…we celebrate the waves we rode. Expand that to sessions. I went down to the Southern Washington/Columbia River area a few days ago because my 92 year old father has been in and out of hospitals over the past months, and was in the hospital in Astoria, just over the bridge from Chinook, Washington, where he’s lived for the past thirty years or so.

And I got some waves. Don’t ask me where, but, by a unique and unusual circumstance, Adam Wipeout James and Clint (formerly of PT, now of PA) were also in the area, as was a particular set of tide/swell/wind factors that… that, with some magic and a rented board (while Adam was on the one he is selling me, not paid for yet), allowed me to join them, while my Dad was resting in between visits from  various groupings of five of his eight children, a grandson, a son-in-law, for what turned out to be a great session.

So… great. I might have missed the session if I hadn’t rented a board, I might have given up when the wind was squalling sideshore; but I hung in long enough for the conditions to clean up and, even if Adam hadn’t said I ‘may’ have had the wave of the session, it was all great. It was my wave of the session, the kind of session that might, and should hold a surfer through a week of winds blowing totally the wrong way, lack of swell, lack of opportunity to go even if there was a swell.

SHOULD. My backup plan had been to go somewhere closer on Monday. Monday night I get a photo, texted from one friend who got it from another. I was somewhere I could have been, but wasn’t. Hence the question.

Even during the session on Sunday, I saw a local do the classic surfer thing; looking over the really nice wave he was on to see what the next wave was doing.

MEANWHILE, I’m trying to stick to my ‘no naming’ policy, particularly on this site.  Adam Wipeout, possibly feeling some guilt about having revealed, in the past, and strictly in confidence, something about not-quite-secret spots to a few ‘friends’ (and, confession, I did lose out in the bargain with Clint and Adam, spilled the guts about a spot four hours away the next day, but only in exchange for other inside information. It’s not like fifty friends are headed down there any time soon.)… anyway, Adam has done a little policing of folks who instagram photos and  short but breathy reviews of spots, sort of a “NO PIMPING POLICY.” Maybe Seattle Surfers on Facebook could adopt something like this.

MEANWHILE, it’s ski season; I don’t ski; but man, it looks like fun. Where should I go? When? Is there a cool apres’ ski hangout spot? What should I wear to, you know, be like, like I belong there?

OH, and the guy I rented the board from tried to push a soft top on me. No way, man. Looked me up and down. “I’ve been board surfing since 1965.” He showed me to his store room, pulled a board off a lower rack. Not quite the Hobie, but, yeah, it worked.

OH, and, really, we all want to share surf stories with our friends, including where we went, the conditions under which the spot seemed to work; maybe the key is to have fewer FRIENDS.

I’ve been writing (e-mailing, still writing) back and forth with Archie Endo. He’s still in the hospital in Bangkok, Thailand after suffering a stroke a few months ago. While I’m checking the forecasts and any other data that will help me make a determination on when and where the best place to try to find waves over the Thanksgiving weekend, his latest ‘replay’ made me… well, kind of sad.

It’s not that he isn’t improving, he is, it’s that, if the Strait has become as crowded and as competitive as my reports seem to suggest, perhaps he may want to find somewhere else to surf when he returns.

“Why,” he asks, “should we (have to) follow or go against negative people? That seems like a waste of our lives… If surfers are treating others as enemies, the area is done.”

At least, maybe for Archie. I did write back to say that, perhaps, I, (almost) always ready to compete, always wanting a few more waves, overstate the crowd factor. For those who have been surfing anywhere for a long time, it’s always more crowded than it was.

Maybe it’s a phase; probably not; but Archie doesn’t want to be yelled at for taking an already-broken inside wave. Yet, he says, “I really appreciate now that I could enjoy so much of the empty, cold, friendly waters.”

Yeah, well; yes. As I said (wrote; okay), Archie’s email made me think; we can’t really justify resenting others seeking what we seek; and, for some, I swear, they’d rather surf in a crowd. No, that’s negative. Still true. When I recently saw a dad pushing two small kids, one on each side, out onto the reef; I have to think he and they were enjoying the experience. When I saw someone take off on a pretty mushy wave, and someone else, head down, not looking, paddling for the same wave down the line… well, I ruined a few waves at Swamis and Tamarack in my early days. But, again, I didn’t go out. I moved on. I didn’t give up; and neither will Archie.

I won’t let him. While I’m trying to adjust my inner Aloha, I have to recall the times I’ve gone surfing with Archie; and the first time I saw him surfing, alone on a brilliant winter weekday, kneepaddling into an outside wave, easing to his feet, riding the wave into the shorebreak, then taking a break. I joined him in the water. What’s kind of odd is that Archie wants to believe there is a certain nobleness in learning to surf well; a certain moral code that binds surfers. No, that’s not odd; I feel the same way; it’s that he and I have been friends despite my propensity to push my way to the peak of the lineup, go for the best waves.

Hey, I am trying to improve, to share. There is a community; fractured, competitive; each of us paddling out, searching for those moments of sheer joy.

…got married. Without a place to stay, we went to the Hotel Del Coronado for our one night honeymoon. Room 222. “Probably,” she said, “because we’re kids.” The next morning, we picked up “The San Diego Union,” went to Balboa Park, and looked for places to rent. I was twenty years and almost three months old, Trish was nineteen years and eleven days old. [NOTE: “Room 222” was a high school-centered TV show at this time.]

Here’s Trish, shortly before we got married. Wish I still had that Morris Minor; but Trish, she still has that same ‘take no shit’ attitude, the same passionate approach to life, the same willingness to defend things she loves (again) passionately, but backed-up with unshakeable, inarguable wisdom.

What the years have given Trish; three children, modest ups and a stream of setbacks and problems (mostly the type others face), is an incredible inner strength. Really, it’s a quality she’s always had; and, almost sadly, it’s one she’s needed through a house burning down, all the fear and drama of child-raising, husband-raising.  And she’s always had an inner wisdom I’ve relied on. If my line has always been, “It’ll be all right,” it was frequently more on faith than reality. She (her being willing to stand by) has been a major part of my faith.

With a few additions (the children, friends, the Seahawks), I still love the same things I did forty-five years ago. Doing good work, music/writing/drawing, surfing, Trish. The list is in reverse order. Despite whatever she might tell you about surfing being the other woman, Trish has always been my greatest love.

The above was just supposed to be the caption. Got carried away.

Back to November of 1971. We found a place in Pacific Beach, $150 the first month, $125 after that. The back window looked, across an alley, at the back of a pizza/sandwich shop that fronted on Garnet Avenue, a block and a half from Crystal Pier. One bedroom. Perfect.

It rained most of last night, and it’s probably going to be raining most of the day. We have some plans. Oh, gotta go.

Incidentally, Archie’s doing better, though slowly. He’s still in the hospital in Bangkok; won’t be able to get in the water for about a year. He’s been writing, says he has a girlfriend in Thailand, is in, weirdly, a Christian hospital, believes God has some plans for him, and, he couldn’t help but mention, the nurses seem to be in competition over his “Pee pee.” Not sure what that means, but Trish and I, and many in the local surfing community, and his other friends, are looking forward to his return.

I’ve been thinking of a story in which, on a marginal day at a somewhat remote, not-secret surf spot, a surfer who made the mistake of catching a wave another, already quite frustrated surfer wanted gets out of the water to find the air let out of all four tires, and a message written in wax on his windshield.

The surfer riding with the frustrated vandal rides back (and not that local) to the perpetrators house, returns on his own with a compressor and a small generator only to find the waves are pumping and the owner of the damaged vehicle is out in the water.

I’ll work on it further, including a drawing, when I get a chance. It’s not a morality tale (no, of course it is), but it’s probably a result of my thinking about how the aloha spirit has been replaced by a begrudging acknowledgement that the surf is going to be increasingly crowded, and being a local local means you are probably going to be equally welcomed at another, and possibly better spot.

And, meanwhile, I’m trying to figure some time I can go and get quality waves without having to be cordial. Aloha. No, I mean it. Really.