High-Lining Again

I just kind of stared at the title for a bit too long. It could say more, or, maybe it says enough.

You have to love the waves you don’t think you’ll make, ones on which you’d like just a little more speed out of your board. You’re trimming high on the wall, focused only on the wave ahead and below you, and it’s only getting hollower; and you know that section ahead, that last pitch before you can glide; it breaks, explodes, really, on river rocks, round, smooth; no oversized chunkers; cobblestones; and you’ve already been caught in that shallow trap, board dropping out and down as the lip hit you; you’ve already pirouetted and half-twisted and leaped toward the open ocean, and been thrashed, bounced off that reef, your board going over you in inches of water.

And you made some. Easy. Too easy; you must have been too far out in front.

Blacks photo by Matt Aden

Blacks photo by Matt Aden

“Again” is really all you’re thinking; “This time…” Maybe you’ll crouch, hand in the wave face, tight, ready.

This time you might make be in that perfect spot. More speed. You take off at an angle, too far over, probably, project out of a down the line bottom turn, and find that high line again. Speed; you need more. You see the ribs of the wave ahead, the already-pitching lip. More speed. You don’t tuck in; but you move your weight forward, subtly pumping, just tweaking the angle. If you weren’t holding your breath, you are now. No, you’re ready to scream, success or failure; this is where you always wanted to be; that high line between… between frightening and thrilling.

The board skitters, no way it would hold in the thin lip; it side slips down the curve, you in the curtain, trying to stay on, your back hand pushed farther behind you, focus still on the deep water ahead, and…

…and now you’re laughing, and not thinking of anything else but… “Again!”

This piece was inspired by my last session, able, by luck and tide, to find and surf some rights, rare in the Straits of Juan de Fuca; no, not the pitching sand-spitters featured a few posts down, but something in preparation, maybe, for those. I’m dying to surf those, maybe not quite ready. I’m more ready now.  I was fortunate enough to work up the hill from Trestles for ten months in 1975, and, remember well telling my friend Phillip Harper, on the phone (he was in medical school at the time) that I would get going so fast down the line that I’d pull up to the top of the wave and my board (and I) would freefall, catch, and the process would be repeated. However, forty years later, I should admit that I pulled a few tight waves standing, but, probably the ride I’ll remember longest, the ride the longest and the tightest, I was on my kneeboarding it after a very steep takeoff, and, eyes wide open, I was totally covered in that moment of weightlessness.

Okay, now I’m sort of staring into some file in my memory bank, hitting the ‘save’ button, and hoping you know exactly what I’m talking about. “Next time…”

Adam Wipeout’s Realsurfer Guide- Number 3; The ‘Roll-up-the-window’ and the ‘Double Over-the-falls’

realsurfersOvrtheFlls I actually started doing a drawing/cartoon/illustration for this, but have a time crunch trying to get a major-sized job completed so I can (hopefully) have a day off during the week to hit what looks like the run of swell we’ve been waiting for. Sound familiar? The scheming, hoping, dreaming, mind-surfing, knowing you’re missing good (possibly… no, probably) waves with the promise (often imagined, often broken) of catching better waves?

Anyway, Adam Wipeout is a real person, totally stoked, more of a name-dropper, and definitely more of a name-rememberer than I am; but, since his nickname seems to be sticking, and because I actually got the ‘roll-up-the-window’ simile from him, he seems like the perfect spokesperson for realsurfer hints and tricks and techniques. Try any and all at home.

NUMBER ONE- might be that it’s all right to pee in your wetsuit or trunks, and might actually provide some temporary warmth, provided you’re at least genital-high in the water. It would be kind of embarrassing to be leaking yellow from the leg of a dry wetsuit (though the process of suiting-up with pumping waves visible can create an urgent need to go- at least it does for me). Washing of the wetsuit later is up to your own personal hygiene standards and practices. But, good idea.

NUMBER TWO-  Never do a number two in the water. Okay, maybe, not confessing here, and, besides, statute of limitations, I may have done it once; way back, in an emergency, pulling down the trunks, underwater, and I was the only one out at, let’s say, the Oceanside South Jetty just before dawn, but, since it was a floater and not a sinker… lesson learned, lesson passed on.

NUMBER THREE- The technique is this: It’s a head-high wave, and, because you’re not sure you’ve actually caught it, you jump up, just like you’ve practiced, just like you do several times a day at your work, for more practice. It turns out you didn’t quite catch it, and you’re almost standing, maybe too much weight on the front foot, and you’re dropping in too late and too out of control. You stick both arms out perpendicular to your body, if your body was actually standing straight up, and you rotate those arms, just as if you were rolling up (or down) the windows in your car. I guess this would assume your car was, maybe a tiny smart car without automatic windows. Anyway, that’s the image. Arm rotators. Or, picture you’re at Waikiki in 1914 But, this attempt at rebalancing doesn’t work, and, as the wave drops out underneath you, the lip crashes into you as if you were (like, on purpose) performing a full body head-dip, and you go over the falls.

This is the first one, the single. Then, because the wave is so powerful, you’re sucked up from the trough and… no amount of arm-rolling can save you now, you go up and over the falls the second time, your board… you have no idea where your board is, you just hope it doesn’t hit you. You (and I really mean Adam) don’t need another thigh bruise like the time you tried the SUP, caught the outside (beach side) rail. Ouch! Still better than catching the outside rail, having the board come up, sideways, between your legs, as you do the single over the falls in the shorebreak. Happened to me. Once. Tamarack. Only once, though the-board-to-the-nose when I tried to push out through a wave and lost my grip on the rails… a couple of times. Tamarack, K-54. Oh, and now I’m remembering several instances of the dick-n-balls board slam/slap. Tamarack, Swamis, Pipes, etc.. This is less likely in a wetsuit than in loose board shorts, but usually means you didn’t get the nose-knock but did catch some air on the way out, then… ‘ouch, me hardies!’ (this is a response to this type of injury used by my son, James)

But, we learn. A hint from me, though I don’t remember ever having performed the double over the falls, and I’m way too cool to do the window-rolling thing, more likely to do the dismount/bail with accompanying yelp/scream: When you’re helpless, being thrashed by the wave, and you’re not sure where your board is, and you’re assuming the fetal position, both hands over your head… well, good luck. I have to go.

Thanks Adam. Get working on Number 4; how to look like a surfer and where to find the perfect apres’ surf hangout spot that isn’t actually a parking area or Goodwill, the real surfer’s clothing supplier.

Risen

Some believe one shouldn't try to depict any deity (not arguing this here) in any medium. I drew two different illustrations to commemorate Easter, actually put on on the site. For about ten minutes. This is an acrylic I did several years ago on canvas board, a bit warped from leaning on the piano. I had to weigh down the top of the scanner to make it work. I'd regret the wasted time I spent on drawings I won't use, but, really, what I'd prefer, is more time to waste similarly.

Some believe one shouldn’t try to depict any deity (not arguing this here) in any medium. I drew two different illustrations to commemorate Easter, actually put on on the site. For about ten minutes. This is an acrylic I did several years ago on canvas board, a bit warped from leaning on the piano. I had to weigh down the top of the scanner to make it work. It’s not really out of focus; it was painted that way.  I’d regret the wasted time I spent on drawings I won’t use, but, really, what I’d prefer, is more time to waste similarly.

There have been a couple of thousand Easters, and an unknown (to us) number of dawns, the daily reminder that we have another opportunity to struggle, to succeed, to fail; another chance to correct some of our blunders, to move beyond our failures, to push toward, toward…

…we have hours and days to worry about what we’re struggling against, about what we’re striving for. What we might do, for a moment, is consider love and compassion and grace and peace and redemption; realizing we need more than we possess or can attain.

May you occasionally stop to appreciate the journey, wherever your beliefs and your search to validate them takes you. Seriously. What I most firmly believe is that, wherever this adventure takes us, life is a solo trip for each of us. We share a few seconds or days or years; we find  a bit (or, hopefully, a lot) of what we’re searching for; and we keep going.  Stop, think about the gift of those moments; moments of love, of peace, of mystery and magic, maybe a few moments on a wave you’re not sure you’re going to make. And, incidentally, thanks for sharing this moment.

Mister (never abbreviated to Mr.) Pugsley is not a Real Surfer

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My daughter Drucilla’s cat, Mister Pugsley, in on the right. That’d be my right. I’d be the cat in the photo on the right. No, Dru, I don’t see any similarities… maybe the serious expressions. But, wait; Mister Pugsley looks just a bit, um… no, I think he’s just a serious cat.  Imagine Mister Pugsley, with an intent and serious expression, paddling like crazy for a wave that you also would like to ride. You may decide to give way.  All right, I’m going to stop looking; it’s just too intimidating.

“So, This One Time, Back at Surf Camp…” a short story/illustration

I showed this, at a bit of a distance, to my wife, Trish. She nodded, approvingly, then asked why there were so many words. "I can't help it," I explained. So difficult to be clever, even with a few phallic symbols and a double entendre or two. Oh,and now I've over-explained. Damn.

I showed this, at a bit of a distance, to my wife, Trish. She nodded, approvingly, then asked why there were so many words. “I can’t help it,” I explained. It’s just so difficult to be clever, even with an “American Pie” reference, a few phallic symbols and a double entendre or two. Oh,and now I’ve ‘over-explained.’

Channeling Your Inner Greg Noll

It doesn't matter what beach you go to, how big the waves are; it's a part of the mystical ritual to get to the edge, find your inner Greg Noll (forever deified in the photo by John Severson), and prepare for the epic battle/love affair between surfer and sea. And then there's some kid/freak channeling an inner nine year old John John... and beware, that freak could be some old guy, that weird bit of spittle drooling onto his soul patch might just be froth.

It doesn’t matter what beach you go to, how big the waves are; it’s a part of the mystical ritual to get to the edge, find your inner Greg Noll (forever deified in the photo by John Severson), and prepare for the epic battle/love affair between surfer and sea. And then there’s some kid/freak channeling an inner nine year old John John… and beware, that freak could be some old guy, that weird bit of spittle drooling onto his soul patch might just be froth. So, froth on!

Two title illustrations for “Inside Break,” the Novelization

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Using the photograph used as an illustration in Chapter 3 of “Inside Break,” the novelization, I did a larger drawing, had it reduced and several copies made at the local (Port Townsend Printery) print shop. I then added color to two of the drawings. The top one is the one Trish preferred. I’d like to say I preferred the lower one, but, never totally satisfied, I went back to the original and colored it in. Now I have to wait until I can get back to PT to get it reduced to a size I can use. You have to know I’d love to add some color to the graphics.

I would really appreciate it if you could read some or all of the novel. I’m really trying (honest) to keep the writing tight and on point, but, there are just so many angles, so many other surf stories. Oh, yeah; that’s why I started this site; because real surfers have real stories in common, and each of us has a few that are just ours.

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Submitted Photos of Secret Agent at Top Secret Spot Near My Dad’s House

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While they were getting deadly (for surfers without Hepatitis protection) rain on the southern most reaches of Surf Route 101, and nothing was happening, surfwise, on the far north section, one intrepid Straits surfer headed down and out, found some waves down near my Dad’s house. Allright, I can’t say more except to say that, when I go visit my Dad, I usually drive across the bridge, through the westernmost part of Astoria, and head on to Seaside or Short Sands; and, when I called him to ask about waves close to the harbor where the sport fishing boat on which he worked (as a 55 year old bait boy) was kept, safe from the sometimes wild waves from the open ocean and the notorious bar the boat crossed twice a day.

No more hints, even if you think you recognize the take-off-and-tuck style of the surfer on the red board. Oh, and the clean-looking wave, breaking into an offshore wind? I went to that very spot, known by locals as a spot where all kinds of sealife shares the water, bodies frequently washing ashore, with surfers brave enough to brave the… no, I haven’t surfed there; yet.

But, my Dad’s 91st birthday is coming up; and there’s still no real swell showing that might hit closer to my house on the Surf Route, and my father’s house is a block off the same highway, about three and a half hours of driving and… I’ll let you know.

The Same Wind

Does this drawing make me look gay? I only ask because, going back to do some work on it, adding the black lines (and I should add that the color, in person, is more intense and the lines that form the border are actually even on all four sides), I asked my wife, Trish, as I usually do, what she thought. “Pretty,” she said. Then she chuckled. “Is it meant to be… um… a gay wave?” “What? No. I just wanted to add some rainbows on a wave and… oh; now I see it.” This started a conversation that made me ask her if the rainbow lei, the faded one that’s been hanging, along with a Saint Christopher medal and a long-worn-out scenty thing, for about a hundred thousand miles, on the mirror in the old work/surf van, which had originally been her mini-van (way cleaner, didn’t smell like paint OR wetsuits)… um, is that a… I mean I always just thought it was, you know, Hawaiian… it’s not… I mean, would someone think that…I mean, it’s not, like, a rainbow coalition-y thing?”

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Yesterday, in my new surf/not-work wagon, I was looking for surf on the Straits of Juan de Fuca. There’s been a serious lack of properly-aligned swell for most of February, and, though I’d almost decided to trek the extra hour or so to the coast, it looked like the waves might just cooperate at the second secret spot I checked. So I hung around, thinking how the coast has been the place to go all this winter; offshore winds, reasonably sized waves… no, I’d go out here and catch a few, maybe my timing would seem, once the long peelers started hitting the reef, brilliant.

Didn’t happen. The same east wind that was blowing against the open palms of the broken lines approaching the shores beyond the farthest headland I could see, out where the sun had already broken through the squalls; that same wind was reeling around the little point, ripping scars into the weak energy pockets I was trying to harness. I don’t give up easily.  ‘Exercise,’ ‘practice,’ ‘just had to get wet,’ take your choice. ‘Desperate’ is another motivational catch phrase.

And the wind got stronger, soon howling across the swells as they moved past me, sideways, tops blowing off. Once I got my fill of practice and exercise, once I had gotten wet and was no longer as desperate, using my car as a buffer, and just as I was about to lean over to grab my hoodie from the front seat… woosh! Whoa! Head dip! My big ass board flew over me, landed eight feet away.

The duck and tuck was the best surf move I’d made all day. And I did get home in time to check the buoys and the camera at La Push (not a secret spot). Swell up, direction better, and that same east wind that would bring better weather today was grooming the outside peaks. Brilliant.

“Maybe my mistake,” I told Trish about the time I realized the contest at Snapper Rocks had been on line for hours, and Kelly Slater had already lost in round one, “was I went too early.” “Oh,” she said, in sort of a mock-caring tone, “and now it’s almost dark.” By the time we had the discussion about the gayness, real or imagined, of my drawing, the women’s surfing had started. Full screen. Full color.

Trish looked at a replay of a woman in a bright orange bikini bottom bottom-turning into a decent walled-up section. She looked at me. “It’s Hawaiian,” she said. “What? Oh. Uh huh; I thought so.”

Hey, take a few minutes, when you get a chance, and check out ‘Inside Break,’ the novelization, a couple of place down from here. Thanks.

Don’t Worry About the Sharks

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This is not the great white shark, estimated at 18 feet long, that recently ate a seal in half in Ocean Shores. Wait, I guess, technically, it’s not the shark that left half a seal. So, I guess, shark-worry wise, I’m a seal-half-left kind of surfer. Optimistic minded. After all, I’ve never seen a shark bigger than the one I saw in the clear water at Swamis- small, or the one I’m sure I saw in the late evening chop at San Onofre. I yelled ‘shark,’ but my friends, one peak over, didn’t believe me, it didn’t seem to be there when I looked back, so I kept surfing.

Oh, but does one actually see the shark that takes him? Like a bullet in the old war movies; as if one sees bullets anyway.

Anyway, my friend Stephen Davis did see one in Oregon last fall. And, Adam James is pretty darn sure he saw a shark, possibly the very half-seal-leaving monster several weeks ago when he and Clint, fresh from surfing Demon Point (yeah, I know it’s Damon- or is it?), and checking out the jetty, were sure something that wasn’t a surfer flashing across a double-overhead wave, second in a set of three, may have been… suspense… possibly, a shark, the very self-same great white predator of the deep (and, the scarier part, shallow).

But it’s not the shark in the photo, hanging, above, with Limey, if that was, indeed, his real name.

Oh, and Clint and and Adam might have gone out at the jetty if they hadn’t been sort of tired from killlling it at Demon Point.