ASTERISK

Mexi Magic

2010-04-26T09:36:00.001-07:00

Starting to conjure la magia.

Purple Haze

2009-06-14T22:24:00.001-07:00

La Izquierda

2009-04-08T12:46:00.000-07:00

El Rancho

2009-04-06T20:12:00.000-07:00

Un Dia en Paradiso

2009-04-04T18:05:00.000-07:00

4th Annual G-Spot Invitational

2009-03-26T10:08:00.000-07:00

3rd Annual G-Spot Invitational

2008-03-08T23:05:00.000-08:00

It's time to get wet ladies.

Twelve Feet and Over

2008-02-10T11:50:00.000-08:00

Meximum Overdrive

2008-01-09T12:35:00.000-08:00

Chasing the Lotus

2007-10-14T11:02:00.000-07:00

Another gem from the guys that brought you Stylemasters, not to mention Stylemasters 2.

Small, Medium, Large

2007-09-24T19:34:00.001-07:00

'Bu Ya

2007-09-12T17:03:00.000-07:00

Woke up at the crack this past Saturday, and met up with Ks at one of the more popular breaks in L.A. Made the walk in just as the first spark of light hit the sky. We were the first two in the water...after a rocky entrance that picked off a bit of my fin...and were rewarded with some scrumptious head-high righties. The best of which bombed me 100 yards from the outside all the way to the shallows. Ks got my ears perked when he said my back shoulder/elbow was getting tubed. Next wave I threw on the E brake, but was rolled up and over onto my ass...can't say I didn't try.

Soon after, the L.A. lemmings converged and it was time to go. But, it was good times and a hint at what's to come this winter.

Surfing just got a whole lot cooler:

Or-Gone

2007-08-26T17:40:00.000-07:00

The last entery in my Oregon series. Seems like a lifetime ago already. Had one great day out at PC with the whole crew. Punchy peaks popping up all along the beach. The sun blazing in the background, and cold beers waiting at the pub. Only problem - my arms felt like crusty strands of rope after about an hour. Not used to lugging the 5/3 around and ducking set after set to get back out. Well, if it was easier they'd call it California.

Speaking of which, Markilupo and I just rallied out for a descent morning sesh. We drove north to a semi-secret spot, and hiked down to find perfectly groomed waves walling up every fifteen minutes or so. My first was my best - a nipple high peeler that pushed me over the rocks that were trying to peek up on the inside. Long lulls left time to talk some shit and enjoy a somewhat remote break. Thanks Marky!

Or-Fun

2007-08-17T09:04:00.001-07:00

Looks like the forecasts have dropped significantly. Well, check this vid for ways to have fun when it's small.

Or-Gun

2007-08-16T09:57:00.000-07:00

"Tuesday the 21st could prove to be an interesting
surf day along the California coast. The 72h+ models
place a hefty storm in the Gulf of Alaska on a beeline
for the Oregon coast. Simulations say this would slam
the Oregon and Washington coasts with at least 20-foot
surf, which is hard to believe given that this is
August and not January. Still, models seem convinced
on this unseasonable scenario this morning. This could
mean SoCal could see some 290- 300-degree energy with
11-13 second periods making for highly consistent,
chest to head high waves around west facing breaks.
This whole scenario seems surreal though given the
time of year and all, and basing this on 72h+ models,
we'll definitely need a few more days to see how this
all plays out."

Just read this yesterday as I was starting to get excited for a trip back up to the Pacific NW. Now I'm a little frightened, but in a good way. Finally get a chance to truly test my new stick.

In preparation, logged some time this morning. Knee to waist meant it wasn't a total waste, but very humble all the same. Looking forward to friends, family and frigid waves. See ya all soon.

Flat As A...

2007-08-05T11:12:00.000-07:00

...Pancake on a rabbits head...that's how flat it's been.

Keep on Drivin'

Board Fund

2007-07-23T21:33:00.000-07:00

With all my excitement of getting a new board I almost forgot the original source of inspiration. Gotta give a big thanks to my lady, McVeigh for starting the board fund. Instead of buying birthday gifts for the people in our little surf crew, we all chip in for a new board. I was the inaugural recipient of the board fund, and I'm stoked beyond belief to have gotten my new board. So thanks to everyone who chipped in, and if anyone else wants to join the fund just drop a check in the mail to me...just joking. But, if you surly NWers want in on the deal, we could just start implementing a standard $25 or more donation to each others board fund come b-day time.

From the board fund to the board shaper to the glassers, the whole process was flawless. I ordered my 5'9" diamond tail quad from Erik Olson with the idea of being able to get into waves early, but also avoid the stubbed toe effect of my flat-as-a-pancake KG. So I worked with Erik to pull in the nose for a bit more slashability (I can dream can't I) and gave it a bit more entry rocker to keep from face planting on the steeper beach breakers.

The result is even better than I could have imagined. Last week I got four sessions in - not all of them in remarkable conditions, but each one a great testament to the board's ability. In some very lumpy surf it held speed through the flats and connected the sections like dots. In some glassy, shoulder high dawn patrollers it dug its rail in deep and help all the way to the sand. The only set back was a user error when I came popping up after crashing - the board was right above me and I planted my head directly into it, giving the board it's first blemish. Nothing major, just a little acne scar.

I also wanted to mention a couple San Diego spots that I hit, while Erik led me on a phone tour of his fair city. He was stuck in traffic on his way back from Moonlight, so he suggested I check outDG Wills - an amazing new and used bookstore. I did, and was greeted to some amazing vintage air brushed boards hanging from the rafters. I ended up getting Jon Fante's "Dreams from Bunker Hill" and a Norton Anthology of Poetry (so I can read Prufrock when ever I need to). I don't get to read nearly as much as I used to, but still like to support the dying art.

Thanks to everyone who helped me get this board. It's the first custom board I've ever gotten, and I couldn't imagine a better process. What other sport do you collaborate with the people handcrafting your gear? None that I've played. I can tell you that. Already day dreaming of my next stick....

Young Gunning

Ladies and gentlemen...

2007-07-16T22:49:00.000-07:00

.... Boys and girls, let me proudly introduce you to...drum roll please...THE SHRUB:

A big round of applause goes out to Erik Hakon Olson and the Moonlight crew. Thank you. To be continued....

Do you recognize this pier? Micky Dora

One California Day

2007-07-02T22:43:00.001-07:00

A couple rare occurrences have transpired this last week. The first being a pulse of swell blessing LA county. The second is my ability to wake up early enough to take advantage of it.

Tuesday was beach day for my work crew at El Porto. Managed to snag a few bumpy rights on a barrowed Channel Island potato chip. The real highlight was wearing trunks - albeit shortie Quiksilvers to show off some pale man flesh.

Wednesday was 4th of July, and I celebrated with a dunk at Santa Monica. Thought everyone would be prepping for fireworks, bbq's and bevies. Evidently, they all had the same idea I did. Managed to pick off quite a few in the crowed closeouts (hence, the photo above).

Thursday was a repeat performance at Santa Monica. Met a bird of the feather named Shitbird. Caught a few. Missed a few. Got slammed into the sand by all. Low tide shore break made for more quick closeouts and beachy britches. Great to surf with mi amigo, though.

Now trying to decide if I've got enough for tomorrow A.M....?

Shout out to the boys in Nica. Here's what you're missing in Cali - One California Day

Beach Blanket Bingo

2007-07-02T21:57:00.000-07:00

Perfect day to spread out the blanket,
kick back and relax on the beaches of L.A.

Just had a two hour window to throw on the wet suit
and hit the Pacific as it was heating up to pool temps.

Sweating in the 3/2, and seeing multitudes
of baggy-wearing, board-toting bro-himes.

Little peaks popped like champagne
as I raced to stay in front of the bubbly.

Too many fun fish slides to count,
But the best one openned like an emerald envelope for nearly a 5-count.

Note to self: Surfing is fun. Must surf more.

Another State of Mind Joel Tudor

The Time Has Come

2007-06-27T22:26:00.000-07:00

It's been a long time in coming, but I'm finely going to test out the dawn patrol waters. Since starting a new job where I'm kept on a pretty short leash to the computer, I'm finely going to wake up at the crack of dawn for a crack at the surf. I've been bone dry for nearly three weeks, so it should be a welcomed return.

I somehow need to figure out a plan for getting in the water more regularly. Any of you LA surfers have any tips on the best spots for dawn patrols? Since I'll be heading straight to the ol' 9-to-5 afterwards, it's gotta be a spot with a shower to wash away the funk.

Here's a tasty tease Ultimate Sessions

Moonlighting

2007-05-30T22:57:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I start a new job in L.A. with a schedule eerily close to 9 to 5. So tonight I went surfing. I just got a new O'Neill Mutant 3/2 wetsuit, and wanted to test it out. An hour and a half in the waters of Northern L.A. and not a goose bump to be found.

The surf was not vintage, but it was powerful and peeling with a handful of windy bumps. I surfed just north of L.A.'s most well known spot. The line up was somewhat crowded when I jumped in at 7:15 pm, but thinned out by 8 pm, leaving an hour window of vacant wave riding.

As the sun dipped westward, the full moon rose in the east. The end of the session was ushered out by the moon's bright glow, squinting to see the sets contrasted against the silver glow.

The picture below is of the new fraternal twins. They're separated by about a couple of months. The oldest is the Hotline 4/3 on the right, which a friend gave me this past weekend (thanks Nate). The youngest is the new Mutant on the left - after the nearly mandatory 5/3 of Oregon, the 3/2 feels like being nude. Oh yeah, the pic above is a shot I took from my car when I was driving home from surfing Santa Monica. I think it might be on the wall of a surf shop, not sure.

The Smiths, "This Night Has Opened My Eyes"

Off the Wagon

2007-05-24T12:15:00.000-07:00

Between battling a bad back and an extended flat spell, I was out of the drink for nearly a month. Well, this past week I was finally able to fall off the wagon. In a good way. With my back at about half-mast, I headed out to a nice stretch of beach just north of the city. My ol' pal Shitbird brought an extra log for me and his gal pal, Charlotte Sometimes. Gliding on a log seemed the best way to test my sore back and, given the sea was wearing knee-highs, it was the best way to enjoy the surf.

It turned into a very grin-worthy day. Easily paddling into little rollers and trimming all the way to the inside. It was nice to be reminded of surfing's essence: pure joy for joy's sake. After a bit my back was aching like the Elephant Man, so I paddled in and took some photos of the surfing couple. I think Mrs. Sometimes has a thing or two to teach Senor Shitbird about style and grace. What can you expect he's old.

Yesterday, Shitbird and I were on it again. This time we drove farther north. The wind was on it and so were the masses. The crowd was pretty spread out, though, so we suited up and paddled out. I took out my fish stick, as my back was closer to Homo Sapien than Homo Wreckus. The foamy, frothy conditions were far from ideal, but there were fun sections that bumped and ledged for quick little launches and bunny hops.

After a couple hours my back sent signals shooting up my spine to let me know it was time to leave. Obligingly, I caught one more bumpy ride that blew up around shoulder high.

Another day in the water. Another day to the good.

Cop + Brownie = Living Dead
(Law enforcement at its best...not to mention tax dollars)

Backsploitation

2007-05-11T11:08:00.001-07:00

My neck, my back...I think you know the rest. After a back pain-free life, I now understand what all the fuss is about. I've basically been bedridden for the last week after injuring my back in a soccer match.

While convalescing, I found this video by The Tough Alliance...they're from Sweden...of course they are. The songs called Silly Crimes. It's my first glimpse of the sea in quite some time.

Boarder Patrol

2007-04-30T17:12:00.000-07:00

My flagging stoke was given a quick pick-me-up the other day when I got this email from Erik Hakon Olson: "I dropped your blank off at Moonlight glass today. Stoked!

"The shape came out great. Given your input of wanting something on the "high performance" end of the spectrum (I take "high performance" to mean able to go more vertical on the wave), I went for a shape that features a pulled in nose but kept a somewhat fuller rear end (although not as full as a classic fish shape). I've been hearing about a Pavel design called the creekfish. I havn't actually seen one but apparently it does a similiar type of thing and the few people that have given input on them swear by them. So I'm hoping this goes great for you!

"Unfortunately I never was able to get to Home Depot for the color chip you specified. If you have one on hand, I need you to pop that in the mail to Moonlight. They're expecting that we'll send one in to them."

So here she is in all her glory:

I did a quick search on the Pavel Creekfish and found this testimonial: "If you want the latest design evolution from Toby...request a Creek fish...He made me one and it is the best board I have ever had in 35+ years of surfing."

Here's a quick shot of the color chip. I'm going with the top color: Shoreline Green. Might have to call the board "Shrub" in honor of the color.

Ready for lift-off to the Moon Base.

Somehow I sense a theme amongst my toys.

At the End of my Leash

2007-04-27T16:42:00.000-07:00

The above picture is what my board looked like before I entered the water. The below picture is what it looked like a half-hour later. I pulled up to the EP parking lot in the mid-morning sun. The swell size was still holding and the wind hadn't blown it out yet. The first thing I heard as I stepped out of the car: "Oh my god, that was the longest barrel of my life!" A still-wet bro was standing pie-eyed in the parking lot explaining his good fortune.

Stoked to find some of my own I hurried down to the beach. I should've know something was amiss. I was wearing my bulky 5-3 hooded suit, and my leash was tied in a knot. Pulling the hood down off my head and untangling my leash, I leaped in. The arms were noodlely after nearly two weeks in dry dock. The 5-3 wasn't helping any. That's not totally true. I had to duck at least 15 waves to make it out. So I did have it to thank for my warm core temperature.

The first wave I went for spooled out in front of me at about head height. As I swung into position, I saw the whole thing wall up in a pre-close-out grimmace. I pulled off it; unfortunately, my board didn't follow suit. It got yanked over the falls, and the leash snapped like a twig. Next thing I know I'm doing the swim of shame, as my board bounces and bobs like a little yellow submarine all the way in.

Like the title of this post suggests, I'm at the end of my leash with my surfing right now. I'm not committed enough to improve, and I seem to go out just enough to get frustrated. I've got a New Mid-Year's Resolution: Surf at least three days a week. Let's see how I do.

Friendly Fire

2007-04-17T11:45:00.001-07:00

Friends that surf together, stay together. Something about being half-submerged with someone seems to strengthen the bonds of friendship. The point was driven home for me over the last couple of go outs. Over the weekend I was able to hook up with mi amigo, Markarito. Markarito is actually responsible for me even surfing in the first place. I still remember the bright sunny day at Venice when he pushed me into a wave and screamed for me to stand. I did the ol' Leaning Tower of Pisa for the briefest of moments, but I've been chasing that feeling ever since.

'Rito and another friend, Kays, took me to a somewhat more secluded spot in the North Bay. The set-up looked nice, with only two other guys out. The voluptuous swells of midweek had dropped down considerably and, adding insult to injury, the water temp had ducked down as well. Before I knew it, my two L.A. chums were chattering teeth like they were trying to send Morse code. They lasted about 45 minutes and I followed shortly after. I can only imagine how they would of handled a snowy weekend in Oregon.

The following day, Markarito and I hit another new spot...for me at least. Again we were in the North Bay, but at a much more well-known locale with a few more locals. The mood in the water was welcoming, but again the temps were a little south of sunny. After a handful of windy waves, 'Rito was out. And then so was I.

After two days in the water, I got a call for a third. This time it was my old buddy Shitbird. He migrated south to L.A. from Portland to nest with his lady, giving me the motivation to do the same six months later. On this day we hooked up with his good buddy Jordache. Both Shitbird and Jordache are die-hard loggers, and as soon as they saw the mushburgers being served up at one of L.A.'s most popular joints, they were in. I had little say and paddled out on my fish fillet. Paddling and pumping like my life depended upon it, I managed a couple of fun, longish rides.

As we got out of the water we noticed a crusty barnacle on a soft top log showing us how it was supposed to be done. He would sit way inside, almost on top of the rocky point, catch a wave and ride it all the way up onto the beach, slinging his board against the rocks for good measure.

We contemplated the advantages of a foam board as we turned for home. As I ran into rush hour traffic, I contemplated the advantages of living on the beach. A big house, with all my boards and all my buds. That's the ticket.

Yokelism

2007-04-14T10:44:00.000-07:00

Dead deer,
decapitated elk
and graffiti,
oh my.

I understand the sentiment of yokelism. It's like hiding beers at a party - everybody's there to have fun, but you want to make sure your fun doesn't run out.

Fellow web/surfer, Dub, recommended I hit Ventura. Then a friend, Slimly, sent me the above pic. Curious to know the real? How full force are the foolios in Ventura?

Santa Cruzin'

2007-04-11T10:28:00.000-07:00

Over the past two weekends I've been making my way up and down the coast like a traveling salesman. Fortunately, the only thing I've been pitching is myself over the lip of many a frothing wave. I even managed to ride a few of them - imagine that.

After heading south to Baja, this weekend I aimed the car north to Santa Cruz. Surf City, U.S.A. was in full effect. I drove over to Rockview with a friend and got a veritable history lesson on the many breaks that peel off the point. I lost track after "Pingers" and "Suicides." No matter what you called it, every inch of rideable face was inhabited by rubber-suited rippers. It's becoming a reoccurring theme in my California surf experience - if you wanna surf you gotta get used to the company.

It's not that I dislike people, it's just that there seems to be a correlation between the number of people in the water and my surfing ability. As one goes up, the other goes down. Trying to keep the latter up, I headed to Carmel. Unfortunately, the rich opulence on land wasn't mirrored in the water. A hard NW wind tore through the break and sent spinning sand storms across the beach. Of course, it was fine white sand imported from Hawaii, so it didn't sting quite as bad.

I paddled out into the crossed-up waters and waited just north of three other guys. The first set that came through jacked up quickly with an ugly ledge in the middle of the face. I motored toward it and as I plunged the nose of my board under and ducked, I felt the full force of the wave shudder through me. On the next set I again felt the full force of the wave, but this time is was detonating on top of my head. I paddled into what looked like a rideable section, but just after reaching my feet the entire wall shut down on top of me. I hit the bottom hard enough to think I was back in Oregon. After another half-hour of the same, I managed a couple of straight drops with no chance of making the closed-out section. Then the winds went from humming to howling, and the whole bay was whipped into a frothing latte.

The next day, I again went looking for solitude. Driving north, I pulled over into a dirt parking lot a little before Bonny Dune. I realized I'd forgotten my towel, and even though the beach is noted for an occasional nudist, I didn't feel like flashing my tackle box in front of any salty sea dogs. I tied my sweat shirt around my waist and squirmed into my suit. I then walked a quarter-mile into the spot to find it completely empty. Paradoxically, I don't like surfing with crowds, but I don't like surfing alone, especially at a remote break I hardly know, and especially when I can see something lurching in the water just past the break.

I sat and stared at it for 15 minutes. It was big. 8-9 foot faces pitched on the outside at the point and steamrolled all the way to the inside. Not to mention the tide was way out, exposing a rocky reef. My short two hour window of surf time was quickly closing. I thought of running back to town and nutting up to surf with the crowds. I turned to leave, and what do you know, ambling down the path comes a guy with board under arm and backpack slung over his shoulder.

"Do you know this place pretty well?"

"Yeah, I surf here all the time. You can paddle out through the middle channel, or you can walk the rocks to the point and jump in."

He walked the rocks; I tiptoed to the edge of the reef and launched myself into the channel. His way was quicker, and as I neared the outside he swung into the belly of the beast and shot past me, carving down the line. The paddle through the channel was long and strenuous. I sat on the outside to recover, but before I could catch my breath another set was upon me. I turned, paddled, peaked to the top and then slid down the back. The waves were monsters, but they were a little round at take-off.

"You almost had that one! There kind of hard to get into, but then they jack up on the inside."

"Yeah, I gotta commit more."

The next set came chugging in. I turned, paddled hard, peaked to the top and this time slid into the wave. A massive green wall swung into focus to my right. I popped to my feet, looked down the line and went to turn, only to realize my feet were way back on the board. As I bobbed down the face, I leaped with both feet to readjust them. Landing in the middle of my board, I shot forward down the wave's face. But my momentum was too much. I lurched even farther forward, lost my balance and was thrown into the meat grinder. I couldn't believe it. A perfect wave. I was in, and I blew the pop-up.

As low as I felt at that moment, it was actually the high point of the day. I lost my nerve a little after blowing the take-off, and then a couple other guys showed up. I backed off a couple of lips I really should have gone for, and then my day officially ended when a large set materialized on the horizon like an invading army. I scratched feverishly to the outside, but someone had called for a clean up on aisle G, and there was nothing I could do about it. I dove as deep as possible, but the avalanche of whitewater ripped through me, tearing my board from my arms like a lollipop from a little babe. I twisted, contorted and kart wheeled for a dark eternity. Popping up in time to relocate my board, pull it to me, belly up and get pummeled once again.

My surf window was emphatically slammed shut. I paddled back in with my tail between my legs, but happy that I at least paddled out. If it didn't kill me, all it could do was make me a better surfer.

I drove back to Santa Cruz, picked up my girlfriend and headed south on the 101. The next five hours were spent wondering, dreaming, replaying what could have been had I made that drop.

In Surf We Trust

2007-04-06T12:22:00.000-07:00

My old lady, Tay, had a brilliant idea this year for my birthday: Start a fund for a new board. She even donated the first $200, which is pictured above complete with "Totally Legal Tender Dude" and "United Shaka Bra." The idea is that each time anyone in our little surf crew has a birthday we start a board fund for them. Gotta say that is one brilliant idea.

As I've posted about before, I'm in talks with a shaper to make the inaugral surf fund board.

P.S. - Scope that stash. It's got a tasty little curl to it.

La Fondle

2007-03-27T13:32:00.000-07:00

One of the best things about LA is its close proximity to Mexico, which is good for those looking for cheap thrills (read: pharmaceuticals), but even better for those looking for surf. This past weekend I encountered both the the thrill-tweekers and the surfers in Baja Norte.

On Friday, my brother, his girlfriend, my girlfriend and myself all loaded into the car and took off south with boards firmly strapped up top. Our destination was La Fonda, Mexico. Our directions as told by my brother OS were "Drive to Tijuana and take a right." We all made fun of his third-grader-like simplicity. Turns out he was pretty much right. When we saw the ramshackle shanties of TJ sprawling out in front of us, we veered right onto Hwy 1 and sped down the sunny coastline.

Monitoring the kilometer signs like it was a lottery, we waited for our number. Somewhere in the high thirties we found a taco stand and a statue of Jesus Cristo. Just below the all-knowing's watchful eye was supposed to be a regional classic of a right point. After order eight tacos and one torta, OS and I walked down to see what we could see. Not much as it turned out. You could see the perfect set-up, unfortunately it was missing one key ingredient - waves. So we got one of our key ingredients - Dos Equis beer - and headed on down the road.

After checking into the La Fonda Hotel, my brother and I checked into our wetties and grabbed the boards. As we wound our way down the concrete staircase, we got a glimpse of the conditions. It looked pretty flat, but there were still guys milking the waves for all they were worth. Paddling out was easy, and just like that we were floating in Mexican waters. The waves were no preparation for Todos Santos, but what they lacked in size they made up for in consistency. The repeat motion of paddling furiously, popping to my feet and cutting down the line was great for my muscle memory.

With a few hours logged in the lineup, we sat down to an apres surf dinner on the terrace overlooking the break. A lot of carne and carnage later, the four of us stumbled off to bed.

Saturday promised more of the same, but peeking out the window at the pre-dawn swell was disappointing. My indigestion was bubbling and hissing with more venom than the surf. Turned out to be a day of recon. We drove south to a reef break that's supposed to be very hard to leave. Looking at it you could see why - sharp red cliffs dropping into turquise water. But on this day the swell didn't agree, so we headed back. Then in the late-afternoon, we finally ventured into the water. Mostly to get some exercise and keep our paddling arms going.

Sunday, however, was a different story. Same pre-dawn surf check, but this time the little crumblers had shot-up with 'roids over night and now were legitimate head-high peaks. As OS and I rushed down to the cold, gray beach we heard footsteps behind us and realized we had been followed. A spry surfer in his thirties walked up to us with a slight grin. Under his arm he had a beautiful Pavel Speed Dialer fish. That would make me smile too. He introduced himself as John, and the three of us waded out into the water and began our last surf of the weekend.

We were the first ones out, but I knew the bros would be on it soon. So when the first peak popped up my way, I paddled with all my bean-fueled might and pulled into a clean, reeling right. My KG came alive as I pumped up and down the face. All the practice of generating speed in small waves paid off with a bit more size. Almost too much though - I nearly outran the shoulder, but a little cutback brought me back to the pocket and kept me speeding to the shallows. As the wave reached up in its last pitch before a watery death, I angled up the face to snap off the lip. At least that's what I tried to do. I'm sure it looked more like an epileptic in the final stages of a ferocious fit - but I was happy that I at least tried something.

Stoked to finally be surfing waves with some power, I headed back out. When I made it out I couldn't find my brother. I spun around and saw him on the shore messing with his board. The red sled had given him some problems earlier, so I just assumed it was more of the same. For the next hour, John and I shared waves, hooting each other into fast, steep drops. I caught one of my best waves during this period. I could here John yelling me in as a head-high peak popped up in front of me. It was a left, and as I dropped I grabbed the rail to pull me up into the pocket. This sling-shot the board forward and I had to lean into it to stay on top. The wave just unfurled in front of me for what felt like eternity. My body somehow figured out how to pump going backside, without my brain even knowing how. I connected sections that I didn't think I had a chance at, and then in the final push I saw a surfer paddling toward me shouting encouragement. It was my bro on his way back out. Glad to have a witness to the ride, I dropped off the back of the wave and began paddling out with him.

Turns out he broke his leash and had to fix it with some twine and a rudimentary, boy scout knot. We kept surfing well into the morning, and saw some phenomenal surfers putting on clinics. One guy right next to us pulled into consecutive tubes. I saw his second as I paddled back out - tucked high in the pocket he was right in the almond-shaped eye of the storm - perfect.

The surf ended and the Sunday brunch began. We feasted and then jumped on the road. Somehow everyone in Baja had the same idea, and we crawled across the border at a snails pace. But it was fine - just gave me more time to daze and dream about a great weekend with friends and foam.

Looking for Tail

2007-03-25T20:17:00.000-07:00

Well, I may have moved in with my girlfriend, but it hasn't stopped me from looking for tail. In fact, since starting up a conversation with Erik Hakon Olson, it’s all I can think about. His question seemed harmless enough: "Are you really keen on a fish-tailed fish shape? There are some other options on the tail that we could try. For instance, I'm shaping myself a quad fin diamond tail fishy shape right now."

I realized I had no real idea of the difference between a swallow fish tail and a diamond tail. So I called my friend and resident surf expert, Chum. He said he didn't know either. We chatted on the phone and put forth some arm-chair theories: A diamond seems like it has the characteristics of a squash with the slight point of a pintail, whereas the swallow seems like it helps get into waves early, but also functions like a pintail down each point of the swallow. I felt like I was in high school physics trying to BS my way through a quiz. We may have had the general premise, but I'm sure we were way off on the finer points.

Fortunately, we're not shaping the board. I got an email back from Erik to set me straight: "The diamond tail template that you can find some examples of on my blog is fairly pulled in compared to something wider like a classic fish tail. So this will help the board go more "vertical" and surf off the back foot than the really wide ones [In my desperation to become a passably decent surfer, I told Erik I wanted to be able to go more vertical and surf off my back foot...I can dream can't I]. That being said, a fish tail with bumps starts to be more pulled in like this diamond tail is so it too will have a similar effect. So the choice in my mind is less about the specific tail shape (diamond, squash, rounded pin, etc.) and more about wide or more pulled in (my tails are all still somewhat wide. Certainly when you compare them to like a classic 70's single fin style shape). And you can do this with a smooth curve or with something with bumps. The board with bumps will have slightly more linear edge to break from the water, which will make it a bit looser. The transition is more "digital" and less "analog" if that makes sense (steps rather than smooth curves). It's still relatively smooth though."

I've come to realize through this process that I can talk a much better game than I can play. I can deliberate all day about the slightest nuances, but when it comes down to it I'm not sure if I could tell the difference between a quad fish and a redwood plank. Slight exaggeration, but only slightly. I need a lot more time in the water to fully appreciate a design as complex and finely tuned as one of Erik's boards. But I've always figured it's best to play up. At least I'll never be able to blame my equipment.

I know there are a lot of very knowledgeable people out in the wild, wild web. What do you think are the main differences between a swallow tail and a diamond tail?

Jurassic Crocodile Unearthed in Oregon

2007-03-21T17:04:00.000-07:00

Could you imagine? Not only did you have to worry about the man in the gray suit, but you had to keep your eyes peeled for his associate in the crocodile shoes.

Shark/Croc Hybrid

A Wave of One's Own

2007-03-17T18:00:00.001-07:00

Southern California is crowded. It’s a simple fact of life. From stalled freeways to over-crowded bars to endless strip-malls, learning to navigate the crush of humanity is key to survival. This is none so apparent than in the water.

Surfing in Oregon can be a lonely experience. Sure some spots get congested, but generally speaking, it’s less size you find yourself wishing for, not less people. I’ve only had a few go outs as a California resident, but it seems to be the opposite – small waves with hundreds of hungry surfers.

But somehow I don’t think surfing’s popularity is going anywhere in the near future. Which means I need to get comfortable with having company in the water.

Trying to play well with others I headed to EP on Monday. I figured most the water-heads would be at work, but pulled up to a packed parking lot. The small peaks were loaded to the gills. Frustrated I walked south down the long stretch of beach. I finally came to a small pocket of relatively empty water.

Once out, I smiled to have the sun in my face and my exposed toes tapping the warmish water. The first set showed up on the horizon. I spun, paddled and popped. The KG fish took to the wave like a fat man to food. Over the next two hours I got my wave-count up into the double digits, and started to feel comfortable dropping-in in front of all the local dropouts. I told myself a couple more rides and then I’m out. Seems the surf had a different idea. I rode the next wave into the shallows, where it pitched up, sending me down and the board up. My forehead kissed against the rail and left a large hicky that signaled the end of the sesh.

Still stoked on the early-week go-out, I made plans to meet up with a friend of a friend. Jays suggested we meet early for a dawn patrol, so he could make it back to work in Santa Monica. With the time change we were paddling out in the pitch black of night. Jays didn’t seem to mind. The first wave rolled through and he was sliding out my rearview on a great little grinder. He said he was coming off a bit of a lay-off, but it seems the rest did him well as he caught quite a few before I could find the peak in the dying light. When I did I was surprised how fast the shoulder ledged up and reeled down the line. As I paddled back from the fast little left I realized Jays and I had just been joined by about fifty of our friends. All of whom seemed to be gathered in a twenty-yard radius of the peak. As the light increased to a gray glow the crowd increased to a dense flotilla. Jays laughed and said it was a light day, and that I should see it on a hot summer day. Somehow Jays’ “light day” reminded me of a menstrual commercial, and it seemed fitting.

After a few hours of bobbing around with my buddies, the high tide defeated everyone and I headed in. I felt like the Hoosier’s basketball team - from the movie, not IU – when they make it to the state finals. All the dimensions of the court are the same, but somehow the larger venue just feels different. I just need to figure out how to become comfortable with the larger venue, which I’m hoping will come with time.

Pigpen Prose

2007-03-15T09:49:00.000-07:00

Just wanted to take a slight detour from my wet dreams - surfing that is - to give props to one of the most dedicated artists I know. My friend Kacy Curtis has been toiling away in obscurity for the last ten years as a committed novelist. The only thing harder than becoming a professional surfer? Becoming a successful writer. Making it even more difficult, Kacy hadn't read a complete book until the age of 19. That's right, he made it through high school with only the foggiest of notions about Boo Radley, Holden Caulfied, Phineas and company. At the time he was just too busy living to read about other people's lives. But I'll let him tell it in his own words:

"I was born in Ashland, Oregon in 1976. I graduated from Ashland High School without having read one book. My overall G.P.A. was a 2.0, but I excelled in all of the violent sports. In 1996, after taking a year off to drink margaritas on Maui and Kaua’i, I attended Southern Oregon University. I dropped out after one semester because it conflicted with my principles and my vices. Since then, I have gotten lost in Yellow Stone National Park, and liquidated my mind on Bourbon Street. I have driven an R.V. across the United States, and cried while visiting Graceland. I am currently living in Portland, Oregon with my wife, and am hard at work on my next novel, 'Fourth and Forever.' My hobbies include building rope-swings, eating at Home Town Buffet, barnyard wrestling, and watching Three’s Company."

Kacy now devours books at a clip that is the envy of librarians. He writes slavishly, as if his well-fare depended upon it. And, in large part, I think it does, which is why his novels are so compelling. But have a look for yourself. You can read excerpts of his four completed novels and find links to purchasing them at Pigpen Prose.

To Live and Surf in L.A.

2007-03-11T14:48:00.000-07:00

Almost two weeks ago I crammed all my possessions into the back of my car and drove out of Portland on I-5 South. The only reason all my possessions fit in the back of my car is that my girlfriend made me throw half of them overboard before moving in with her in L.A.

Leaving Portland meant leaving family, friends and the cold water I'd come to crave. But moving to L.A. meant warm water and exploring numerous new breaks (even if the breaks happen to be loaded with half of Los Angeles's loads).

After hearing about an epic session up north from Chummers and the crew, I was eager to test the SoCal waters. The sites were predicting a swell size of John Holmes proportions - 1 to 2 feet - which is great if you're in porn, but sucky if you're trying to surf.

Shitbird and myself eyeballed a spot up north for nearly an hour, willing it to get bigger. It almost worked too. A chest high set popped up, and that's all we needed. We suited up and paddled out. The water was surprisingly chilly, but then again my ratty 4-3 had more holes than USC's defense against the Ducks. If I could've added my decent rides together I would of had one good 5' wave in the span of 3 hours.

So while big winter surf pounds the PNW, I'm left with knee-high-to-a-grasshopper sets, which is fine by me for the time being. The following tables show the stark difference between the noth and south ends of the left coast.

NORTH:

SOUTH:

Fortunately though, somehow by some weird algorithm a 2.5’ swell in L.A. actually equates to a 2.5’ wave. Whereas in Oregon, a 13’ swell could easily be knocked down to just over chest high. I’ll put my theory to the test tomorrow when I head to a spot just below the flight path of LAX.

In the meantime and in between time, my new home comes equipped with a large flat screen TV, and endless stoke-supplying Fuel TV.

2nd Annual G-Spot Invitational

2007-02-19T10:03:00.000-08:00

The holding period for this year's G-Spot Invitational has been moved up a month to Saturday 24 or Sunday 25. The decision will be based upon a close analysis of all pertinent indicators, such as swell size/direction, wind speed/direction, tide and, most importantly, the severity of the contestants' hang-overs. The question is whether it is better to surf early Saturday with slight grogginess or midday Sunday with mind-numbing morning after pains?

Those in attendance last year will remember the G-Spot Invitational for its stellar conditions, top-notch performances and overall good times. With swell sizes potentially reaching the twenty foot range, the 2nd Annual event should prove to be even better. So stick some bubble gum in those dings, darn the holes in your wet suits and wax up the boards because this weekend is the main event. An award ceremony will follow the event to honor the best of the beasts in the following categories: Best Wipe Out, Longest Ride, Biggest Wave, Best Picture, Smallest Wave and Best Tube.

Good Luck!

Alone Together

2007-02-13T09:57:00.000-08:00

Driving to the coast we laughed and listened to music, sharing in the excitement. In the parking lot we wrestled into our wet suits and watched the horizon. We tip-toed out on the rocks together. Then in one quick motion I plunged into the dark sea alone. Just me and the cresting expanse. Paddling madly in my voyage to who knows where. I sat up in the slate gray waters and thought of them. Where are they? Did they decide not to get in? Then I saw them bobbing toward me. A muted relief filled my chest. Two other surfers emerged on the outside and we exchanged waves till the two departed. Then we were alone together. The ocean. My friends. Myself.

Pepe Le Pu

2007-01-29T21:44:00.000-08:00

The donut hole. The goose egg. The old skunkaroo. Whatever you want to call it, I was shut out this weekend. For a week I watched the reports with the greatest of hopes; I read through The Surfer’s Journal; I repaired minor dings on my board. And when my surfection was threatening to rip through the ol’ Rip Curl, I plunged into an ebbing channel that floated me effortlessly past half-submerged boulders to the outside.

Maybe it was a little too easy. Being pulled out to the take-off spot gave me the false impression that it was going to be a day of non-consequential rides back to the rip. I realized just how wrong I was as the first set waves of the sesh stacked up on the horizon. Scratching like a dog I pierced through the first two, only to be rolled half way to Portland by the third, and mightiest, wave.

Someone must have hit the replay button, because after struggling to reclaim my spot I was again tumbled into the garbage disposal.

The rest of the session was a comedy of errors, as I hunted the ever-elusive peak. The punctuation to the story was stamped all across the crescent bay when the sea heaved forth an onslaught that made me think of Discovery channel programs with names like “When Good Times Go Bad” and “Nature’s Wrath.”

It’s a true testament to the beauty of surfing that even though I was humiliated on all fronts I came away from the weekend with a smile and plans to get back out as soon as possible (not to mention a ding roughly the size of the bruise on my thigh). Surfing, for me, is about so much more than, well, surfing. It’s about the friends, the music, the struggle, the water, the chit-chat, the wine, the art, the sleep, the salt and so much more.

Work Boots for Oregon Watermen

2007-01-24T12:44:00.000-08:00

"Work Boots for Watermen" is the classic Rainbow Sandal's tagline. It usually shows some bronzed dude reverently gazing out to sea. Well, as much as I'd like to poke fun at the ad, I'm actually quite envious. Unfortunately/fortunately, my waterman work boots are chunky hiking boots. While they don't have the casaul appeal of thongs, they are perfect for lacing up over your 3 mil booties when hiking across mud, rock, ice and fallen tree limbs. Oh yeah, they also have the distinct advantage of bright neon coloring, so you'll never lose them in the forested coastline.

Frosty Brahski

2007-01-19T09:51:00.000-08:00

I let my friend Frosty borrow my board for some ice screamers.

All Snowy on the Western Front

2007-01-17T10:35:00.000-08:00

With an impending departure to LA, snowy surf trips with great friends in the PNW take on even more significance.

First, there was the drive. Through powder and ice. Following the Camry as we slid our way to paradise.

Watching a few ice creamers got us acquainted with the water. Then it was cat and mouse as we chased the peaks to stay warm. Finally finding some just as the toes went numb.

Out of the water and into the fire. Nothing remained but the painful goodbye and a return trip back to reality's grip.

Now all we've got left are the memories.

Ramp Retards

2007-01-09T17:41:00.000-08:00

I know, I know, it’s not OK to use that word. But if any of you had seen the inaugural display on OS’s new half-pipe, you’d have to agree the only appropriate word is RETARDED.

There was so much retardation on display that a whole new branch of study has been opened up – retardology. I’ll briefly walk you through the initial findings of the burgeoning field:

First, we have Pro-Magnon. He bears a striking resemblance to Cro-Magnon, but believes through the use of excessive Pro-Tec padding that he can one day become a professional ramp skater.

Then there’s Homo-Erection. He is cognizant of his inability on the ramp, but believes he can overcome any deficiencies through a highly attuned sense of style. Take note of his pink Converse, tight black jeans and Palestinian scarf.

Next we have Little Big Foot. Having somewhat adapted to modern life, Little Big Foot now hides his fur-covered body beneath denim. But don’t be fooled, his lack of higher reasoning can be seen in his use of a bike helmet instead of a skating helmet. LBF is also sometimes referred to as Icky Icarus, as he flies high to the coping but clearly has no idea what to do once there.

This photo is a rare sighting of the Duckfoot Splatterpus. His name is derived from his highly unique stance on the board and his propensity to put body to plywood. Not long after this photo, Duckfoot was seen walking into the kitchen and cursing the ramp as he resumed his position on the couch.

Finally, we have the Missing Link. After many rumored spottings, the Missing Link was finally captured on film. Unfortunately, no action shots were taken. If there had been, viewers would have been treated to a flowing, graceful display that clearly marks the link between the aforementioned retards and the competent, non-retarded skaters they’d like to become.

Do You Know the Street Value of this Mountain?

2006-12-29T19:11:00.000-08:00

Before I had surf buddies, I had ski buddies. While I was down in Southern Oregon over the holidays, I had a chance to catch up with some of them and rekindle my love affair with the mountains.

When I was five years old, my parents took my two older brothers and me to Mt. Bachelor for a family ski vacation. Problem was temperatures on the mountain maxed out at -30 degrees. Not to be deterred, my dad and I crashed and careened down the bunny hill until my smile was frozen solid and his hands were black.

From that day on I was hooked.

Twenty-five years later and a disproportionate amount of my life has been spent on the slopes of Oregon. In particular, on Mt. Ashland. Yesterday, OS, Dak, Spoons and I found Mt. A in rare form. A massive storm had shut the mountain down for two days with blizzard conditions. On the third day, the storm passed, the sun shown and a foot and a half of powder beckoned. We skied until we could ski no more. Roughly about three hours. We’re all in pathetic ski shape, which would have felt embarrassing if I could have felt anything other than complete exhaustion.

P.S. – Today I feel stiffer than I do surfing backside.

Take 'em out at the Toes

2006-12-18T16:25:00.000-08:00

In Cabo last summer I had the misfortune of stepping on a sea urchin. Five months later and the urchin is still puttin’ some serious hurtin’ on me. Two months ago, a long-buried spine bubbled to the surface of my foot. After repeated Epson salt soakings I thought my toe would lose its pig in a blanket look and return to normal shape; unfortunately it’s only become more inflamed – adding ketchup to the little piggy.

At this point, I’ve been unable to run for nearly two months, which means my only form of exercise is surfing and cycling. But freezing temps, hurricane winds and enough rain to drown Noah (of Biblical fame, not Winchester) mean my only exercise is none.

With this sort of training regiment firmly (or not so firmly) under my belt, I headed out surfing yesterday with Nash, aka Winchester. We drove through snow, climbed over wind-felled trees and sludged through mud only to find the break sloppier than Britney Spears on a Saturday night. We plunged ahead and were quickly swept south by a strong rip. After one failed attempt to pop on a ledgy, three headed monster of a wave I found myself all the way on the inside. Little did I know at the time, but that would prove to be my best ride of the day.

Well, maybe I’ll get a new toe for Christmas, then my foot will fit in a ski boot and I can start skiing to fill the void left by surfing. Or maybe I’ll just have to join Chum and OS next time they skip town for a sun-fueled surf sesh in Mexico. Que suerte!

Board not Bored Stories

2006-11-16T17:36:00.000-08:00

Board not Bored Stories

Those in the Pacific NW are desperately surf-deprived. Waves that would demolish the Seahawks entire D-line have been chugging in with a regularity that would make the postal service proud. Landlocked and dry, I’ve been forced to maintain the stoke in other ways. Most of which entail endless hours on the computer. One discovery is an episode of my friend Micah Wolf on Board Stories. I apologize for the shameless promotion, but just trying to help a brother out. Besides, there’s tasty footage of Pipe.

Man vs. Machine

2006-11-07T10:28:00.000-08:00

While driving to pick up a half-pipe, a group of my surf cronies got into a debate. The crux of the argument being the relative merits of a handcrafted board versus a machined one. I mostly sat on the sidelines and listened as Chum and Nash argued it out.

They both raised pertinent points. Chum championed the artistry and soul that goes into a custom board. He spoke about his recent purchase of a Mandala, and how he developed a relationship with Manny that would translate into a more personal connection to the final product.

Nash on the other hand countered that the best shapers in the world were entering their templates into machines and creating great, if not perfect, boards. And, these boards were offered at a substantially lower price. Meaning you can replace your go-to thruster much more easily, if need be.

The question hit closer to home last night when I stumbled upon an Anacapa board. Anacapa is Al Merrick’s side project that allows him to offer well-designed boards at cut rates, because the boards are shaped by a machine instead of a hand.

Obviously, Merrick isn’t putting these boards under the Channel Islands umbrella, but he is putting the considerable weight of his name behind the project. So as far as my next board is concerned, the jury is still out.

Is the soul of a surfboard worth 200 extra dollars?

WWF'ed Up

2006-11-01T23:41:00.000-08:00

What can I say? Nothing really. As the adage goes - a picture is worth a thousand words. I'll waste a few here to try and justify myself and my friends.

Well, it started out innocently enough - a few friends getting together for a festive Halloween party - and before we knew it we were knee-deep in champagne, wine and dirty martinis. That's when the fun began. Chum and I stripped to our speediest Speedo (though you might not be able to tell through the hirsute) and assumed our alter egos, Macho Man Randy Savage and the Ultimate Warrior, respectively.

We met up with our compatriot, Ergman aka Hulk Hogan, and the Molsen Ice flowed like all the rivers of Canada. The more we drank, the more our inner-wrestlers came out. Soon we were shouting insults and taunts across the kitchen. From out of nowhere the Junk Yard Dog appeared and toppled the Hulkster and Ultimate. We bounced back up like the champs we are and promptly took a shot of tequila.

After which, we caught a ride from Thing 1 and Thing 2 to the local club, where we danced the night away until a feisty Tanya Harding cleared the dance floor with a vicious haymaker.

Paradise Found

2006-10-13T14:25:00.000-07:00

Everybody has a certain sense of paradise: Gold sand, blue water and the setting sun. For Micah Wolf, paradise is as far as the front door. He’s fortunate enough to call Hawaii home. But for the rest of us less fortunate souls, Micah has been kind enough to recreate the melodic sounds of paradise on his debut album, the self-titled Micah Wolf.

As an independent musician, Micah built the album from the ground up – literally. He and long-time friend as well as band mate, Eric DeVine, constructed a studio to record and produce the music. Then Eric handcrafted the guitars, ukuleles and stand-up bass that feature on the album. As if that wasn’t enough, the two then started their own record label, Blockplane Records, to distribute the CD.

In the end, Micah Wolf’s slice of paradise wasn’t so much found as forged. With dedication, passion and the help of his friends, Micah has crafted an excellent album that is filled with the everyday beauty of life.

So if you find yourself landlocked or lonely, not to worry - paradise is as close as your stereo.

Half-Baked Half-Pipe

2006-10-10T13:08:00.000-07:00

Two steps back, one step forward seems to be the motto of the day. What started as an honest attempt to get into a new sport – surfing – has turned into a full-blown regression to adolescences.

The half-baked idea was to build a half-pipe. The theory being that the four-foot plywood transitions would simulate the green wall of a peeling wave. What my chums and I have conveniently ignored is the difference between falling from four feet and landing on water versus wood.

It’s been ten full years since I skated a half-pipe, but I can still remember taking some headlong pile-drives that would of made Jimmy Superfly Snuka proud. Back then I’d brush myself off, climb back up and do it again. If that happened now I have a sneaking suspicion I’d squeal like a stuck pig and spend the rest of the day in traction with an ibuprofen drip.

Some might call it arrested development, but the dream is nearing fulfillment. My brother, OS, recently purchased an 8’ x 4’ x 22’ half-pipe off Craig’s List. As soon as we can haul it to his house, we’ll be hauling ass, which will be followed shortly by hauling ourselves to the hospital I’m sure.

Who’s dropping-in first?

Migration. Hibernation. Liberation.

2006-10-05T10:36:00.000-07:00

Something about the rain. It seems as the sky gets darker and the ground danker, bands begin migrating to Portland. Along with the turning leaves and southbound birds, fall inevitably brings some of the best shows to the city of roses.

Maybe it’s just a swift stopover between Seattle and San Francisco, but this week alone TV On The Radio, Art Brut, Cold War Kids, Clap Your Hands And Say Yeah and the Scissor Sisters are gracing our stages.

That’s not to mention the horde of bands that don ponchos and galoshes everyday as Portland locals, such as M. Ward, Antlerand and Agalloch. These are just a smattering of the musicians around, but they cut a wide swath across the musical landscape. And thanks to them hibernating can be as liberating as migrating.

To keep the surf theme alive and kicking, listen to a tune from Christopher Willits' Surf Boundaries.

Bomb the Butte, not Beirut

2006-09-28T13:25:00.000-07:00

When the weather’s bad and the swell is uncooperative, one is forced to improvise. Today the sun was shining like Mr. T’s neck and the waves were lining up like blue corduroy slacks. Unfortunately, the closest I could come to getting wet was constantly refreshing the buoy report: 5’ at 11 seconds.

Shutting down the computer at five, an idea crossed my mind. During numerous bike rides I had noticed a steep road above my house that just begged for a long board to grace its asphalt. It had been over a year since my last zoo bomb; since then I had moved across town and relegated my skating to the driveway.

Always one to put safety first, I dug up my helmet and headed to Rocky Butte. Situated in Portland’s deep northeast, Rocky Butte provides a beautiful 360-degree panorama of downtown, Mt. Hood, Mt. St. Helens, the Columbia River and the rest of the rugged valley.

Turning my back on the view, I dropped into a continuously breaking wave of concrete that unfurled as far as the eye could see. Gliding from heel to toe to heel to toe repeatedly as the tree-lined road reeled past, I realized skating provided the perfect training grounds for surfing. Power slides replaced cutbacks, and I managed to pull-off a few that effectively slowed me without pitching me ass over teakettle.

As I coasted into my driveway, my roommate, Silverstein, was in her car yammering on the phone. I quietly slid into the front seat and finagled a ride back up the butte to my car.

Too Much of a Good Thing?

2006-09-22T16:24:00.000-07:00

There's a funny mentality in surfing that goes something like this: I wanna surf, but I don't want anyone else to surf. As if there's not enough fun to go around.

Looking at these pictures a friend recently sent, the fun definitely looks to be in jeopardy.

When I first zipped myself into a wet suit - a process similar to peeling a banana in reverse - and paddled out I was both stoked and unstoked. Straining through punishing white water to sit atop my board in the vast blue ocean was the perfect mix of exercise and enlightenment. The stoic stares and cold shoulders I met with in the line-up were the exact opposite. These guys were as close to enlightenment as Portland is to Hawaii. It's as if they were pissed to be in one of the most beautiful places on earth doing what they loved to do. As ridiculous as it seems, they appeared to be angry that it was sunny with shoulder-high waves rolling in - both phenomena on the Oregon coast being BBC newsworthy.

To my mind, the more people surfing the more happy people there are in the world. I've commonly responded when asked for a ride to the beach, "The more the merrier." At heart, I still believe that to be true. But after suffering through numerous summer days where soft-top torpedoes wreaked havoc on the line-up like a Hezbollah offensive, I now have my concerns. Concerns these pictures only reinforce.

I completely understand both sides: Surfing is fun that's why we're hopelessly addicted, but the more surf-addled fiends in the water the less fun it inevitably becomes.

What are your thoughts?

A cold one & a rolled one

2006-09-14T10:39:00.000-07:00

Under the clear dark desert night roars a campfire. Seated around the blaze are family and friends. My family and my friends. This is the way it was when I was a kid. And, hopefully, this is the way it'll be when I'm old.

As of now, I'm neither young nor old. Just perfectly situated in the middle - snug as a bug in a rug. And that's just how I felt as the vino started to soften the edges. Amazing how the grime of daily life washes right off with a couple of glasses.

Wine may clean the grime, but a joint will dirtier it beyond recognition - like a pair of jeans fresh out the drier, only to be stained anew.

After smoking enough grass to floor an elephant, we began to play Trivial Pursuit. A difficult game at the best of times, it becomes down right comical under the influence. The only things I remember are asking to have the questions repeated, watching my parents' close personal friends eat their weight in Dorritos and, of course, lots and lots of giggling smiles.

In a game like that winners and losers are not separated by IQ points, but rather functioning brain cells. Though, I must say, the true winners were the ones who woke up the next morning without a throbbing head and an achy belly. Being on the losing side in all accounts, I woke up the next morning to hear my mom cheerily exclaim, "I only took a tiny toke."

I was caught half admiring her discretion and half peeing myself that my mother just said, "toke."

She had woken at the crack of dawn, no doubt, and was now recounting the night's hilarity to an abstemious friend, who upon hearing the tale proclaimed: "You had a cold one and a rolled one!"

Indeed.