His Name Was Reno...

...and he sat upon the sand.
I walked up to him and asked
about the board in his hand...

But actually, I didn't know it was Reno when I approached this skinny leather-skinned man sitting on the beach alone at Trestles, frantically rubbing sand all over the bottom of a single fin Pavel. The board looked pretty mean, so I crouched down and asked about it:

Me: That's an amazing board you have there!

(Long pause, looking up at me...)

Dude: How do you know?

(His front teeth were missing...)

Me: Because it's a Pavel. And it looks like it would work great here.

(Long pause. Hard stare.)

Dude: How do you know about Pavel?

Me: I've read about him a lot.

Dude: You read about him? Well, at least you read.

Me: And I ride a Mandala, which was shaped by a guy who learned from Pavel. It has a similar template I think.

Dude: Never heard of it. Toby's a friend of mine. You got a single fin?

Me: No. It's a quad.

(Longer, harder stare at me.)

Dude: Quad, huh? Where are you from, anyway?

Me: Portland.

Dude: Portland, huh? Ever heard of Gerry Lopez?

Me: Yeah. Of course. I've seen him out surfing in Pacific City.

Dude: Ever heard of Reno Abellira?

Me: Yeah. He's a legend.

Dude: (something inaudible)

Me: Sorry?

Dude: I said—YOU'RE TALKING TO HIM, dude.

Me: Really? That's cool! Sorry, I didn't recognize you.

(Long pause. Hard stare. Sizing me up.)

Reno: Anyway. I'm pretty excited to check out this fin. I designed it and now I finally am getting a chance to give it a try. It's my fin and the guys at the company finally gave me one.

I looked down at the fin. It was a 6-inch True Ames fin. It said "BONZER" on it.

Me: That's cool. It's a Bonzer, huh?

(Long, incredulous stare.)

Me: ...The fin, not the board...

Reno: Dude. I SAID this is my fin.

Me: That's cool.

Reno: Dude. If you say "that's cool" one more time...

Me: Okay. Well. I better get going.

Reno: What's your name?

Me: Rick Albano.

Reno: Italian, huh? Is that why you're wearing Persols?

Me: Um ... I guess?

Reno: If you give me your glasses I'll forgive you.

Me: Uh. That's cool... I mean, that's pretty funny. I'm going to take off. Have a great session.

Reno: Alright.

We shook hands and he walked off toward a right that had been peeling at Middles as we'd been talking. It was really weird. He had be grilling me, that's obvious, but in a strangely friendly way. I wish I could have stayed around to watch him surf, but I had to go to work. More on that later...

For a great recent Reno intervista, check out the Hydrodynamica Blog... (Thanks, Kirk.)

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.