Logo for Disco Bay

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…

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…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

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How I Managed to Invest *$3OO on a $35 surf rack

EMERGENCY UPDATE- I have to add this because sometimes what’s in my head isn’t on the page. SO, if my car had gutters, like the old days, I could use Aloha racks, again, like the old days. AND, if the car had those front-to-back rails on the roof, the racks I purchased from Amazon (I’m a first time buyer- Trish isn’t) would have worked.

Well, I vowed to make them work.

*The $300 is just an estimate based on the money I didn’t make working, so… asterisk.  I just wanted something to replace the soft racks I’ve been using for long enough to be on the second set. The springs on the buckle/tighteners wear out, you can back up and catch the loose straps under a tire and… rip. Yeah, both at once.

And there’s the bonus feature of rain running down from the board, down the straps, and drip, drip, drip, directly on the seat.

Or the person seated in the seat.

Actually I got the second set from my friend, Archie Endo. Thanks, Archie. And, then, because I’m cruising down the road in a 1985 Toyota Camry wagon with the straps about, max, four feet apart. Fine if you’re packing a six foot board, but, with a ten-sixer, it’s wise (and this seems even wiser when you’re facing log trucks and semis on two lane roads) to add a third tie-down.

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OH, if you just can’t help but notice the bent antenna; um, yeah; bent that with the big-ass board. Radio didn’t work anyway. It did, then it didn’t want to change channels, then; and this is most likely related to when mice got into the dash board… eerkkk.

SURE, once in a while there’s an odd whine from the back speakers, once in a while some Christian channel comes out of nowhere.

Not really, kind of a variation on my belief that, if nothing else comes in on radios that otherwise work, on the way, say, in the seemingly endless boonies, heading down toward Seaside; you can always get preaching or country western.

Your choice. Now, all I have to do is cover up the bolt ends that are on the ceiling. Not a problem unless, say, a deer or cow is in the road and I hit it and/or the ditch, and then hit the overhead.  I only mention it because, well, this has happened. Different rig. Years ago, no actual bolts coming through the ceiling panels.

THEN AGAIN, that car had rain gutters.

Meanwhile, there continues to be flaaaaaaaat conditions on the Strait of Juan de Fuca; but, when a swell heads this way; I’ll be styling.

Straps. Now I’m thinking about straps.

AND, if you notice the paint cans in the driveway. Sorry; it’s painting season.

Swamis- A Novel- Introduction

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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.

Black Flagging-It

I’m not sure if this current flag, a sign keeping surfers out of a zone so non-boardies can float and bob and cavort, is the same one they used back when I was defying them.

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I probably thought of this because I’ve been spending (somewhere between investing and wasting) some time watching the Supergirl Pro from Oceanside Pier. I did lose a portion of my interest when Stephanie Gilmore didn’t advance, a little more when the waves dropped off, but, hey, I did spend a lot of time at this pier.

It was the go-to spot for beach-going when I was a kid in Fallbrook, 20 miles away, wading out among the marines and their girlfriends (there was a lot of “From Here to Eternity” style romancing, I noticed), learning about the power and excitement of waves.

I did have to, sort of, get rescued, once, by neighbor mom, Arthella; when, around 8 years old or so, I pearled my styrofoam surfie, broke it in half with the collision between sand and stomach. Not that I really needed rescuing.

Fast forward to the party celebrating graduating from 6th grade. I was the almost-12 year old wearing the speedos, just like my Dad.  None of the other boys were wearing them. I would say more, but modesty…

Fast forward to 1965, the prestigious Oceanside Invitational happening, and, while my sister, Suellen, was (embarrassingly, for me) getting autographs from surfers on the beach (and the only name I remember is Mike Doyle, his mother bringing him a sack lunch), and despite my only having started board surfing a month or so before, I paddled right out among the warming-up competitors (embarrassing, no doubt, for Suellen). No, I had progressed to jams by this time.

What I didn’t know until last night, when Trish and I were google-mapping to see what the building I worked in, Buddy’s Sign Service, 1st and Tremont, looks like now; is that Trish was also at that contest, not getting autographs from surfers, not doing anything embarrassing.

Oh, got to go. Part II coming soon. Oh, second semi-final is on, but I have to go.

Summer Stories (1) At the Sequim Costco Gas Station…

…just to not be unfriendly (yeah, it’s almost a double negative- evidently now acceptable), I said something (probably a “How’s it going?”) to the woman on duty, her job to wanders around the gas pumps, answering questions like, “Prices going up or down?”, “Which way do I slide my card?”, and “Nice day, isn’t it?”

“Fine,” she answered. I would say she was an older woman, but, increasingly, ‘older’ can still be younger than I am. She checked out the 10’6″ Hobie Standup strapped on my Toyota wagon. “How’s your day going?”

I was, of course, though my small and half-full (not half-empty) tank would be filled rather quickly; and because there was no one waiting impatiently behind me; ready to tell her more than she wanted to know about how my day was going.

Okay, so this isn’t a photo of her; it is from Costco, and I do like the samples. It’s kind of a tradition of mine, stopping at Costco on the way home; kind of like lowering the cost of the surf/shopping trip. AND, when I’d go surfing with my friend Archie Endo, we’d hit the samples almost as hard as the locals, swarming and swooping, elbows and walking sticks flailing, rather like a crowded lineup.

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So, instead of the hairnet, the attendant was wearing a boonie hat, last year’s model, and while I was blathering about how, yeah, I’d always surfed, learned in California, and, on this day, someone had said that my riding a bigger board was cheating, and I’d said, “Well, they’re available for purchase,” and I, at least thought- did say later, to several people, “There’s catching waves, and there’s riding waves;” it came out that she had lived all around Orange County, including Dana Point, home of Hobie,  and had graduated from high school in Mission Viejo in 1973 (yeah, younger).

“Whoa,” I, undoubtedly said, “When I was a kid in the North (San Diego) County, there was nothing there.” Evidently, while Fallbrook Union High School had been around for years, her high school started in 1966.

“I was always around surfing,” she said, “but never took it up. It’s great that you’re still doing it.”

“Yeah,” I said, “even if people think I’m cheating.”

Now it was time to move. Someone was behind me, the tank was two clicks over full, I had done the math (32mpg- great, though it varies).

She had time to tell me that she had once driven a bus with a rider who surfed named Dino Andino. “And his son is…” “Yeah, Kalohe.”

“You know,” she said as I pulled away (and I might be forgiven if I took her look to mean ‘fuck ’em’), “keep on surfing.”

Oh, I intend to.

Not Keeping Up with Stephen R. Davis

My friend, ‘Hydrosexual’ Stephen Davis recently went from the Big Island to the Windy City.  He’s doing some work with his friend, Cosmo; who, after visiting Hawaii, decided he wants to move there.

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BUT FIRST,  Steve stopped off in Port Townsend. We were supposed to meet up, but I was working and he has a lot of friends. Weirdly (not really for Stephen or me), he found me getting a drawing reproduced at The Printery.  He was cruising around with Lisa, a surfer he met in Baja, who actually lives and teaches school in North San Diego County (near where I was raised), and reminds me of what Courtney Conlogue might be like at fifty-something.

Outerknown Fiji Women's Pro

So, Lisa started giving me the kind of “are you a real surfer” kind of grilling I tend to practice.  Actually, she started with, “So, you surf?” “Kind of.” “Oh,” Stephen said, “Erwin has great wave knowledge.” “Uh huh.” Then back to me, “Do you know Blackie, Bonzo, Little Snickie…?” “Um; I left there almost forty years ago. Do you ever surf Pipes?” “Sometimes. You know, old guys surf Tourmaline.” “Yeah; I used to live up the bluff, in P.B. Like, in 1971.” “Oh. Yeah.” “Do you know Joe Roper?” “Joe Roper? Of course. He’s the only one I’ll let work on my Skip Frye.”

Sensing I was holding my own, maybe with a B-, I told a story about stealing a design from Morey/Pope that Skip was working on at Gordon and Smith (the waterskate, though I couldn’t think of that under the pressure), having it built/pirated at the PB Surf Shop, and, first time trying it; there’s Skip on the beach. Yeah; Skip Frye.

MEANWHILE, Stephen and Cosmo have spent some Chicago time at museums and other highbrow locations.

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BUT, and I know this is going on a bit, I want to get to Stephen’s story. Steve is my Wal-Mart call; someone to talk to when I’m following Trish around. On one call, he told me he wants to submit a story of how he had a new take on all the posturing and posing and preening associated with surfing. “Preening?” “Yeah, P R E E N I N G.” “I know how to spell it, Steve; I just love that you’re using it.”

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“Old Man Winter,” original charcoal by Stephen R. Davis.

No, sorry; lost it (temporarily). I’ll post this, then post the version with Steve’s story. Mostly I’m worried about losing what I’ve put together so far.

I may be a real surfer; but I’m definitely not a real computer dude.

OKAY, I can’t seem to get it here. I’ll just retype it. Here’s Stephen’s latest story:

I was bailing the Big Island and my shoulder was feeling good.  There was a new, pumping South Swell, so I decided to catch a few waves.

I had surfed quite a bit in the last few weeks. The swell had been relentless.

I explored a bit. I checked out some spots off the beaten path I had been wondering about, but, not knowing the swell angle and the direction, nor the relative position of most of the lava rock points and reefs, my regional knowledge was still a work in progress. Old standby spots seemed to be the ones firing, and they had been firing. Local rippers with shoulders the size of coconuts were casually, nonchalantly packing and petting low tide bombs where the reef seemed too close to the surface for any personal comfort level.

Hilo-side and Puna folks were migrating to Kona side also, because of the unprecedented lava activity, borrowing old, yellow, dinged-up longboards and railgrabbing gnarly, late drops and pulling it, coming out of massive amounts of exploding white water, while I watched from the inside corner on my old 6’8″ Al Merrick, “Big Willy,” waiting patiently.

Echoing in my mind was Cap, constantly telling me, “You need a bigger board,” as only a charter boat Captain can. Hmmmmmm…. in his mind the 10′ popout Infinity he ‘gave’ me to fix for him (?), with the GoPro mount right where I would want to stand on the nose, combined with the thruster set-up (??) would get me more waves, and serve as what Cap refers to as ‘crowd control.’ I seriously don’t want to think about what was in the old wax on that thing. Though I am grateful for the gesture, it just definitely was not my preferred solution to this crowd situation. I’m sure it would have been fine, but it just is not my style.

I came to the Big Island to ride waves on a short board with no wetsuit, and I was fine up until the head-on collision when my right shoulder was injured. After rehabbing it for months, along with the whiplash in my neck, I really wanted to be back on “Big Willy.” I had pulled her out of the wreckage, cleaned the broken glass out of the wax, fixed the dings, put a new deck patch on her (ERWIN- Wait, Willy’s female?), and even bought a brand new leash for her. Ya, she is old and yellow, but she is my shortboard. I bought her when my Mom passed away, when I realized just how fleeting life is.

The swell was pumping and I wanted to carve going fast.

After being caught inside on two huge sets of empty lineup with ‘victory at sea’ conditions, I positioned again, on the corner, to wait for the wide-swingers. I went for one no one could get, and, rather quickly, ejected, hanging and slowly descending into oblivion, perfectly, with the lip I wasn’t in, and I knew it.

Oh, well. Went for another one, more resolute, after another waiting period. Couldn’t get to my feet. Hmmmm. Now I wanted it bad. Waited for another one. Same thing. These were extremely stretched-out, hollow lefts hitting a shallow reef, but the waves were familiar to me. I knew I could do better.

Finally, I popped to my feet on a nice roll-in, managed a big backside roundhouse-to-foam-bounce, then hit the lip and landed it as the wave finished it’s destiny on the reef. OK, now I could go in. I caught a good one.

The next day I went to check a fun, family spot. It was a weekend morning, glassy and closing-out at the small takeoff spot. There was one makeable bomb per set, and about 20 or more, no doubt, preening ‘locals’ that I had no interest in competing in the lineup with. I am old, and I have fought the dragon that is my ego, and have no interest in proving my worth to anyone. Nor do I have any urge to be judged or evaluated by strangers. Mind you, I am happy to have been evaluated by my long time counselor whose awareness and ‘judgement’ of me I trust.

What to do? As I sat on the beach, I noticed the Keki on the inside, catching little pockets, and laughing all the way in and back out to their inside takeoff spot. This surf spot is notoriously family friendly where folks come to find Aloha and be together. People bring friends who don’t surf there to learn, and there is an illuminating Vibration of Love that can be felt if one tries.

I decided to go out on my forest green 7’6″ funboard, and to stay inside with the Ohana. I was next to two little girls, walking their longboards on inside nugs, and a father teaching his young son to surf. I had so much fun, and felt so much joy in the warmth of the sun, the laughter, and the little pockets and walls-a-plenty. I was trimming along, with the clear, beautiful water, the reef, and the sea life. I caught a dozen incredible waves, and remembered what it felt like to truly play amongst friends.

Asa result of my parenting, I have an ability to learn from children, and this was no different. I relearned what it means to play, and to share, again, and how nice it feels to celebrate, and to be celebrated for catching and riding a wave that offers that vibration back as a child. I learned the value of a smile.

Aloha.

Summer Stories; Stolen From the Cloud

Waves? No. Waves in the summer. Never. Well; almost never. I do tell people that if they do a search for surfing on the Strait of Juan de Fuca, they might just find my site.

Now, I have learned not to post names of spots, or photos that reveal exactly where some unnamed spot might be; and I do always stress the fickle nature of the northwest surf, as in, “You’re more likely to get attacked by an aggressive sea lion that score over-knee waves;” but, I did find, and steal these photos from someone else’s two day, mid-summer adventure. The Cloud.

Yeah, I did find some shots of me surfing a secret spot somewhere off the grid. Joking; not about the photos; about the spot. I’m obligated not to name it for various reasons. I’m also not authorized to name the photographer, but do have permission to use them. I’ve decided not to show the shots of me because I put too much sun screen on, and, evidently, it makes me appear kind of chubby.

Chubby?

Here’s the guy, left, who started Lib-tech. I only took off in front of him once.  His wife is in the other two photos.

This is a wave, an eagle, and an unidentified ripper.

This is a super low tide, probably Todd Fischer on a super low tide, former professor, now semi-surfbum, Nick, alias God.

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Nick, again, contemplating the variables of tide, swell, wind, lapses of etiquette by chubby old guys with too much sun screen slathered on their chubby faces and heads.

I do have some more photos of people I really don’t know. Maybe I’ll add them.

Thinking, Thinking, Over-Thinking

Just trying to make a determination that there might be waves on the Strait of Juan de Fuca requires checking buoys, contemplating the numbers, and going back through the anecdotal files we all keep.

And if it adds up, and you can take the time; you take the chance, make the trip.

And if you score; and waves were still coming through when you left, and the numbers look so similar on another day, even if you can’t really pull away from you commitments… overthink.

I’d say more on this, but I have commitments I’m thinking about how to get out of.  Thinking, thinking, scheming…

Prologue- Giving Up Sarcasm

I was trying to find an address in the North Beach area of Port Townsend, thought I’d recheck a shingle-sided house I had bleached and pressure-washed a few months back to get a better idea on what to propose for painting the trim.

There was a truck with a boat on a trailer and an SUV parked in front of the fence. WAIT, there’s a surfboard on the SUV; a flashy board (looking at it from the side- radically upswept nose, canted bonzer fins, two on each side, longer fin in the middle). Has to belong to a ripper. Radical. This was a couldn’t-pearl (even on a heavy pitcher), late-drop, free-fall, catch-and-climb, drive-and-swoop, pro-level unit.

NOW I had to find out who owned this board.

AND I DID. Ripper? Pro? Actually, no. In the question-and-answer, first-meeting-scenarios between (supposed, alleged, self-identified) surfers, where no one truly believes the other person is really a surfer (even if he or she fits perfectly into one’s image of one) unless he or she has personally witnessed him or her actually riding waves; I can tend to be a bit, um, aggressive.

And then throw in the sarcasm, sometimes-biting repartee I’ve learned and developed over many years; a trait (or skill) I’ve been trying to cut back on…and. when the owner of the board, the 40ish son of the owners of the house, said he wasn’t kidding (backed-up by his Mom) that he’d just started surfing, like, two weeks ago…

…and just when I was trying so hard to quit the sarcasm, to occasionally hold back on making the snarky observation, the possibly-rude assessment. “Two weeks, huh?  Well…”

OKAY, so here’s my latest drawing: Picture it on a t shirt.

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What? What do you mean by that?