Reality versus perception. Whether one focuses on some dreamy, blissful time bobbing in the beauty of the ocean; or imagines entering the high intensity, frightening, high risk, big wave scenario; or one longs to be part of the scene on the beach; anger and frustration are not a large part of the construct.
But crowds and near impossible paddle outs, closeouts and drop in change the image, push one toward reality: Surfing well is not easy.
One could get angry. One could lash out. Surf Rage, something beyond A sense of resentment toward those scoring bombs and non-bomb set waves could become the reality.
Or one, and count me as one, could work out the pre surf anticipation and adrenaline peak by picking up a few scraps. Basically, by chilling the fuck out!
Photo by Keith Darrock
Meanwhile, with a lot going on in my life, I tell myself that the next opportunity for me to surf will have me taking my time, patiently waiting, perfectly willing to let a wave go to another, congratulating others on mediocre rides, sharing my gratitude for just being in the water.
That is the plan. The reality is this: I rarely surf angry. I always surf hard. The pent up feelings that have me thinking about surfing, next time, ruthlessly, don’t typically play out. Froth and rage are related, not twin emotions.
But, next time isn’t here yet. Yet.
I am writing this on my tablet. There’s A connection issue with my big boy computer. Frustrating. Yet, I am so so so chill.
July 28- PAGE VI NOW includes illustrations from 2016. Check it!
July 27- There are new posts on PAGE III, ‘serious writings,’ and PAGE VII, ‘Erwin talks to strangers.’
SKIP FRYE, PB POINT, AND PIRACY
Trish and I got married in November 1971 (she just 19, me a mature 20). We moved to Pacific Beach (PB), first to a one bedroom on Felspar, two blocks from Crystal Pier, then to the La Jolla Bella apartments, just up the hill from Tourmaline. $185/month for two bedrooms, two bathrooms.
And, for the first time since I was a baby, in Surf City, North Carolina, I was a local! Yee-haw (only carryover from babyhood)! I could skateboard or bike down to the pier, or hit the canyon, always hoping PB Point would break or there would be a connecting wall. Rare, but appreciated.
It’s not as if I made friends. There was a sort of ghetto mentality. Head down, no real eye contact. But, I did become known in the lineup and did become familiar with local standouts. I was aggressive, but teenage “pier rats,” led by Joe Roper, were always there, kicking boards at non-stop locals from, like, Claremont.
I had some run ins, but not really with the young guys. This is me, working man, before or after work and weekends. Here is where Skip Frye comes in. He would be out, somewhere on the stretch, navigating the crowd. I was most impressed at how he found waves between set waves, and casually found smooth lines while others were dropping in, bailing if the wave closed out (I meant when) relying on kook cords to save them from swimming. This with, possibly, me behind them, maybe someone within the length of the leash.
As always, I was thrashing and repairing (mostly thrashing) boards. I would go to the Gordon & Smith factory for materials. I often saw Skip Frye. Working. My image is of him, beside a dumpster, possibly trying to figure out if he recognized me. I don’t believe we ever spoke.
NoAt that I didn’t want to.
Somewhere before Trish an I bought a condo in University City (east of I-5…ahhh) Morey-Pope introduced the Waterskate. Thick down rails coming up to a raised line, that dropping to a flat deck. The boards were being produced by G&S.
I wanted one. I had pretty much totaled the cutting edge Surfboards Hawaii twin fin Trish had custom ordered for me. I had a tentative relationship with the PB Surf Shop, having done some graphics and having done menus and such for a hamburger/sandwich shop that shared the space.
Some guys with some connection were trying to sell custom garage soul boards out of the shop. They pirated the waterskate, shaped it, I painted the blank, they glassed it.
I cruise down to Tourmaline, after work, to try it out. There, on the beach, looking at me as if he might recognize me… Skip Frye.
We didn’t speak. Still, I felt a Pirate’s guilt.
The problem with the design was that stress cracks came on quickly, following the ridges. I ended up ripping off the deck’s glass, sanding out the ridges, reglassing. .
I probably bought materials at G&S. That may be where one of my lasting image of Skip Frye comes from.
Last thing: In his segment on “Pinch my Salt, ” Skip mentioned an encounter with a seal ” Out by the boil” at PB Point. One of my fondest memories is of surfing a perfect little peak alone. I took off deeper on each wave. I tried to backdoor the wave, my fin skidded out, my brand new leash dragged me across the reef. I came up with seagrass in my fingernails. And so so stoked!
I should mention thankful. Skip would. Thank you!
I am doing this on my tablet. I have some new stuff on other pages. I will update… Later.
I will probably add yet another page to my site. It would focus on my habit of talking to people I don’t actually know. Strangers. I get material from these interactions. We all have stories. If you don’t talk to people, there are other people between you and the story. If it’s not first person, second story is better and truer than third, fourth, whatever person.
Erwin talks to Strangers- Real conversations with real people
EPISODE ONE- Not chronological at all.
The Checkout Guy at the Poulsbo Central Market…
…Told me he doesn’t usually chat when doing his job, but there was no one behind me when I slid my purchases forward, emptied my front right pocket, and asked him if he saw a hearing aid in the little pile. That’s how it started. Then, paraphrasing:
“Oh. Okay. Found it… Wrong glasses.”
“Uh huh.”
“It’s, uh, I had to take it out. I hear fine. When I’m on the phone, but, hearing aids, they’re really good at hearing fans, motors… conversations from, you know, like, two aisles away.” As the Cashier is shuffling purchases- “If I could wear earmuffs that worked with my narrowed ear canals… From surfing… I’d totally…”
“I got some for my mom.” Questioning look from me. “Costco.”
“Really. I checked it out. Three brands; all starting at around $1,500. These cost, like, $150. Amazon. My last ones*…Anyway, I can buy… more… Like, more. Ten sets, maybe.”
“Did you say ‘surf’”? (I nod as Cashier finishes my order) “Are you familiar with ‘Endless Summer?’ (I nod, pull out my debit card) “Bruce Brown. He also made ‘On Any Sunday,’ a motorcycle movie.”
“Yeah. I saw it… before it went national… like, 1966, ’67; underground theater in San Diego.(talking faster as someone comes up behind me). I was so disappointed it was a regular theater. Above ground. But… but the really cool people, like my friend Phillip’s older sister; she was, like, ‘Yeah, well, I saw it at State, and Bruce Brown narrated it… in person.”
“No. Tap it… here. (Tap). I saw this customer’s card… this was years ago. Bruce Brown. (I’m pulling my grocery bag close, quickly checking the line forming behind me) I asked him, ‘Are you THE BRUCE BROWN, the movie maker?’ He threw up both hands… you know, like when someone scores a goal… (I nod rather than raising my hands) and says, ‘You just made my day.’”
“Well; you just made mine.”
*Peripheral story. **Flushing hearing aid moment-
These hearing aids, pushed into my surfer’s ears, with the narrowed canals, and, seemingly, always kind of dampish conditions, quickly become uncomfortable. This, plus the squealing caused by the imperfect fit, caused this incident:
I’m standing at the toilet, just finishing up; I flush with my left hand, and, for one of the conditions described above, I reach for my right ear. The hearing aid pops out at just the right moment had my intention been to lose the device.
I told this story, on the cellular phone device, to Adam ‘Wipeout’ James when I thought I had lost my brand-new hearing aids. “So, I was looking at this project, and they. Had a sani-can, and I figured, ‘why not?’ I discovered, and not for the first time… but never before I got into my seventies… that my boxers were on backwards.
“Whoa.”
“So, I thought, ‘I’m wearing short pants; I’ll just drop them and straighten this situation out.’
Laughter from Adam. “Sure.”
“So, I think that’s where I must have lost the hearing aids.” “Makes sense.” “But I’ll check inside the car again.”
Ten minutes later- “I’m kind of sorry I told you that story.”“Found them, huh?”
UPDATE- I added PAGE VI, a collection of my art, possibly the work of others. Check it out!
Clickbait? Not on purpose. I was just trying to have something that set up what is mostly some illustrations by my late sister, MELISSA JO DENCE LYNCH. Drucilla is on the Emerald Isle for the wedding of EMMA, her cousin, and BARRY, a guy I Trish and I met once, but totally approve of. Barry surfs!
I expect updates, but the first thing Dru sent us is some photos of artwork by my sister at the home of, I’m guessing, her husband, JEROME, who Trish and I always totally loved, and still do.
Emma and Dru were roommates in Chicago for a time when Melissa was working at a college downstate. Dru and Emma became very close, and Dru had the opportunity to hang out with Melissa, the youngest of my four sisters, and one with whom I had a closer, perhaps, bond, because of our mutual interest in art. And Melissa, ten years younger than me, did live with Trish and me for a time.
Melissa started out drawing horses, I started out drawing surfing. Her ability is obvious. I cannot compete, and don’t. Melissa remains a source of inspiration for me. Seeing these images is a perfect reminder o how great she was. Dru, in a text, asked me if I had seen the painting with the waves. Iff I had, I am so pleased to see it again.
Melissa and me… ten years back or so.
I wiill have more from Ireland, with, hopefully, some surf shots. soon.
Meanwhile, erwin@realsurfersnet and I might post some new stuff on Instagram, realsurdersdotnet
I am trying to get a submission, due by Monday, 5pm, for a mural project at the Port Townsend skate park. I want the gig. Serious. Part of this process involves getting samples of work I’ve done in the past. Portfolio stuff. And I have done murals. The. problem is gettiing the photos from wherever they’re stored, or taking new ones, which I spent several hours doing. Like, yesterday. But, other photos are somewhere else, some improperly or unlabeled thumbdrive, or somewhere on the laptop that I share, cloud-wise, with Dru (I’m assuming you get this- I have a physical, hand-me-down laptop).
So, after sending photos from my phone to my email, then downloading them to “Erwin’s folder,” I spent way too much time writing clever and explanatory stuff about each one, the plan being that my daughter will make them properly presentable in this modern world. Okay, but then I had to go look at a project in my real life, painting contractor role. That took time. I have other photos I desperately want and frustratingly cannot find.
But I did find this one; so far not posted here; Trish and me in the last century. But it was small. I diid the copy and paste thing, and was offered, on this site, the opportunity to enlarge it. So I did. But it came out a bit, um, thinner-ish than the original, elongated. I’m fine with that, but Trisha’s eyes are a delightful shade of sometimes green on the blue side, sometimes blue on the green side; always kind of… piercing; the kind of eyes that, looking into them, there’s no way to lie. I’ve tried. Doesn’t work. My eyes are blue, blue with red where the white should be. I only explain this because the photo didn’t capture these subtleties. Now, Trisha’s hair being a bit on the orange side; that’s kind of accurate; something mentioned by my three brothers… once each. Maybe.
Trish is recovering from the horror show that cancer can push people into; way tougher than I thought it could be, and way more than a cure probably should be, but she is progressing. Her strength is coming back, slowly. Her hair is coming back. Kind of orange. Orange-ish.
I feel more than a little apologetic about how unappreciative I have been with the struggles others have gone through in similar battles. Dru has been critical in her mother’s battle, as Trish was in hers. Our ex daughter-in-law, Karrie, came over from Idaho for this long weekend to help the transition back from Trisha’s hospital stay. Dru is going to Ireland on Tuesday for her cousin Emma’s wedding, and the main caretaker will be… me; pushy, annoying, rough-when-lifting, impatient… me.
Pretty scary! It’ll be fine. Something else we’ll get through.
Anyway and obviously, I’ll do a lot to not go back to searching and working on the submission. I do love a deadline. That. extra boost when something has to, has to be done. I am anticipating writing about my street cred when it comes to skateboarding. Yeah, it’ll show up here. Thanks for checking out realsurfers. Check back soon.
erwin@realsurfers.net realsurfersdotnet on the Instagram.
Actual text from Chris after the surf/yoga/actual honeymoon to some resort-like place in Central America: “Okay, here’s your dispatch from the field. The crowds you feared are a non-issue. I’ve had multiple solo sessions and only one with more than 5 others. The biggest issue with locals was the crocodile that was in the lineup two mornings in a row. I surfed 20 sessions across 4 spots, including some epic ones that involve a hike in. Lots of great wildlife, as expected, including a sea turtle hatch and lots of loud monkeys right outside the window. I did not see anyone SUP surfing on their knees- those niches remain open here. There were people taking lessons out front, but they were not in the way, and they were fun people. The waves were pretty big for part of the trip, so they mostly went to mellower beaches elsewhere. I did have a chance to meet the local version of Keith, who takes it to another level and sleeps in a hammock on the beach. He tends to the local turtle nursery rather than a library. The local Erwin is an opining yoga instructor who paints sunsets. All in all, a great trip, and looking forward to getting back in the water with the PT gang.”
Gang is right, from what I hear. It must have been in conversation, maybe in person, that, both of them being marine scientists, Megan was especially excited about a sea turtle hatching while they were there.
Speaking of KEITH; a flyer for the library featuring him, a photo of an above-average day on the Strait, newly painted rails on a board he got from JOEL CARBEN (also provided/sold Chris some snorkel fins that came in handy down central), a slightly out of focus ORCA checking the surf, and a flyer for Reggie. No phone nNot that hard to find.
I’m not allowed to post any photos of TRISH. I am putting this together in her room at SAINT MICHAEL. She is very committed to getting the hell out of here. Friday for almost sure. The farther we get from the original admittance, the more we (especially our daughter DRU and I) realize how dire her condition was when she was admitted.
The view from the ICU is the worst. Most views include the Olympics. Speaking of mountains, SHORTBOARD AARON LENNOX, surfer, climber, professional rope worker, has been doing some work, or having some scary fun, or both, near this top secret location.
Just to round this all out, the photo above, on the Olympic Peninsula, was taken by ARLENE OPTINERIO. And here is a shot of the rig ADAM WIPEOUT JAMES IS ‘practically giving me’ to replace my much-loved VOLVO (I do plan on getting it fixed). It’s a stealthy WINDSTAR that once belonged to CLINT THOMPSON, who also owned most of the used surfboards now owned by others hereabouts. IF I haven’t dropped your name here, send some photos, artwork, stories to erwin@realsurfers.net and I’ll give you the same amount I gave Chris. That and the knowledge that tens of real surfers, worldwide, are checking it out and scrolling on.
I have some other projects in the works, and, a reminder, “SWAMIS” IS DONE, MAN, and I need an agent, producer, publisher.
ALSO check me on INSTAGRAM, realsurfersdotnet AND check out the other pages here. AND surf when you get the chance, work toward having more chances.
I posted something non-controversial on the NON-POLITICAL ERWIN PAGE. Check it out.
The Hama-Hama Oysterama is today, and, I believe, tomorrow. Any time you’re cruising the Hood Canal section of SURF ROUTE 101, it’s the place to stop.
On advice from surfer Joel Carben, I am going to post something from whatever stuff I have on this site to #realsurfersdotnet on Instagram.
I will have an actual post of surf related material soon. Perhaps I will delve into the still. unsolved mystery of why legendary surf writer DREW KAMPION dedicated a poem he wrote and published in “Surfer” magazine to me.
“SWAMIS” is ALMOST almost ready to sell. If writing a coherent novel is difficult, selling the masterpiece is daunting, frightening, scarier than negotiating the lineup at Windansea. IF YOU are someone who can assist in this effort… let. me know. If you want to sell ways I can improve my blog; thanks, but I kind have gotten accustomed to being almost unknown. But optimistic.
Meanwhile, partly because it is a pain in the ass to comment on WordPress, feel incredibly free to write erwin@realsurfers.net
For a variety of reasons, I haven’t been surfing in a while. Too long a while. Some people believe this non participation in something I have loved for my entire life is a negative, mood and behavior wise.
Yeah, like, no fuckin’ shit!
To establish a baseline, I am, and this has been established through honest feedback, to me (possibly frightening), and to others and passed on (still scary, dead messenger wise); pretty much a dick 85% of the time. Add in a long spell of not surfing… Super dick.
There have been times when Trish almost demanded I go surfing. “Well, Honey, if you insist.”
While I’m semi confessing, I should semi apologize for commenting on this site and, like, always, about not feeling sorry for lucky ducks who find great waves and then tell me about it. Second hand stoke. Yes, I whine and snivel, but I still want to know. So, Tim, and others, PLEASE keep the stories and photos coming in. Tens of blog checkers need to know.
HOSPITAL STUFF-Trish has been enduring radiation ad part of the process after cancer surgery. She has two more sessions, but suffered a setback last week that is providing a lot of material about hospital survival, all a bit ironic since we have been kind of, sort of, binge watching “The Pitt” over the past week or so.
I will write something about the Kafkaesque weirdness of the hospital, but here is my review of the series (just into season two): You can leave the room for five minutes, and there’s another trauma when you return.
Just like real life. Surf when you can. Fuck Cancer!
Thanks for checking out realsurfers. Contact erwin@realsurfers.net
A couple of photos from CHIMACUM TIMACUM of his view during his recent trip to TORTOLA. Not to blow up the spot, but Tim claims waist to chest high most days. SO, perfect Erwin size surf. 80 degree water and air. And… yeah, yeah, yeah…It is kind of like bragging.
Not that I mind. But, as much as I enjoy hearing about someone else’s exploits, am I surfing vicariously and soaking in the mellow vibes? No.
There’s reporting, there’s bragging, and there is gloating. Not that I don’t feel some sort of desire to gloat my ass off on those occasions when I am the one scoring.
My SURF FRIENDS seem to love letting me know about scores they have, um, scored; magical sessions, narrow windows of surf perfection they were not mere witnesses to, but active participants in. I am, apparently, expected to be that guy on the beach, jumping up and down, that guy on the shoulder, both arms up. in celebration. “YEA!”
Then I get a call or a text or run into another surf friend. “Yes, I heard about it.”
YEAH and YEA and “I am so happy for you… or him… or her… or anyone who scores. I AM STOKED.” Second hand stoke.
BUT, really, I’d rather be the frothed than the frothee, the stoked rather than the stokee. YEAH.
AND, MY GUESS, so would you.
FROM THE EMAILBOX: erwin@realsurfers.net
I got the first image from legendary waterman TIM NOLAN. Tim uses a technique in which he bleaches out the colors from a photo, then uses water colors to bring a new vision of the image.
The middle image is the photo taken by RICO MOORE of KEITH DARROCK. If it wasn’t a great shot, neither Tim nor I would have been drawn to it. The bottom image is my take on the scene; Keith coming in, a fire, a coffee cup. Yes, I do love Tim’s color selection. Yes, I could have blended the colored pencil colors a little more smoothly.
I have been doing some recording of original Erwin songs for my Instagram account. I have decided, since I should not sing but do, and because I have songs worth sharing (my opinion), I am just going to sing and play harmonica.
UPDATE/UPDATE/UPDATE- March 26- If I stop and watch and listen to any of my one take, usually while driving videos, I will probably not post it. The harmonica sounds shrill, my voice sounds… pick any word to describe the sentiment, “That guy should never sing.” STILL, I have songs people should hear. SO, I will continue to try to improve. YEAH, I did kind of believe people might forgive my voice because of my age. Maybe, but I haven’t. Not yet.
Here are the lyrics to my most recent tune:
Before the wind comes up, Before the clouds blow in, Before the sun goes dark, Before the rain begins, Before the lights go out along the avenue, I’m gonna load up my tools and head on home to you. Home to you, home to you, gonna pack up my van and hurry home to you.
REMEMBER Saturday is NO KINGS DAY.
Shit’s at stake. Participate!
Thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net
IT isn’t some brilliant or sudden or unique thought that driving in traffic is very much like surfing in a crowded lineup. Still, I have some thoughts.
Photo from San Diego Surf School.
FUCKERS cut you off; DICKWADS on oversized boards drop in way outside of you; over stimulated shortboard PUNKS backpaddle and drop in, at the last moment, with you obviously desiring a certain wave; oblivious ADULT LEARNERS blindly paddle for the shoulder on a wave you might, just possibly, thrash; BACKOFF BOBS and BETTYS add a chandelier to a section you would have made; a PACK OF possibly local, definitely friends act as a TEAM/GANG to dominate a peak, blocking your attempts to crack the lineup… EVEN WHEN you are SO, SO patient, respectful, almost ready to forget your hard earned sense of dignity and beg for just ONE chance, ONE non-set, not-a-bomb wave. Looking around the playing field at the greedy movers and shakers, the ‘just-happy-to-be-out-here’ enthusiasts; checking out and the seemingly omnipresent surf-adjacent crew of onlookers, color commentators, judges, cheerleaders, coaches, filmers; are they pleased that you’re frustrated? Fuck, yeah, and fuck you; maybe next time you’ll bring your own crew. OR…
from MUMMY TALES, a wordpress site/blog.
THE GREAT EQUALIZER- Not talking Colt 45 here, or any violent road rage insanity, and it’s not an avocado-to-mango comparison, but ANY MOTORIZED VEHICLE (even hybrid or electric) is capable of doing the same maneuvers as your ride of choice, attain the same speeds as your work rig or your Camry; and, additionally, a motorcycle (or Vespa or overpowered electric bike) can weave through lane changes and backups way better than a jacked-up, offroad diesel burning MAN truck, the modern incarnation of a Corvette, regardless of how many lights and wenches and flags and scary decals the man-mobile is sporting. ANYONE’S GRANDMA in a coupe, even without a spoiler and noisy muffler, any WHIMP, regardless of party or sexual affiliation, can cut you off in the collector/distributer lane, whip into the parking spot at Costco that, though not close to the entrance, is (was) close to a cart return. OH, IF ONLY you had a handicapped sticker.
SIGNALS- Yes, it is still rude to be yelling, “MY WAVE, MINE, MINE, MINE!!!” However, it is sometimes helpful to signal your intensions. Subtly. Softly. “Excuse me, but I am going on the second wave of the incoming set. Feel free to discuss the first wave among yourselves. And… Did you not hear me? My wave… mine, mine, MINE!!!!!”
5/10/2011 – Jay Janner/AMERICAN-STATESMAN – Emily McLean is stuck in a traffic jam on Colorado Street after President Barack Obama gave a speech at ACL Live at the Moody Theater on Tuesday May 10, 2011. She got stuck waiting to turn onto Cesar Chavez Street. The street was closed for about half an hour for the president’s motorcade. NOTE- I liked the photo.
THE FULL HAND FLIPOFF- Here’s how this civilized screed (I’m not checking if it can be both a screed and civilized) came to be: I have this bad habit of not using my car’s turn signals. This is how my daughter Dru and I decided it was her driving Trisha’s Highlander when a traffic camera in Poulsbo caught it running a light. Signals. Still, I, as the registered owner, got the ticket. In the mail. I thought it was a scam. No. They want real money. SO,
I’m in a hurry, going from here to there in Port Townsend. Not that I’m ever not in a hurry (when I’m behind the wheel. MAYBE, slight interjection, when I’m on my way home from surfing. SO, I make a left onto a busy street over by the school with the pool and the food bank on Wednesdays. It may or may not have been a Wednesday, but, as I’m making a right hander onto San Juan, I notice a woman, evidently waiting to turn left from San Juan, in a dark car. She is raising her left hand up, fingers spread. The back her hand is up near or against the window. As I ease around the corner, I can’t help but focus on the woman and the gesture. Was she waving? Do I know her? No. She may or may not have smacking the back of her hand against the window, but her frustration was obvious. Or should have been.
WHILE I’M THINKING ABOUT all this; you know when there’s some reason, known or unknown, for a backup, and the right lane is moving faster, relying on the kindness of strangers to let them in at the last moment? Well, I have been known to position my vehicle in such a position that these late mergers can’t, cannot merge. Similarly, I have either yelled out, “GO… whoever” when another surfer is about to be dropped in on (again) AND/OR I have blocked a shoulder hopper. Not that this is any way noble. I have had surfers cut across my bow (sailor lingo) to keep me off a wave.
Be patient, be safe. It’s only surfing, or traffic, or any situation in which a horde is keeping you from that which you desire. Now I’m thinking about checkout lines and Disneyland and imagining an empty lineup with wonderful waves and… no, I’m back to remembering the full hand flip off. Deserved. Sorry, Ma’am.
I HAVE BEEN offering an incorrect email address. erwin@realsurfers.net will work. Don’t be afraid.
SURFWISE- There may or may not have been waves in this off most charts zone. As always. It is March, coming in, as the poets say, ‘like a lion.’ Wind, surprise snow, generally crappy weather. The snow is happening. While several of the local Olympic Peninsula surfers are elsewhere, including Chimacum Tim in some exotic spot close to Epstein’s Island. Surfer/snowboarders are hitting the slopes. I will have more on how snowboarding and skiing are better than surfing NEXT TIME.
MEANWHILE, try really hard to relax. Yes, it’s a lot of work staying calm, not freaking the fuck out. Try a mantra, repeated until your mind if free from panic-inflaming reality. This might not be proper, but you can use mine: NOTHING, NOThing, NOthing, nothing, nothing… nothing… …nothing… AH!
All work and no play make Jack a dull boy… All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy All work and no play make… You can’t handle the truth! No. Wait. All work and no play make… Chinatown… No, no, it’s… you see, it’s like this: I… No, no. All work and no play… no play… no… nothing, nothing, nothing. Not a damn thing. You got that? No? Okay. Nothing, nothing, nothingnothingnothing.
Real Surfers 