I shouldn’t tell you where or when some guy, a ripper on an SUP, took these photos of REGGIE SMART, this after the ripper’s wife took photos of the ripper, and yes, I did see photographic proof that the photographer does, indeed, rip… oh, and I saw some photos of HAWAIIAN BRIAN, yes again, ripping, but, if seeing is believing (not always true; proof being shots of a rare lined up wave at any random beach break), but, as some other Olympic Peninsula surfers who saw the photos somewhere on the world wide web, over ripe with content and revelations, have saiid, “Yeah, great wave, great positioning”… shit like that, SO, yeah, kudos to Reg on forcing himself, with a definite lack of funding (check almost in the mail- not from me- different story) to cruise out to some unnamed coastal sometimes-heaven, sometimes not, spot and… wail.
The sign is another Reggie piece of art. His Port Townsend tattoo parlor’s new location is in the McCurdy building. Hey, it’s not my job to pimp out Reggie, but give him a call for all your body decorating needs.
CHIMACUM TIM took some free time, in between shifts on the Washington State Ferries, to do a stealth strike to Maui. Interestingly enough, at the very time he was doing a half mile paddle out to hit some outer reefs there, big time North Shore Oahu web stars, safety and camera crews and drones with them, were creating content there, and yes, I watched some of it.
The difference being, they didn’t send me exclusive photos and stories. Thanks, Tim.
I got this image from a resort on Lopez Island. I am intrigued by the whole hipster (possibly) fad of cold plunging. It’s a thing. Because I am still working on “The Hudson Street Whore,” about a possible landlocked SELKIE, and I’ve done some research on the whole Selkie, Siren, Mermaid mythology, and because my mind just keeps grinding away, I’m in the imagining stage of writing a dark (of course) piece that combines surfing with the rest of what I’m under-describing here, and includes surfing and ATSUSHI DEFREINES, the character from “SWAMIS.” The tentative title is, “Cold Plunge at the Siren’s Reach Resort.”
Meanwhile, I’m looking at doppler images, buoy reports, and forecasts, and trying to finish an exterior or two between atmospheric rivers and the usual doses of drama, spending some (not enough) time on the writing and drawing. Hopefully your too-close-to-winter time is going well. Hit the surf when you can. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net
Don’t be afraid email me, erwin@realsurfers.net, and you have my permssion to blow up my humble blog. I can take it.
Olympic Peninsula frothed-out ripper and (seemingly) mild mannered Port Townsend Librarian has agreed to send some photos and coverage during his trip to mainland Mexico. He set off early today to find a rumored left hand point break. It was about an hour’s walk and the waves were… “Mellow? Soft?” Keith invested, like, somewhere between a penny and five cents a minute to give me a call, freshly back from his early morning exploration. “No, it was barrelling” There were, he reported, several Mexican locals, maybe a tourist in a rented boat, and some guy, probably an ex-pat, who had his own boat. He just anchored and jumped in.
Keith did not jump in. “Wait, no board?” “No, no board.” “Painful.” “Yes.” Already stung by jellyfish and still bearing the broken ends of sea urchin spines, missing a firing, reeling, possibly righteous left hand point break had to be the most painful part of the adventure, almost particularly for Keith.
“Wait, was it harder than hiking into __*&^%$#__ or ___$#@!@#?” Yes, way harder. Next time, boat.
Official report from Keith:
Here’s a few photos from Chacala. I’m here looking for a left hand point that’s proving difficult to access without a boat. I have a rental car but it seems risky to drive it out there. I’ve made some progress talking to locals about renting a panga and connecting with some expat surfers here. This zone from here to San Blas is intriguing.
The little town is super pretty, sitting on a small jungle lined bay. Classic scene with lots of Mexican families hanging out on the beach. It’s nice to see that Mexico is still relatively unchanged.
Meanwhile, for those of us who aren’t surfing, even vicariously at the moment: I did drive through the now-weekly demonstration activity in Port Townsend yesterday. I had to go to the hardware store, and while waiting for a key for my van, I commented that with all the people who fit into my demographic out on the street, it was surprising to see so many in the store. The keymaker, grinding away, and who, incidentally, probably fit into the younger ranks of the older crowd, smiled but did not comment, possibly concerned I might be a closet Trumper. No, and fuckk, no!
Photo from the “Port Townsend Leader,” or the “Rainshadow Journal.” One of them.
Here’s another incident from yesterday: Reggie ran into this guy in a jeep with Trump stickers all over it yesterday morning. The guy said something that Reggie ignored, possibly testing to see if the multi-tattooed Reggie was sympathetic to guys with jeeps and stickers, and who was wearing a hat that said, “OBEY.”
Obey. Okay, so I looked it up. Reggie said it has something to do with skateboarding. Yes, an allusion to a film in which humans are secretly manipulated by aliens, the slogan/brand was designed, back in 2001, to be provocative, sort of a call to question authority. Here’s a quote from Wikipedia: “How did OBEY go from an anti-corporate, anti-MAN street un-brand to Made in China fratboy wear?”
Well; I’m sure I don’t know. Reggie said he would have confronted the dude, but he was with his wife and at least one kid. “Oh, so maybe the guy thinks his wife should obey him… something like that. You know, these guys who are so worried about their masculinity.” “I don’t know. Whatever. The guy kept pressing me, so…” So, because Reggie HAD to say something, “What I did say is, “Your hat says it all.”
All. Nothing. Hard to say.
I did honk, to the tune of “Louie, Louie,” something easily recognized by the thousands of sign-bearing (anti-genocide, anti-King, pro-rule-of-law, signs mentioning the various things Trump and his thugs should keep their hands off, a couple of references to Jesus, some clever puns and caricatures of our clown in chief) citizens along Sims Way. When I got to the only streetlight in Port Townsend, among the tourists, was a guy holding a sign that said, “Support Veterans.” Since my passenger side window was open, I thanked him for being there.
I do thank Keith for his photographs, all rights, I’m sure, reserved, but, one last thing; because I do pay attention to the stock market, oil prices, that kind of thing, one of the signs I noticed read, “I’m tariff-ied!” The China teriffs kicked in after the stock market closed on Friday. The number of cargo ships reaching America’s shores has already dropped significantly. The “two dolls instead of 30; and maybe they’ll cost a couple of bucks more’ president is calling for patience. Supply-Chain issues? Tomorrow we’ll see if any of this means anything to the investor class. “OBEY?” If it isn’t a question, it should be.
MEANWHILE, I’m sure Keith is checking into the cost of renting a boat for an all time session. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net. As always.
It isn’t some kind of trick. I erased some good stuff; epic stuff. It is not unlike the sessions we miss; always chest to head high, bigger on the sets; the only wind the gentle offshores that groomed the empty A frames and barely makable walls; the lineup made up of best friends willing to give up a bomb for another bomb. Yeah, just like that.
Part of the reason I had to delete some images is the DE FACTO RESTRICTIONS I produce realsurfers under. There are, of course, no actual rules covering what spot I can name, and therefore, because of my influence with my tens of real and possibly real surfers in my worldwide audience, blow up; and only a few people have told me I cannot ever, ever say there are waves, ever, ever on the Strait of Juan de Fuca; BUT it is in my best interest to self monitor.
I have been mulling over, if not considering, if not laser focusing on the ALMOST OFFICIAL RULES OF SURFING, none of them passed by any legislative body other than self appointed regulators and wave counters. Although I hate, or at least hesitate to start any sentence with ‘Back in the day,’ back when BIG DAVE RING was surfing, he would often, without any substantiating evidence, say, “The wave counters on the beach say you’ve had enough; better go in.” And I would say, “Who?”
Here, if my copy and paste works, is where I’ve gotten to so far:
The Freedom Trap- Preamble
It’s lovely to say that surfing represents freedom, and it does. It can be a very liberating experience. It should be that riding the visible, moving, tangible manifestation of energy, waves; wind born in chaos, smoothed and groomed by the miles traveled, shaped by underwater canyons and mountains, reefs and rocks, and delivered to a beach near you. For free.
By some real or imagined extension, surfers are free; free-thinking, free of the conventions and rules put up as roadblocks by those without the courage to throw away their inhibitions and crash into the wild, lawless surf.
Free. Undaunted. Unrestrained. ETC…
This photo of SMILING DAN is a replacement for one that MIGHT have some sleuthing surf dick saying, “OH, I recognize that parking lot. It’s that new place down by Westport. ‘Country Clubs’ I believe the locals call it. Rabid bunch of surfers/golfers/rockhounds/dog walkers; no bags- watch your step if you go down there- yeah, and… I’m going to zoom in on his watch; see if I can get the time and date. And, anyway, he’s smiling; that there’s a clue.”
Okay, that is correct. Smiling Dan is, despite repeated warnings, smiling.
WHAT I DO LOVE, though not as much as surfing, is the gossip and chatter between surfers; in the parking lots, in the lineup, on the beach, in the comment section of every YouTube video. The sarcastic ones are the best. OKAY, I went back and re-found this one, commentary of a wicked day at BIG ROCK. I did, back in the day (sorry) live nearby, did surf Windansea, never attempted that crazy slab. So: “This wave looks soooo fun! I’m a low intermediate adut-learner and just got a new CI mid length. I’ll be out there the next big swell. If you see me in my white Sprinter van, stop byy and say hello.” @jakemarlow8998.
Perfect. Other worthwhile comments judged a dude harshly for dropping in, twice, at Lunada Bay (never surfed there), celebrating the justice delivered when his board broke. Blowing up spots and just how many surfers were out at, say, SWAMIS, were subjects prominently discussed. “Eighty-seven people out and five surfers getting all the decent rides” is a paraphrase of one I didn’t go back to give accreditation. I agree.
Do surfers JUDGE? NO, except constantly. You should assume that you are presumed to be a kook until you prove otherwise, and then you’re no more than another surfer, like, not as good as the surfer judging your surfing, until you get a great ride; and even then you can be demoted with one blown takeoff. One accidental drop in can get you pegged as a shoulder hopper, one accidental drift can get you labeled a backpaddler. Too many waves while the people in the channel get a smaller share… wave hog.
I’m not making accusations. As with a meaty-but-scary barrel opportunity, I’m dodging.
RIPPERS AND CHARGERS- Here’s the discussion. ONE, can you fit your surfing into one of these categories? TWO, which is better? COUGAR KEITH said he’s happy being a charger if being a ripper goes along with unnecessarily exaggerated arm movements. SHORTBOARD AARON, undisputedly a ripper, says a ripper can choose to charge, whereas a charger… Yeah, yeah, I get it.
I AM, of course, still, still working on perfecting (it was just polishing) my manuscript, “SWAMIS,” the fictional story centered in 1969, or ‘back in the day’ to some.
Sorry for blowing up Country Clubs. Happy Almost New Year!
“Dark Cutback”- Pen and Ink, “Come In”- Pencil, pen and ink
Meanwhile, on a Strait Far Away…
It was the day before Christmas and all along the Strait, Surfers were sick of the Eddie Swell wait,
And the planning and loading in the dark of the night, All frothed-up and hoping you’d hit it just right,
Get through holiday traffic and ferry lines long, Just to find out the forecasters got it all wrong,
No six to eight-foot faces, with stiff offshore winds, But side chop and flatness, too many surf friends,
All those kooks who got wetsuits and leashes as gifts, And promised pure awesomeness, maybe, when the tide shifts,
Or the currents reset, or the stars realign, Which they haven’t done yet, so you’ll have to resign Yourself to some chilling with the parking lot crew, Having artisan breakfasts and customized brew,
With the burnouts and geezers who still dream of the past, With retired accountants who’ve heard surfing’s a blast, With newbies who ruled in the surf camp’s real water lessons, Who count the wave pool rides as real surfing sessions,
With the hodads and show dads and their sons and their daughters, Influencers and surf tourists who don’t get in the waters,
Cell phones at the ready, all waiting for action, They’ll be hooting and filming, with a deep satisfaction,
Witness to butt-hurt back-paddlers, shoulder-hoppers, and snakers, Heroes and villains, GoPro-ers and fakers, Buzzed-out dudes blowing takeoffs, laughing, pearling and falling, Occasional barrels and turns worth recalling.
They’ll soon be Youtubing a post of their Christmas surf strike, So hit the “subscribe” button, comment, and like,
And save it, repost it, it is something to share, When you watch it again, it’s as if you were there.
Yes, I hope you got waves, I did, too, and in the best Christmas spirit, If you have a great story, I would so love to hear it,
The next time we’re together, facing a skunking, so tragic, You can tell me the tale of your holiday magic.
“You should have been there, Dude; you would have loved it.” “You could have called me.” “You should have known. Are you angry?” “No. It’s just surfing, man; almost all of the magic is… well, you know.”
Color versions, and I slipped in a couple of photos from an ultra fickle spot where rideable waves are mostly imagined. Yes, that’s pretty much every spot on the Strait of Juan de Fuca.
I HAVE HEARD a couple of stories of the usual situations that occur with too many surfers and not enough waves; confrontations that went way farther than they should have. They are not my stories, and, although I LOVE to hear them, AND retell them, if they’re good enough, you will hear them eventually. Maybe from me, but not here. What I will say is, “That wave is gone.”
NEXT.
This is as true when the story is of epic, magical, all-time, best-ever stories. Your joyful stories, perfect moments in an imperfect world; the ones that make you smile; those are the ones to to savor; those are the images to save, to replay.
The illustrations are protected by copyright, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
OH, AND I am, of course, still polishing my novel, “Swamis,” and I’m working on a piece for SUNDAY on the LAWS OF ETIQUETTE. Look for it. In the meanwhile, there are a lot of YouTube videos of super crowds at Swamis and elsewhere. Yeah, crowds.
The most recent full moon on the Salish Sea. Perfect evening for a paddle.
Sessions Worthy of Remembrance
There are several things that can make a surf session memorable, memorable enough to last years: That time you surfed an often crowded spot alone; that special ride on an otherwise not-special day; that trip with a friend (or potential lover) or friends that you remember more for the friendship (or the movement from potential) than the time in the water; that time where the waves were solidly pumping and you were ripping at the very peak of your ability… and, and, and- yeah, those times.
Think of a spot you’ve surfed, once or many times. Or think of a friend you surf or have surfed with. Think of the music that was playing in the car or in your head. Think of fog, or sideshore winds, or dawn patrols, or skunkings, or the road to here or there, or where you ate on the way home from somewhere you did or didn’t find waves. Think of anything that leads you back to a magical adventure, or ride, or session.
Okay, why was one session, or one ride during the session memorable?
I can’t speak to the adrenalin and dopamine and endorphins, and whatever our bodies and minds create when we anticipate what could be, some fantasy session; and remember or imagine when you find that dream setup, and then you’re in it. If it takes some time, hours, even days, to come down from the high, it takes years before you are unable to bring the memory out of your vault.
You’ve felt it, clueless kook to wherever you are on your journey; the rare-but-there moments are what surfers live for, why surfers ride crappy waves and call it ‘practice.’ The waves are working, you got into the lineup, jockeyed or waited for position, you’re on the wave, committed, driving… and you’ll make the wave… or you won’t.
If you’re not surfing for the thrill of it, the magic of it, please, just take up another hobby.
A memorable session:
Mostly I remember being cold, getting out of the water at Grandview with the sun already down, silver lines on a silver platter. This session was memorable enough that it became part of the reason I started writing, “Inside Break,” the precursor to “Swamis.” It was a different take on my early surfing life, one not much different than any surfer who started before he or she could drive; riding with your parents or someone else’s, then begging older surfers to take you along.
Phillip Harper and I, possibly sophomores, got to go, after school in Fallbrook, with Bucky Davis and Phil’s sister, Trish (not my Trish- different Trish). Backseat. She was driving, headed to modeling school in Encinitas. They were, to me, the perfect surfer couple. Not that she surfed. Maybe she did later, years after that romance ended. Maybe. I tend to push things toward the romantic.
To me, having learned at Tamarack, with some trips to ruin real surfers waves at Pipes and Swamis, Grandview was a surf spot I knew about. I also knew I was not going to be welcomed by the locals and the older inlanders for whom it was their chosen North County spot. Phil, who had surfed there, told me.
Nevertheless, we were there and I was going to show Bucky… something. The waves were “Not good enough,” he said, “Not yet.” This was just before he pushed me into the washout that was the way down to the beach, long filled-in, replaced by a house and fence.
Before it glassed off (alternate title for ‘Inside Break,’ ‘Afternoon Glassoff’), Phil and I went out, only ones in the lineup. Bucky paddled out. We surfed. It got dark. I was bragging about my nose rides. “No,” Bucky said, but only later, Trish now driving, heater maxed out, “you… he, he kind of slides up to the nose. If you want to be a real surfer, you have to go foot over foot.”
“Yeah,” Phil said, “Foot over foot.” Real surfer. Yeah.
Hama Hama News- Adam “Wipeout” James got into a a group text sort of bemoaning that he had done a lot of driving, hadn’t scored great waves, BUT, good news, his son Emmet (Adam spelled it with one ‘t’, so I will also do so) got (may have said ‘bagged’) his first buck.
Congratulations! Adam has another son, Calvin. One is nicknamed ‘Boomer.’ I believe it’s Calvin. NOW, hunting and fishing and all that is kind of a deal down here on the Hood Canal section of SURF ROUTE 101; up there with first Bigfoot and/or UFO sightings; so I had to respond. I said I got it with a ’59 Chevy, but it was probably with a Toyota. Crushed front quarter panel. Dead dear. My older son, James, got his buck with a Buick; big ass Buick Trish pushed him to buy because it seemed safe. Deer over the windshield, James… safe.
CHIMACUM TIMACUM NEWS- For the second time ever, the last being ten years ago, Tim and I were in the water at the same time. I don’t think either of us burned the other. Next time…
“Swamis” NEWS- In looking for an agent, I wrote a query letter, sent it to several people whose judgment I trust to check out. THEN, panicked it wasn’t good enough, I started editing the hell out of it. THEN KEITH, after I told him to wait for a better version, said he liked it. SINCE I am not that stoked on the rewrites… yes, he can send it back, and then… I am not changing the first ten pages, and will post another chapter or sub-chapter on WEDNESDAY..
I’M NOT POLITICAL STUFF- I’m considering getting an alias. BUSTER WALLS came to mind because I wanted something that suggests but can’t seem to remember that term for the subversive, covert kind of sarcastic attack that I have often been accused of.
ANYWAY, I hope you find some waves, and if you don’t, hope you have a great time looking. Don’t steal my stuff. Thanks for reading.
Surfers don’t necessarily NEED nicknames. In order to last, there has to be a story. Some stories hold up better over time. Example:A recent incident involving a car ‘vandalized’ in a parking lot with accusations thrown around by the victim or victims of, allegedly, a banana peel on the hood (or roof, I wasn’t there) and some amount of sunscreen on a (side, I believe) window. Three surfers exiting the water and approaching the lot were challenged by the victim(s) and his or her or their friends, called in for support/backup.
Paraphrasing, the first of the three; “How could I have done it. I was in the water.” Similar answers from the other two. “It must have been the FOURTH SURFER, then.” The Fourth Surfer was gone. His compatriots refused to give him up. Authority figures showed up. THERE has been further back and forth on the incident; e mails, some conciliatory, but the question is: Will the nickname THE FOURTH SURFER nickname (and he denies perpetrating the crime) stick?
Does Rico need a better nickname than RICO SUAVAY (phonetic spelling), that, face it, isn’t all that cool, although Rico definitely dresses the part? Suave. Here is another option: I ran into Rico the other dayk, chatted a bit on the side of the road about a near-dark to dark session. Now, Rico is a writer, but I was still very impressed when he described the waves as “Dark merury velvet walls.” Edited to Mercury Velvet,” it sounds like a nickname to me. We’ll see.
BECAUSE TIME seems to move so quickly, I have been telling people for a while that, if I make it to June, I will have been a painter for 55 years. NOW, Trish disagrees, claiming I can’t claim the two years and three months I worked as a sign painter apprentice/nub at Buddy’s Sign Service in Oceanside, immediiately after graduating from high school. “But, Honey, that allowed me to get hired as a journeyman painter at twenty.” “They were desperate.”
They were. Still, I persevered and… now iit’s June, and…
This is my latest artsy/painterly project, the HISTORICAL MUSEUM in Quilcene, what has, after 45 years plus, my de facto home town. This is the third time I painted the mural. At the museum’s opening, in 1991, I went to the committee and volunteered to do a mural. “What will it look like?” “Whatever I come up with. If you don’t like it, I’ll paint over it.” In the 2000s I painted the entire building and freshened up the mural. Recently I saw there was a meeting going on, and I again offered my services.
None of the new crop of volunteers on hand knew who I was. Their plan was to get a restoration artist to match the colors and, yeah, restore the mural. “What?” That I was a cheaper alternative doesn’t really bother me, even though I put at least two days more work into it than I had planned. I haven’t put my name on it. One of the volunteers said, “It’ll probably be the last time you paint it.
“Oh, I don’t know.”
MEANWHILE, the shirts with the graphic I did are available at the Port Townsend Public Library. All you have to do is promise to read, like, so many hours.
More events are coming up in the greater Olympic Peninsula Surf Zone. The FOURTH OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE EVENT is scheduled for JULY 17. More information later. Oh, and if you can’t be nice, be real. Get some waves, dark mercury velvet or otherwise, when you can.
Always trying to improve, I have decided (or am deciding) that the advice I gave lip service to years ago was, often, right. My commercial art professor treated drawings we students believed to be high art as sketches, with mistakes that could be improved with the next attempt, or the attempt after that. “Two-Coat” Charlie Barnett (I didn’t call him that until later) was right that two coats of paint is almost always the way to go. Maybe someone should have told me that nothing we write is perfect, even after multiple drafts. Art, life, surfing; ten point rides, ten point anything is rare.
STILL, we try. I tried for years as a sign painter to try to get my block letters perfect, only to be out-performed by computer technology. I try to please my customers by making their house look, well, as good as possible. Some are perfectionists. Great. Here is my line on that: Perfection is very difficult to attain, and impossible to mainain.
SO, and maybe it’s because I’m stubborn, I have put some more time into previous ‘sketches.’
SO, the first image is a possible ORIGINAL ERWIN t shirt design, totally redrawn after my first attempt. Because I draw these in reverse (white and black), I don’t really know how they will look until I go to the PRINTERY in Port Townsend. First one, guy’s arm too long, I didn’t like the lettering. This one… yeah, lettering doesn’t stand out enough. Maybe I’ll… yeah, probably a redraw coming up.
THE BOTTLE. On the top one, I colored in the white lines on the reverse image of the original white and black illustration. Second one, water-color on the original and then reversed. Third one, to show the difference; I used colored pencils on the original. I am quite excited about the process of reversing the color spectrum, but I think I went to yellow on a night sky because I figured out how to get it. Purple, darker the better.
THERE ARE, as always things I like about each of the attempts. Attempts. More to follow.
MEANWHILE, in preparation for the upcoming SURF CULURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA AND THE SALISH SEA EVENT, I am trying to get a collection of (the best of) my years of art stuff together and scanned, the hoped-for result a sort of powerpoint thing that can be displayed on one of two screens in the PORT TOWNSEND PUBLIC LIBRARY, 6pm, Friday, June 30.
At least seven other Olympic Peninsula surfer/artists will be displaying their work. I am planning on reciting at least two surf-related poems (actually songs, but I will try not to sing them). Other stuff going on, music, food, readings, are still in the getting-there phase, all under the management of surfer/librarian Keith Darrock.
MORE NEXT SUNDAY.
Remember that I do claim all rights to my work, perfect or not. THANKS, and by all means, get some waves when you can. Perfect or not.
Let’s discuss the FROTH SCALE, the STOKE SPECTRUM; the level to which your adrenalin spikes and your heartbeat soars in a direct relationship (or proportion if your mind is more math-ish) to rumors, predictions, short term forecasts of waves; and, more specifically, how you react to those soothsaid prophecies (as in, “Did you see the forecast for next Wednesday [only an example]? Sooooo sickkkkkk. Dude.”); adding in how you *spontaneously, viscerally respond to the anticipation factor, the increased possibility of real-life, rideable, possibly-rippable, possibly-uncrowded, possibly-perfect waves as you approach a beach; and then, we’ll add in how you react when the actual waves and the actual conditions, skunk-to-score, shit-to-all-time classic ultimate; this reaction, the **intensity of this reaction shows where you are on THE SCALE.
So, yeah; pretty much just standard surf talk.
EXAMPLE ONE- You’re probably, statistically, way more likely to get a speeding ticket heading for waves than going from waves.
EXAMPLE TWO- Access to beaches, including possible surf spots, on the Strait of Juan de Fuca often requires a hike. Often, the waves cannot be seen until one is close. There’s faith and hope but no guarantee. If you have hiked a mile, half of which is steeply downhill on a muddy, slippery path, and you, on first hearing waves, even before trying to discern the relative strength of the waves or an interval; break into a run… that’s probably three-quarters of the way up the scale.
*The actions our bodies take without our minds playing a major role (breathing, breathing, digestion, for example) are generally categorized as part of the bodies’ autonomic system. Yeah, yeah; we’re talking about how we react in the moment, without allowing our trained, worn-down and cynical brains to lessen the impact.
**Flight or fight; fear or some sense of invincibility; depression or elation. The worst and lowest place on the scale is ***NO REACTION.
FORGET THAT; we’ll start with WETSUIT WORTHY. It seems fitting to have Jack O’Neill, pretty much the soul daddy of cold water surfing hypothermia prevention garb, trying to decide if the waves are worth turning a not-quite-dry wetsuit back to right-side-out.
You, no doubt, have stories of times you went out when the surf was marginal, only to discover it turned into something epic. Place that story on the scale. Sure, you can embellish it a bit, after the fact. This is where our brains add the color.
There is, of course, GIGGLE WORTHY, HOOT WORTHY, WET YOUR WETSUIT BEFORE IT’S ON WORTHY. There is, or shouldn’t be a CALL YOUR FRIENDS WORTHY. Maybe way after the fact. At the top of the scale, just after HYPERVENTILATION WORTHY is HEART ATTACK WORTHY.
It doesn’t mean you are required to have one.
***I didn’t mean to go to three asterisks, but, if you see pretty darn good surf conditions and have no reaction, QUIT SURFING. NOW.
FIRST, it’s not surf season along the Strait of Juan de Fuca. One must go coastal. Some friends of mine recently did; sharing an adventure that anyone who doesn’t live in the Pacific Northwest would consider the classic Pacific Northwest surf trip: Hiking with backpacks and surfboards, dropping down ropes (and climbing back up again) to possibly-never-surfed spots… exhausting.
OR, one could go to Westport, look for a parking spot, look for an empty wave.
OR, one could work. It is painting season, yes; but my wetsuit is dr-yyyy-yyy; and, yes, I’m thinking coastal. Coastal.
MEANWHILE, I did complete a new drawing; meant to be reversed, black-for-white. I don’t really know how this is going to work until I get to a print shop. SO, last night, sort of hoping to run into the guy (Jay) at the Sequim Office Depot, who has a handle on such things, I, instead, ran into a person who asked another employee how to do the reversal. She wasn’t sure, either; and the first two attempts saw the image reversed but the black staying black.
“No, I kind of meant…”
ON the next attempt, what had been black was now red. “Whoa! Didn’t know you could do that.” “I guess we can.”
On the next attempt, we (with my input and the other Depot person’s advice) got it right.
“OH, but, um, can you do other colors?” They looked it up. “Red, yellow, magenta, blue, some other color.” “One of each, please; full-sized; then a couple of eight and a half by elevens. Please.”
NOW, suddenly, I’m a little irritated with myself that I didn’t get some smaller, as in scannable on my printer, versions of the ones in color. Here’s the black-for-white version:
I did lose some detail here; I’m blaming my scanner. Now, imagine everything that is black as red, or blue, or… and now imagine you are, quite exhausted from the hiking, out of a beach with silvery-shiny-glassy-empty-near-perfect waves. And now imagine… whatever you want.
…or you don’t. This may be a distinguishing feature of all real surfers. Anyone can enjoy the basic beauty of a perfectly formed, peeling wave. Basic. Beauty. Energy made visible, even violent; distant wind, steady or sudden; moving, pushing, transferring its power to the water; disorganized bundles hitting other forces, tides, waves from other winds; traveling, deepening, overcoming smaller swells…
…and when they approach land, fingers and hands, points and beaches, land that has been formed by other forces, shaped by constant batterings; these lines that are the pulse, the heartbeat of the oceans, one-every-five-seconds become one-every-fifteen, four per minute…
…and then…
You can probably clearly remember picking waves out of a stormy and blown-out ocean, telling your friends, or just yourself, what you’d do on that wave (presuming you could even get out). “That one! That one! See?”
There have been moments where seeing waves hit some indicator, outside or up the beach; paddling over the shoulder, twenty yards out from the peak, where the witnessing of the beauty of the lighting and the varied-if-not-perfect symmetry of a breaking wave is enough…
…almost.
There are moments where watching a friend drop from the other side of a peak, drop-and-drive, disappear for a tick, or three, under the break, and emerge… or even not, and you’re crashing through a lip, looking toward the next wave, hoping you can paddle fast enough to line up on a hoped-for second or third wave in the set; some times that view, sharing the joy, is enough… almost.
You might just be screaming as loud as the person in the tube.
That’s part of the joy. You know that joy. I’ve never met a real surfer, no matter how cool, who won’t break into a near giggle-fit at the sight of a wave… this wave, that wave, ‘that one! That one! See!”
Hey, it’s INTERNATIONAL SURFING DAY! Feel free to FROTH OUT!
Real Surfers 