiing/snowboarding thing. TIM does seem to believe that a mention in realsurfers.net is, I don’t know, worthwhile, so maybe not inviting me might further up his profile. Sure. Okay, Tim, no mushroom burger for you.

MEANWHILE, I’m hopeful as I wait for my next electric bill.

Oh, and look for another exciting posting next Sunday.