Tag Archives: surf stories

It’s Performance, Art

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BLOG PART (Optional)

My sweet new laptop has been replaced by a new, sweet sweet laptop. Dell has given up on me. The only problem is the new one still has the slow keyboard response. Oh, I can type on the screen, but, for a guy who can type like, um, Mick Fanning surfs, fast, few mistakes, quick on the backspace, it’s hunt and peck and frustrating.

But, very soon, I’ll be trading it to my son, Sean, for his older version, Microsoft Word built in rather that rented for two hundred bucks a year or so. Meanwhile, I’m risking carpal tunnel writing on Trisha’s Microsoft XP, no longer supported by the (I wanted to say something like ‘motherland,’ with it’s gentle connotations) Corporation. When I find the disc to sync up my old printer/scanner, back in the art and words business. Or I’ll wait for Sean’s trade-down.

And, since I’m still blogging here, Sean just passed all his required state tests, and has left the hostile work environment of Sears for a new (hopefully) career in insurance. Yeah; his mother and I are quite pleased.

NON-BLOG NON-OPTIONAL CRITICAL SECTION

Now… performance in the ocean. Real or perceived. It seems that, during an average session, I catch more waves than others, make more waves than others. This is the OBJECTIVE part. Does that make me a better surfer or a better wave-catcher? We recognize a surfer getting a good ride; style, flow, maneuvers. If it’s a competitive surfer, radical moves must flow beginning to end, takeoff to dismount. This is the SUBJECTIVE part.

If Jordy had only looked a bit more enthusiastic between the outside section and the inside dry reef, he might have gone farther at Bells. Oh, that’s also subjective.

And who is to judge?

And… The winner is… “the surfer having the most fun.” Sure, let’s drop back to that line. So, maybe, during my last session, the kook who caught three waves, jumping up before he actually caught a few more; his friend who yelled out, “I’m on it!” several times when no one was competing for the wave; his other friend who muffed the take off on a great wave, and, when I asked him how upset that must have made him, said, “It’s fine. I’ll probably do it again; maybe a few times;” all these, and maybe most of the others in the water, these were the winners.

Though I appreciate the feel-good-quality of what I’ve just written, and I’m willing to argue for the position, putting it along with my acceptance that the going-to and the getting-home portion of a session should be counted as part of the session; I still want to turn a few heads on the beach and in the water; if not for big moves, maybe for enthusiastic body language; a casual sideways move from arch to hand in the curl, too cool to head dip, too secure to grab a rail. 

“Cowa—a—-bunga!” Not a claim, just a nod.

“Did you see that one wave?”

Surfing Like a Teenager

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Sorry, but, with my new computer now scheduled to be replaced (Dell support has given up on me- or it), this has to be something that has to be classified as a blog.  That is, I’ve thought about what I’ll write, then, rather than write it on Microsoft Word (not on my new laptop anyway- now must be rented), I write it on the site. No real read-backs, no real editing, no polishing.

Sure, I’d rather have ‘articles,’ or ‘pieces,’ thought-provoking insight on big issues, and stories from the past, near and far.

And I will, just not tonight. Today everyone who hit the trail (or highway, or side road) looking for rideable waves, at least in the corner of the country I live in, found something. This includes me; early-riser, third person out, catching as many little rights as I could, always watching the beach to see how many others would join me; just hoping to snag a few more before I had to jockey for position, before I had to… Share.

Yes, I’ve been thinking about why people surf, why so many people surf.  I’m happily out here on the frontier, no longer cruising 101 in North San Diego County, not searching for the peak-de-jour (of the hour) in Oceanside, not waiting until the onshores start in Pacific Beach (figuring the dawn patrol surfers are a bit more skilled/more competition than the surf-for-fun late-arrivers); but, whoa; it does seem there are a lot more of them/us lately.

Maybe it’s not odd that we each consider some surfers part of them, some part of us.

And, I do (again, and constantly) have to admit to being stingy with something that doesn’t belong to any of us; and resentful of those who show up, approach the water, stand at the edge for a bit, doing that standard last check. And there are often groups of them.

“Party wave!!!!” Rarely my idea of fun.  Okay, maybe once in a while.

So, why do ‘they’ surf? I ask. Sort of. I asked a guy this morning, a guy from Seattle who slept (poorly) in his car after riding a few on Sunday evening. He was from originally from Georgia, now one of the Seattle surfers, and learned to surf at a surf camp somewhere around 40 years of age. “Surf Camp?” Points off.

“I figured,” he said, “after I’d tried surfing and failed, that if I ever wanted to actually stand up and ride…” Oh, okay; hope there were good waves there in….? “Costa Rica.” Okay. I guess. Guilty with an explanation

Okay,  so I’m still thinking about the ghetto mentality I had in the city, the aggressive way I attack the waves when it starts getting crowded, whether, even, if I secretly enjoy that feeling of competitiveness.

Sure I do. And maybe that’s why I felt a twinge when Stephen Davis told me, this evening, that he and his son, Emmett (Emmett’s birthday surf trip), and Christian Coxen hit some ‘double overhead’ wedges farther out the Straits; and I felt another twinge when Keith Darrock reported some classic late afternoon tubes in Port Townsend.

It’s so childish of me to be jealous, even though I’d been informed of and invited to each of the events, even though I’d surfed enough ‘slow motion Malibu’ waves to need a nap (interrupted by a business-related call) partway home; even though a guy on the beach had said, as I passed him on the way to talk to fellow “Monday’s-the-day” surf searcher Tim Nolan, “You were surfing like a teenager.” Hmmm. Validation.

When I reported the comment to my wife, Trish, via cell phone as I arrived at the Sequim Costco, she said, “Oh. Good for you.” That was sort of sarcastic, though I had been very pleased when the comment was made, pleased enough, along with Tim Nolan vouching for the guy (almost my age) to give the obviously knowledgeable witness a ‘realsurfers’ decal.  “I think he meant not like an old guy.” “Uh huh.” Then I got out of the car. My knees were those of an old guy. Stop, make sure they’re working, proceed. Loosen up.

So, hopefully we (you, me, them) all get most of what we surf for out of each session. Still, if you see me, count me as one of ‘them.’ At least in the water.

UPDATE- I think, I write; I think about what I wrote; I edit. The above has been edited for punctuation, flow, stuff like that. What hit me somewhere overnight is just how full of crap I am. If I appreciated the validation; someone saying that I surfed well… well; obviously I don’t surf just for the benefits to my own soul. No, I want to perform. “Perform.”

There’s something in my to-the-bone desire to do well, and, it must be added, to appear to do well, that contradicts all of my blathering about who should be paddling out. Here’s something: Big Dave, a few years younger than me, was also out yesterday. Same board as mine, though he rides his as a regular prone board. On one wave, me juking up and down into the shorebreak, pulling a big kickout-to-paddle position, I turned to see Dave had been riding behind me. Behind! He was knee-boarding, so close to the curl.

Still, I was so proud, unlike my session on Easter Sunday, skittering over big rocks, that I had been in the stand up position on every ride. Yeah, probably a little out in front on most.  “Sorry, Dave.” “It’s fine; plenty of room.” We both had to laugh at the implications of that. “I’ll try harder next time.”

Surfing like a teenager, thinking like a child. May you get self-satisfaction from every session. Performance? That’s up to you. If I see you, I’ll give an assessment; maybe on a scale from 19 to 90 (years, 19 being the apex for most of us, slightly different scale for those who started late). Extra points for exuberance.

Speed Run, New Friends, Parking Lot Surfing, and The Beast

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I convinced Keith Darrock to do a Straits speed run a few days before Christmas. Because my daughter, Dru, was home and our small town offers no excitement to compete with the dangers of Chicago, and despite her having gone to a casino with her mom the night before, she asked to go. Early

The tide wouldn’t be perfect, the swell was forecast to drop, but, supposedly, slowly. Archie had already expressed no interest in going early, gambling on my favorite spot, hurrying back. And, he had surfed my (and his) backup spot the day before, reported the swell ‘weak.’ He had, nevertheless, surfed his usual three hours. Archie did have some plans to show up there (the backup spot) on the high tide rather than risk getting skunked farther out and waiting. And I could call him with real conditions on my way back.

Sharing my usual pre-surf anxiety with Keith and Dru, I revealed my en route wish (and often, prayer) list. First, I request some kind of waves (preferably the rights that only show up at lower tides); then bigger, better waves, then glassiness; then lack of crowds.

Keith admitted he really doesn’t like sharing waves. “What about with me?” “I’m not afraid to take off in front of you.” “Really? You know I ran over Archie’s board?”

Accidently. Still, Keith had taken some pleasure in spreading my name around the small but rabid (and yet polite) Port Townsend surfing community when I ‘circled’ the lineup on a glassy but increasingly crowded afternoon. Yeah; well I already explained (and wrote about) that it was a sort of accidental wave hogging.

So, on this morning, the swell was, indeed, weak. The rights were weaker than the lefts. I did have a fear that I would (again) push someone to go and we’d find conditions where I could cruise around on the SUP, catch a few fin-draggers, and be pretty happy, but my ride-sharer might not be so thrilled.

But Keith was game, suited up quickly and paddled out.

As he did a minivan drove up, a guy got out. As often happens on the Straits, It turns out I’d run into him before; twice, in Port Townsend, checking out the conditions from the parking lot. In fact, he and I had dared each other into going out in a gale. While he caught a few, I got thrashed, putting the first ding in the SUP by going sideways over the falls.

Adam is in the seafood business on the Hood Canal, near the Hamma Hamma River, farther down Surf Route 101. To my chagrin, though he spoke of surfing the backup spot, he suited up, paddled out to join Keith, who had already tucked himself into a couple of occasional and small semi-barrels.

“This’ll be fun,” I told my daughter, she checking the rocks for a few nice ones.

“It’s still bigger than Sunset Beach,” she said. Another story, but she did bring me back some coarse Sunset Beach sand.

I went out, caught as many waves as I could, tried to share. Keith dropped in on me once, I dropped in on him once (different sections, really), and I called out Adam for taking off on a wave Keith could have ridden, and choking. Sort of nicely.

Adam didn’t last too long. He got out, drove off, still in his wetsuit. Dru accused me of chasing him off. “No. Not really. And, it turns out Keith knows his wife. So, we’re all, like, friends now. Yay.”

There were now three other vehicles (rigs in the local lingo) in the parking area. Many others had pulled in, checked it out, and continued further toward the coast. Or given up. A random set showed up and two guys who had been parked a while, kind of creeping-out my daughter, started suiting up. Headed back, we passed many rigs with boards headed for the Straits. “Good luck,” I said, “Glad we went early,” Keith said. “You were kind of a wave hog, Dad,” Dru said. “I’m here to surf,” I said.

Image

My head may actually be that large, proportionately. Or we can call it a cartoon.

The next afternoon Keith texted me to report there were waves at a rare mysto spot near Port Townsend. I couldn’t go. A couple of local shortboarders, good surfers, Aaron and Nolan, both of whom know, first hand or by reputation, of my wave hogging ways, were heading out to hit the critical takeoffs. I’m determined to ride the spot. Not this day.

Later, my new friend, Adam (he had my number from the thrashing session), texted me (under the name Adam Wipeout) to ask me about waves at the above not mentioned spot. Possessing a Bluetooth but needing my hands for working, I called him back, kept painting.

It turns out Adam has a friend who took some long distance photos of the mysto spot, going off. “Yeah, so I hear.” Adam said, after doing some parking lot surfing the day before, he ended up surfing “really fun waves with, once the tide filled  in and the Seattle surfers left,” with some guy whose name he told me but I instantly forgot (if I saw him three or four times, I might bother). Adam’s new surf friend, he said, had checked out the spot we’d surfed earlier.

“He said he noticed ‘the beast’ was out,” Adam said.

“Wait. Me?” “Yeah, he meant you. I asked. ‘ You mean Erwin?’ He described you. It was you.”

“Wait. Why do I have to be the beast?”

“Maybe he meant your commitment level,” Adam said, unable to come up with a reasonable and/or flattering explanation.

“Okay. Hey, if you’re going some time; give me a call; maybe we could…”

“Oh. Okay. We’ll see.”

“Okay.” It might be my larger-than-the-average-(good) surfer size, my intensity in the water; doesn’t matter; I’ve decided to own it.

“They call me the Beast, and I’m here to surf.”

No, really; I’m nice… while parking lot surfing. 

Holiday Greetings to Weekend Warriors

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There were waves this week on the Straits. Not as good as it can get; but, as my friend Archie texted me after a Monday session, ‘surfable.’ On Thursday, with the buoys showing an adequate swell if at the proper angle (and it was at an angle usually almost guaranteeing- there’s no real guarantee on the Straits- just better odds), Keith called me en route, over the rocks, to a spot that sometimes provides a critical drop, and, some of the sometimes, a long wall, all when the wind is pushing those properly-angled ground swells into frothy unsurfableness. 

Keith was on his lunch hour and was supposed to call me if he was successful. Last I heard was, “Uh huh; there’s a wave. Uh huh.” “Hey, call me back and tell me what…” “Yeah; gotta go.”

I’ve had several phone conversations on the subject of going. “Can’t. Can’t. Gotta work. Next time I’ll… Next Monday… um… we’ll see.”

Image

One of my favorite winter surf runs- in the northern part of the northwest, that season would be between Labor Day and Memorial Day, is the late afternoon speed run, arriving an hour before sunset. This close to the winter solstice, that means being in the water by 3:30. Sometimes there’s a glassoff, or a shift in wind direction. An off-season (flip the above holidays) variation is the Sunday afternoon run to the coast. With it staying light until after ten close to that solstice, one could be headed out while most of the other surfers are headed back to the city.

It’s a conceit of mine that, since I’m self-employed, I can go surfing when it’s breaking; middle of the day; middle of the week; avoiding the weekend and the, yeah, you were ready for this, the weekend warriors.

This isn’t my only conceit, of course; just one that trips me up when the peak of a winter’s worth of swells falls on Sunday; when I just have to have to work, and, headed east in the morning, I pass multiple surf rigs headed northwest. On my way home, sometimes I pass the same vehicles, the driver no doubt blinking, passengers napping, each with a smile.

A joke I heard on a Saturday when the only ones on a project were the drywall contractor and me, the painting contractor. Though he has a crew, this was a small job that had to get done. “So,” he said, “if you’re self-employed, you only have to work half a day.” I waited patiently for the punch line. “And you can choose which twelve hours you work.”

These days, and for a while, we count ourselves lucky to have work. And if we do… have to work.

I won’t whine about the times I’ve worked close to waves I’d have rather have been riding.  No, I will. There was one afternoon, years ago, painting a house just above Stone Steps. It was perfect. So glassy. Surfers just off work were filling in the lineup. I was painting. It was after my regular job; a side job; and it had to be done. 

I’ve had discussions with Archie about how, mid-week, mid-winter, we know (at least recognize) most of the surfers at the several spots we prefer. Yet, each time the forecasts and the actual conditions give surfers a reasonable hope for something ‘surfable’, there are a few new faces in the parking areas. Hopeful expressions on people who called in sick, took a day, took a chance.

And, Archie (who worked long hours, every day, for months in Alaska) reported, in a cell phone discussion on how he wasn’t really interested in going with me on the only version of a trip I could make, a pre-dawn start and a quick return; on Tuesday, with very small waves he was going to pass on, four people went out.

I, no doubt, would have joined them. Let me extend my most sincere wishes that everyone can find a few waves to put that subtle smile on our faces. Warriors, whenever we can make it. 

realsurfers1.jpg

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Drop In! We can all enjoy the ride together.
Nice sentiment; not that I mean it; not in the water.
I am trying to get over my wave greed; not trying that hard.
Oh, maybe if it’s a really long wave and you give me room.
Maybe if we’re friends.
Maybe if we can laugh about it later, on the beach.
Maybe if, on your next wave, you concentrating on the feathering lip,
dropping, preparing to turn up into the power source;
maybe then I make my move.
Maybe I’m laughing.
We all have the same obsession; different levels of passion.
Maybe. Drop in and see.
And thanks.

Image Imagined

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Image Imagined

I’m not sure what happens when I try to capture an image. Sometimes I lose control. Am I ever just totally satisfied with the results? No.
In this instance, I saw a photo of Dane Reynolds in a magazine; Dane defying gravity, blowing out of a powerful left, not putting his board on rail, but using the fins as a hinge, swinging back into the very power he’d just escaped.
But, I couldn’t find the photo again.
Was it really there, somewhere, a little farther down in the stack?
So, this is the result, third or fourth attempt.
Could be better. A little too much this, not enough that. We keep trying.
So much of surfing is really, in our imaginations, memories not quite like the hard copy.
When I find the original photo… we’ll see.

Ragged Line

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                        Ragged Line

 

On those mornings when the surf was blown out, or too big, or too small, or too crowded, he would seek treasure along that line of packed wet sand between the south jetty and the much longer string of rocks that protected the harbor from just the type of sudden storm that, south wind still blowing, had pushed dirty wads of feathers and bubbles, ripped-loose strands of seaweed, odd chunks of trees from distant shores, into another line

 

In the first light of another too-early morning after yet another too-late night, he’d occasionally look up from this map of the farthest reach of gale-pushed waves, high tide and low pressure, eyes following the occasional set wave, from some farther fetch, clean, caught in the chop and windswell; rideable perhaps, in other conditions.

 

These waves would break into the deeper channel nearer the harbor jetty, the place where the excess force would be relieved in a river. Rip tide.

 

She was too near that river when he saw her. Or thought he did, rising. She was knocked sideways; trying again, clumsily, to stand, weighed down by pearls and diamonds and her second-best outfit.

 

Grainy light, everything grey; cutting wind and the remnants of his own fog. He ran, blinked, focused, tried to clear his suddenly-watering eyes. He met her knee deep. She fell upon him, the furthest lengths of her seaweed hair against him; one brief but deep look into his eyes before she, as if he was land, closed hers.

 

He knew her. Of all the magical gifts he sought along the ragged line, she was the one he most sought.

 

No, he did know her. Night before last, she was laughing, her hair alive, her shoulders moving so subtly, her eyes glancing away from the man she was with. She had caught his eye through the open window to the kitchen, caught him staring as he wiped a bead of sweat with his white sleeve, pushed another order forward.

 

He hadn’t looked away, filling in her biography with his own fictions. She wasn’t happy. She was also working; in a way; performing. He believed she recognized him; someone only occasionally free. Occasionally free.

Image 

 

Wrapped in his sweatshirt and coat, she was mostly walking on her own by the time they reached the parking lot, empty except for his truck, boards mostly hidden in the bed. A break in the clouds to the east put just a bit of gold onto her still gray-green face. She leaned on the passenger door, then forward, puking more of the ocean onto the asphalt.

 

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking into his eyes with what he took for recognition.

 

Three vehicles, two with flashing lights, approached on the road from the harbor.

 

A Coast Guard boat sped from the farthest reach of the north jetty, racing sideways through the troughs and crests; circling back to the churning rip where a body of someone who fell off a pleasure boat caught in a sudden storm, might end up.

 

So, it was over. He tried to study her face; to remember; treasure found, treasure lost.

 

“Save me,” she said, shaking, still-cold hands moving from his shoulders to the door. Two bottles fell to the pavement. One broke.

 

The eyes of the man from the restaurant, from his car, as rescuers ran past him, moved, eventually, to the woman in the hoody in the cab. She looked directly at him; shook her head ever so slightly.

 

“So…you surf here?”

 

Opening the truck’s driver’s side door, he looked from the man to the ocean.

 

“Not today.”    

 

        

The illustration is by my sister, Melissa Lynch, professional artist. I hope to convince her to do more. While I started out drawing cartoons and surfing pictures, Melissa started out drawing horses. The story is exactly 600 words in length, and was originally written for the “Three Minute Fiction” competition on National Public Radio’s “Weekend All Things Considered.” I haven’t heard anything from NPR, and had certain boundaries not unlike those I required of my sister. Perhaps because I enjoyed writing the story so much, sort of plugging my friend Stephen into the male character’s part, some part of me thought, maybe, maybe it was good enough. As for Melissa’s drawing; couldn’t imagine one any better.