Bad Days Are Good Practice

Nash woke me up at 4:45 am Saturday with a text that beeped relentlessly until I dragged myself out of bed and checked it. He was pulling out of our planned early morning departure. I immediately understood that he was just hitting the sack after raging the previous evening and now that I was up, stumbled to my computer to check the bouys. It didn't look too good. I crawled back under the warm covers and weighed my options. The rest of the weekend was supposed to be even worse and with winds out of the south predicted for later, I could still get lucky at Cove if I left soon.

OS and I bombed out there and were disappointed to find waist high waves rolling in that even the loggers were struggling to get into. So we checked about four other spots. Blown out. Finally we returned to Cove and hesitantly tugged our wetsuits on in a stiff rain that started to come down. There seemed to be some smaller waves with more power on the inside, so that was our destination. At the very least, we'd get some paddling in to prepare for Nica.

The funny thing about less-than-stellar waves is that they always seem to teach you something. Without any other surfers around, we caught tons of waves and because they were so small we were forced to pop up quickly and pump immediately to make sections. I caught quite a few fun rights and lefts and was even happier with my new board, realizing that it can work quite well in small surf. As kooky as it sounds, Taj Burrow's "Book of Hot Surfing" has a great section on surfing in crap, saying it's the perfect opportunity to work on refining one or two aspects of your style: for me it was staying low on backside waves and smoothing out my bottom turn going frontside.

It was a surprisingly good session - much better that staying at home and watching the French Open with the rain slamming the roof.

Land of Talk - Sea Foam
(Checked out this band when they opened for the Rosebuds Sunday. They's good!)

Pointillism

"I'm gonna shove that easel up your ass!"

Yesterday I was sitting in some mushy surf, watching a certain break go off like I'd never seen it before. It was absolutely beautiful in its angularity, size, color, consistency and power. It's widely known by surfers here that there's a strict underground policy forbidding any photography of the wave. Tales of bloody deer heads on car hoods and cameras being ripped from the hands of dumbfounded beachcombers all reinforce the legend of this, arguably the most coveted break on the West Coast.

Bobbing in the less-than-stellar conditions that I had relegated myself to yesterday (a spot a half-mile closer to the beach), I couldn't help but imagine what would happen if I were to amble out along the rocks with my portable easel on my back, a flimsy canvas under my arm, and a beret perched askew on my head for good measure.

I looked left at a dirt parking lot filled with Ford F150s and wondered if I'd even make it past that grizzly gauntlet, where locals have been known to huck rocks at kooks and pros alike, especially those threatening to shed light upon the perfection of the only thing that makes life in that seaside town livable. At least I'd have my easel box protecting my back and a square of stretched fabric to deflect incoming sticks and stones.

Then I thought about writing a short story about it. I smiled as a dark speck dropped into the glassy left impossibly late, drew out a precise bottom turn that brought him ten yards behind the roaring whitewater, and then swiched his weight on the rail, whipping himself back into the trough, where he was immediately swallowed like Jonas, ejected seconds later only to spray a triple overhead rooster tail that sent him back down the wave, where he repeated the process.

And I just might sit down and write that story. When I get a little time.

Alex Smoke - Don't See the Point

This post is dedicated to my grandfather, David Cosley, the man who passed an intense love of adventure, family, the Sea of Cortez, and off-color bar jokes to me. Godspeed.

Storm Troopers

Yesterday. March 10. We weren't holding our breath about getting surf when we strapped our boards to the roof at 7am. And the view from the parking lot didn't exactly have us falling over eachother to get in the water. Rain, high winds and big, cold, lumpy swells awaited outside our warm car. Eventually we did jump off the rocks and into the rip. At first, we tried our luck on the big rights that were thumping in. I caught one, but it closed out. After spending some time battling various deep water currents and managing to get caught "inside" a couple times - where Nash claimed to experence his longest holddown - our better judgement took over and we joined a few other guys on a grinder that peeled off the rocks. Shoulder high, the wave had serious oomph. If you didn't keep up with the steep face after the drop, you'd most likely have a run-in with barnacle encrusted boulders. More than once.

It took me a while to figure it out, but eventually I caught a larger set wave and was treated to the kind of experience only a point break can offer: fast, clean, walled-up, machine-like ... did I mention fast? The speed was deceptive because the wave almost seemed grind in place, reeling up and over itself rather than down the line. I only became aware of my velocity when I flew off the back as it shut down inside. I soared up to the end of my leash, diving head first into the rip.

When we got back to our car, we noticed that the right on the outside bar had cleaned up substantially. There were a few troopers who were tearing it up, probably stoked to be going frontside for a change.





Tobin Sprout - Gas Daddy Gas

What's Wrong With This Picture?

About an hour of yesterday's surf was decent, then the place just turned to junk in the blink of an eye, the flap of a seagull's wing in Chile, the swirl of a digital blob on a satellite radar. M was on the rocks moments later, mumbling something about a latte. Disrubbered, I pointed my lens at the cove, careful not to aim too close to you-know-where. I'm a journalist, dammit, but I also have a certain respect for that place - and my own front teeth - that keeps my camera away like two magnets denying the other contact. They want to get close, but they just can't.

So we drove home, talking about "Project Caveman"...

At around 5pm, I found myself stuck in gridlock on the 84 interchange. I exited immediately and turned left at the railroad tracks. Driving through the industrial district, I noticed how the yellow light was bouncing off the brick walls, tattooed with graffiti. It was The Golden Hour and I was a block from Burnside.

I have a new enthusiasm for skating, that's no secret, but I also have an old enthusiasm for taking pictures when the light is warm. Pulling up to this underground landmark, I noticed that the sun was angling perfectly under the bridge, casting long shadows across the hills of cement as skaters flew gracefully across its surface. A few hours earlier I watched a surfer land 360 air at the cove and now a skater executed the same trick on a concrete swell.

I pulled out my camera and snapped a couple pictures, then walked by a crow's nest of skaters who were hanging out on the elevated platform drinking beers. Nobody paid me any mind, except a ramshackle kid who hit me up for a smoke, which I didn't have. Admiring the once-illegitimate terrain, it crossed my mind that this place was sacred in a punk way. But was it also protected by its residents, the people whose lives revolved around being locals there, in the same way as the spot I had been so close to on the coast?

As I took another picture, I felt something strike my leg. Looking down, I noticed a plastic bottle still bouncing at my feet. Did somebody just throw Gatorade at me? I looked up. I was underneath the bridge. Maybe a passing pedestrian chucked it over the rail above...

I took a couple more pics, then headed back to my car. Along the way, I thought I heard someone at the other end of the park yell, "No photos!"

Paranoid?

As I made my way back to the sidewalk, a skater with scabs on his cheeks leaned over the chain link fence and said, "Hey! You got a couple bucks?" I told him I didn't. With that, I hopped back into my car, surfboards on the roof, and drove home.

I know there are a few Portland skaters who read this blog. If they (or anyone else) can explain why photos of Burnside aren't allowed, I'd be happy to take down this post.

Daniel Johnson - I'm Nervous