Tag Archives: Jeff Parrish

Alternate ‘Power Couples’ with Larger Drawing (same drawing only larger)

Posted on by under northwest surfing, surf adventures, surf illustrations, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing art, surfing tales
There are some surfing power couples I really like: Gordon and Lynn, Cash and Tanya... okay, I'll add my former surfing trip friend (he has new friends) Jeff and his wife, my daughter Dru's childhood friend, Ruth, now, since she learned at a Holly Beck-led surf camp in Costa Rica a few years ago, also a surfer. It seems that more women are getting into surfing all the time. And more are competitive with their men. That's all fine. That I find some surfing couples interesting and amusing. An example would be the couple that cruised their mini-van into a parking spot at a spot (non-secret) on the Straits of Juan de Fuca, The woman dealt with the children as the man threw on a short john wetsuit (it was summer, water still cold), grabbed the SUP off the roof, ran out, caught two quick waves, raced back in, stripped off the wetsuit, switched over to watching the two kids as the woman donned the same wetsuit (I'm pretty sure), walked down to the water, picked up the SUP, headed out. "I got to surf Westport last Saturday," the husband said, "It's her turn." When I cleared my throat as a sort of question, he explained, "I was just showing her where to take off." "Sure." Then, like individual surfers I find annoying, sometimes surf power couples (and I have called couples out, they always denying or amused by the 'power' part) can have that, "We're so cool" type of self-conscious/aware that seems... okay, nevermind; don't want to seem petty. Or, maybe, jealous. Now, my power woman, Trish, will tell anyone that she actually rode surfboards before I did. It's true. Okay, I have nothing more to say on the subject. Maybe later.

I actually started writing this before I wrote the article now behind it on my site; really more a session report than something on power couples. Please check it out, also. I just wanted a larger version of the drawing and most of the copy below came with it. Still, I can’t seem to create new paragraphs since this is really a (protracted) caption.  So… There are some surfing power couples I really like: Gordon and Lynn, Cash and Tanya… okay, I’ll add my former surfing trip friend (he has new friends, better friends) Jeff Parrish and his wife, my daughter Dru’s childhood friend, Ruth, who now, since she attended a Holly Beck-led surf camp in Costa Rica a few years ago, is also a surfer. Go Ruth!
It seems that more women are getting into surfing all the time. That’s fine. I actually prefer women (probably didn’t need to say that).  And these new surfers seem to be sort of, um, competitive with their men.
That’s all fine. Initially starting the drawing because I find some surfing power couples (the ones that are just too cool- as if they bring the cool to surfing while, obviously, surfing, like wearing really fashionable clothes- adds to their joint coolness- I feel the same way about individual surfers) annoying, I find others interesting and, sometimes, amusing. An example would be the couple that cruised their mini-van into a parking spot at a spot (non-secret) on the Straits of Juan de Fuca, The woman dealt with unlatching their two children as the man threw on a short john wetsuit (it was summer, water still cold), grabbed the SUP off the roof, ran out, caught two quick waves, raced back in, stripped off the wetsuit, switched over to watching the children as the woman donned the same wetsuit (I’m pretty sure), walked down to the water, picked up the SUP, headed out. “I got to surf Westport last Saturday,” the husband said, “It’s her turn.” When I cleared my throat as a sort of question, gave him a nod that, at least, he already caught two waves, he explained, “I was just showing her where to take off.” “Sure. Great.”
I have called couples out, they always denying or amused by the ‘power’ part. I’ve  only done this on the beach, after I’ve surfed myself out, when they can’t decide whether to surf here, head for Neah Bay, or cruise back to Joyce for brunch. If I haven’t surfed yet, I always recommend Hobuck. Or brunch.
Now, my power woman, Trish, will tell anyone that she actually rode surfboards before I did. It’s true. Okay, I have nothing more to say on the subject. Maybe later. Next I’m going to draw something on ‘bro-dads,’ a variation on the classic surf expression (in case you missed it in Surfing 101), “Hodads,” folks who have all the trappings of surfers, like to hang out at the beach, but never seem to make it into the water.  If you’ve read this far, please go back and read the alternate version. And thanks.

O

 

 

Tom Decker and Jeff Parrish

Posted on by under Uncategorized

                        TOM DECKER AND JEFF PARRISH

“You almost killed your buddy. You’re a kook and you shouldn’t be surfing here.”

Jeff Parrish is married to Ruth (formerly Hodgson) a schoolmate of my daughter, Dru, so, yeah, I’m about Jeff’s father’s age.

Jeff and I had a few (each memorable) sessions on the Straits, he coming from Seattle, a ferry and thirty miles before I had to leave home to rendezvous at Discorery Bay. Or, several times, usually around Christmas, he would be at his in-laws’ house.

Frustrated with trying to ride a thruster in typically small conditions, he purchased a long board on Craigslist. This day was probably his second or third time on that board.

Jeff was, he said, so desperate for surf that, when we met at McCleary, he agreed to do the driving. He wanted to try Point Grenville, one of the first places surfed in Washington, a place off limits to non-natives for years.

Because my son Sean had worked on his Masters in Public Administration degree at the Evergreen State College in Olympia along with those in a concurrent Tribal Program, I had checked out Point Grenville. Since nobody told me I couldn’t, while Sean was busy, I walked out onto the beach. I could see how it might be good, imagine hippie/surfers camping on the bluff.  

After Jeff and I made the hour drive from Aberdeen, we saw as much as we could from the bluff, then went to town to get a one day pass or something. With most of the folks on the Reservation busy with a funeral, the person on the other side of the glass at the police station said, “Just go. Just today, though. Huh?”

We drove across a couple of little creeks to the far end, a little hook of a bay. We could paddle across to a point with what looked like four footers breaking with some shape. I was for it. Instead, we drove an hour back to Aberdeen, twenty miles farther to Westport.

Days at Westhaven State Park can be divided into two categories: Days you can paddle out through the waves, and days when you must either paddle out along ‘the wall’ or jump off the jetty. This was a ‘wall’ day, six feet plus, with, maybe, five guys out. One of those guys, we would soon discover, was Tom Decker, long known as one of several local enforcers.

Another surfer was making the long walk from bluff to water at about the same time as Jeff and I. He was telling me about how he’d just ripped it up at the Groins on his new board; but now the tide was too high, and, oh, hadn’t he seen me before at Twin Rivers? Probably.

Paddling next to the jetty isn’t exactly easy, either. There’s still a version of the extra-deep Westport impact zone, bouncy chop, waves to duck under or crash through. Partway out I heard the unmistakable sound of a surfboard smacking full-on into a rock. The owner of the board was swimming. “My son’s out there. Tell him I’m going in.”

“Okay.” I never saw his son. Once I thought I’d made it out I was instantly confronted with an outside wave. I turned turtle, and, I swear, instead of being pushed back but clearing the wave, my big board me hanging onto the rails, was lifted, straight up, just like a submarine broaching way too fast. Or, think whale rider, upside down.

The waves offered two options: A quick left toward the jetty, or a longer right, followed by trying to fight back out. The longer the ride, the worse your chances. So, catch the soup in, battle the wall back out. And, seconds after getting back out again, there’s another outside wave. This is another Westport feature; a wave six inches higher can break fifty yards farther out.

On one particular outsider, the only other surfer who wasn’t Tom Decker, Jeff, the guy who ripped the Groins, or me, decides he should make a bottom turn as close to me as he can get without actually touching. And I get thrashed by the wave.

Three or four waves into the session, my ears already plugging up, I notice Jeff is hugging the jetty, the peak at least fifty yards away. I also notice Tom is sitting inside of me, I’m getting cleaned up, and he isn’t. I also notice Tom and the Groin Ripper are now engaged in some verbal fisticuffs.

Tom Decker was the first surfer I saw ripping across six foot lefts at Port Angeles Point, on the Lower Elwha Reservation. This was early 1979, before access there became restricted. Tom lived as close to the waves as he could, surfed as often as it broke. I borrowed a wetsuit from him a couple of times, negotiated for its purchase, didn’t end up buying it.

When I surfed in my second of the Ricky Young-run longboard contests in the late 80s, early 90’s, seeing Tom was to be in my heat, I told a local I’d heard Tom had moved to Bellingham or something, tried his hand at video production. “Maybe, but he’s been living here awhile.” Yeah, he won that heat, but didn’t win the next.

Still, it’s not like Tom would recognize me. I saw Tom on one of the trips I’d made to Westport with Sean while he was still attending Evergreen.  Each trip featured a late session, a stay at one of the several No-tell Motels, an early session the next morning, sand left in the shower. Mr. Decker was in a car at the pot-hole scarred parking lot overlooking Halfmoon Bay, inside the harbor. He had a dog and a short board inside.

One observation that is almost always true about a guy over fifty who rides a very short board is this: He knows how to surf.

I asked the guy if he knew Tom Decker. He looked me over for a moment before saying, “Yeah, I know him. (another moment) He’s an asshole.”

Back to the jetty session. Evidently the Groin Ripper had irritated Tom by trying for several waves and not catching them. Criminal. I told Jeff I was getting out. I could barely hear, and getting constantly caught inside was really pissing me off.

Jeff and I both went for the same peak, side by side. Jeff started to pearl, bailed to one side, his board jumping, sideways, toward me.

When I came up I was shouting. “Damn it! You do something like that in Hawaii, they’ll kill you.”

That’s what I’d heard, anyway. I caught the next wave. I beat the first section and was going so fast, busting over little choppy sections, farther and farther from the jetty. For some reason I was almost laughing. I caught some soup, proned into a reform, did a few turns. When I got to the beach, Groin Ripper was waiting, ready to report on the unwarranted verbal abuse an the walk back. “Who is that asshole, any way?” Well.

On the next wave, Jeff came in, practically sprinting past us.

By the time The Ripper and got to the bluff, Jeff was down the path and Tom Decker was the only guy out. I guess that would have made him happy.

Sometime after we’d changed out, loaded up, headed back, towards McCleary, after I apologized for snapping, Jeff asked if he’d almost killed me.

“No, not really.”

“Well, that’s what that guy said.”

“Oh.” It’s rude to take a nap if there are only two of you in a car. Somehow, and I’m pretty sure I told Jeff this, I felt kind of good. Tom Decker had pretty much called everyone around a kook. But, not me. Trying to clear my ears, I guess that made me kind of, I don’t know, happy.