Tag Archives: Tim Nolan

Fitting the (Real Surfer) Profile

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Or “FUNNY, YOU DON’T SURF LIKE A LOOKER”*

Tugboat Bill** already had one hand on my shoulder when he moved his other hand around to my stomach, not-quite-patting it, I’d say, twice; all in the service of making his point. I had exited the water down the beach (maybe it should be up the beach because it was closer to the left-breaking reef) from my Toyota wagon precisely because I had seen Bill from the water, and, frankly, because I wanted to brag to someone about my performance.

“I thought it was you,” he said; but I didn’t see your…(looks around) did you get a new surf rig?” I pointed down the parking area. “And then, on one wave, you turned and… are you familiar with the old ‘Alfred Hitchcock’ show?”

I was, more than enough to realize exactly what he meant. The Profile. Not having shrugged-off his placing of a hand on my shoulder, I’m sure I pulled away, attempted to laugh as I attempted to suck in my stomach; neither action with much success.

Any anger (or hurt, really) I felt was mitigated by the knowledge that the comment was not meant as truly hurtful, and, yes, that the comment was true.

Still, I was thinking more about how well I thought I was doing on the waves to concentrate on how chubby (can I say ‘husky’) I might have looked on the waves, making those subtle moves, weighting and un-weighting. And, perhaps realizing I was offended, Tugboat Bill mentioned to Cash and Tanya***, for whom he’d been saving an empty front row spot when some other surfer moved out; that I’d once saved his very life; sharing my hot water (fill up one of those green plastic Costco kitty litter containers, about a gallon and a half, at home, place it by the car’s heater, crank it up on the way, hope the water’s still warm when the surf session’s over), pouring some into the chest zipper of his wetsuit on a particularly cold winter day on the Straits of Juan de Fuca.****

“If we’re ever both going for the same wave… I’ll let you go.” “Really? I’ll hold you to that.” “Fine.”*****

And, when I told Tanya there had only been one other surfer out when I got in the water, and now there was a crowd ( twelve), and (still glowing from my session), I just couldn’t help adding something like, “Uh, hey, did you see any of my rides?” “Yes,” she said, “we saw you polishing up the waves for us.”

“Um. Yeah; totally.”

Image

BUT THEN (different but related-in-theme story)… Robert, the homeowner whose house I was painting, the customer, leaned into my van as I put on my working shoes. “So, the surfing… you, um, stand up and everything?” “What? Yes. Why?” “Well; you just don’t, um, I wouldn’t think you’re a… surfer. You don’t look like…”

“A surfer? No. And I never did. But… I am. Really. No, really.”

I stood up, possibly a little too close, studying his eyes, just looking to see if he was serious. “I, um, might have thought; maybe,” he said, “maybe more like a… a biker.”

“What? Wait; I know what you’re really saying, Robert. I had a friend who bought a Harley, gained about fifty pounds just so he could look the part.” “No, I didn’t mean…” “No, it’s fine. So, you thought I was the kind of guy who runs around in black leather?” “No. Maybe. I wasn’t trying to… offend.”

“Well; no; I don’t run around in tight black leather.” I had to laugh at this point. “I’m more of a, well, black neoprene guy.”

Robert was a bit reluctant to laugh along for a moment, undoubtedly still picturing me as an easily perturbed biker, possibly with violent tendencies (hey, not judging). So I struck a few surfer poses, including the classic Hawaiian arch. Oh, yeah; there’s a profile I fit. “Robert; please stand back.”

*I stole this title from myself, used “Funny, you don’t write like a Looker” on a piece for my blog, “Stuff That Goes On” at ptleader.com. I also don’t look like a writer, but insist I am.

**He’s called Tugboat Bill because he works on tugboats, typically hauling barges from the inland ocean reaches of Puget Sound to… well, I don’t really know; maybe Alaska. He also builds and sells picnic tables, seems to have on in the back of his truck most of the times I’ve seen him. He gave me a business card, but… Okay I’ll look for it.

***Cash and Tanya are a surfing power couple from the Port Angeles area; in that they both surf. Usually I use the ‘power couple’ title in a sarcastic way; but they’re legit. And nice. If I didn’t mention how impressed I was during the “Tim Nolan and the Wave of the Day” session by Tanya paddling back out against the rip and the tide while I mostly did the ‘run-back,’ I’m mentioning it now.

****The coldest Straits water temperature listings I’ve seen is 43 degrees. I went anyway.  Factor in that most of the surf spots are near rivers coming off the snow-covered Olympics, and the air temperature in the thirties, the rocks on the beach sometimes stuck together with ice; and you get an idea why even temperate water seems warm.

*****I don’t know if this is a ‘one time’ thing, or any wave I want, forever. Eventually, I’ll find out. I’m saving it for when I really really need that one set 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.

If You Look Closely

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If You Look Closely

Here’s a peek into the very manic-depressive swell ‘window’ on the north shore of the contiguous United States. This is the last of a swell that missed most of the Straits of Juan de Fuca, somehow caught on the last possible corner.
If you look closely, you can see several people chatting, parking lot surfing. Some of the crowd that came and went in this particular parking lot had been out, couldn’t go out because of inconveniently-timed illness, or were just waiting to see. Meanwhile, chat about waves caught and waves missed. Others had come and gone, several surfing until the tide got too high, took naps in their cars, checked it again, drove away.
My friend, Archie “Atsushi” Endo took the photo, with me, mostly suited-up, beside him. Tim Nolan had just gotten out of the water, having been in it since the tide dropped enough to allow the waves to clear the rocky beach.
And now, the swell, reported by local surfer Keith Darrock (I’m going to say I called him- knowing he’d know) at half past dawn as “three to four feet. I’d give it an A minus.” “I should come up.”
Others did. What was unusual is that Dave, way-formerly of PB, had come here from PA. That wouldn’t normally be a sound bet. Tugboat Bill had turned right instead of going straight. New kids (there are always new surfers in PT; most move on eventually) had found the spot, hit it or missed it, or, for one reason or another, passed.
Well, no; I hadn’t gone up early. No. I put it off, had to, just had to finish some work. Archie and I had gone west on Friday evening, sure our favorite low tide right would be working. It was, at about one to one and a half; but, yeah, we went out.
And we caught a lot of waves, long, perfect, glassy, fin-draggers; in a pouring rain.
Meanwhile, on that same Friday, the corner was catching the long period, but kind of southish swell. All day.
Supposedly. And everyone I spoke with seemed to have hit it.
I checked this spot on Saturday. There’s something so alluring about an offshore wind holding up a three foot wave. See the last place in the photo, where the point hits the water? Now imagine a long line curling onto it, top blowing back. But the tide was high; too high, and, though I did some parking lot surfing with Jesse Joshua Watson, local artist, soon to have some work featured on this site (Yeah, I’m always pimping realsurfers), I couldn’t wait to see if the swell would hold as the tide dropped. The Seahawks were about to play.
In retrospect… it’s always in retrospect; I could have come here on Friday; I could have surfed first, worked later. I could have…
Well, I got five or six long lefts, had to bail once as a bigass rock unsubmerged in my path as the tide and the swell dropped in unison. Worth it.
Now, I’m totally considering deleting this post in a few days. I don’t want to further antagonize the PT locals; but, let me say this: This is the first swell that really caught here since late September.
Meanwhile, Archie is going to Japan to work for three months or so in the prime season, such as it is, for America’s bi-polar north shore. Good luck Atsushi; hope you do some surfing.