NSFW

These pics aren't safe for work because looking at them makes you want to quit your job and devote your life to getting tubed.

Other Day Spray

From the Cannon Beach Surf Blog.

GREAT

Eight @ twelve
Felt like twelve @ eight.
Whatever it was,
It sure felt great.

Yakety-yak.

It was a great first day back.
A couple guys got the shack.
The lefts made my lips go smack.
And as you can see, the rights didn't lack.
But it was a full-on walrus attack.
And those old dudes weren't afraid to hack.
And my wetsuit's zipper breaking was wack.
Ack.

Dear Surf,

I still love you.
More than ever, actually.
I've just been so busy.
Which is a good thing I guess.
And thanks for putting out a little last week,
Despite my lack of visits recently.

I hardly ever write.
I never send flowers.

But I'll make it up to you come Valentine's Day.
Promise.

DECK THE WALLS

...with logs and hullies. falalalalalala.

ANOTHER ROADSIDE ATTRACTON

Friday was cold. Air temps were in the teens when I woke up and packed my boards on top of Rye's veg-mobile. On the drive out, there was some ice on the roads so we took it easy. That may have been why I had a better chance to look a little closer at the landscape I normally would just blow by, blinded by stokey anticipation. Down a ravine on the right side of the road was a blue sheet-metal barn and through the trees the morning sun hit it, illuminating an old surfboard. I told Rye and he slammed on the breaks (carefully) and u-turned back to see if we could get a closer look.

Down a dirt driveway there were a couple of these blue sheds and three trailers that had tarps and other add-ons. Not many windows. There was ice covering everything. Three dogs ran up to the car and we wondered if maybe we shouldn't be down on somebody's property this early in the AM. Then an old woman walked out of one of the trailers with a cigarette hanging from her lips. We asked if we could take a picture of the surfboard and she said ask her daughter-in-law in the other trailer. We walked to the other trailer, which, with all it's windows covered with blue plastic, looked more like two big shoeboxes attached together perpendicularly. Knocked softly.

Before you read any further. This is not a farmer's daughter story. There is no cow milking machine or buttered popcorn coming. No. The young woman answered the door. Peered at us suspiciously from beneath some huge elk antlers. Then she just motioned back to the other trailer and said, "If she says it's alright then it's alright."

No. Her husband's board, which had massive rotten holes in the sides and crusty ivy hanging off the back where it leaned against the wall, wasn't for sale.

Not that exciting of a story, really. And no, I can't refund the last 50 seconds you lost reading it. When we got to the spot, though, the waves looked pretty good. Not as good as the last session where the winds groomed the lines perfectly, but not too shabby either. Mostly rights. I took out my newly-repaired Andreini, but probably should have stuck with something a little more suited to shifty beach break. But I still caught a few and coaxed it into a few bumpy rights. Did I mention it was cold? There was ice on the beach when we arrived and the water was somewhere around 44 degrees.

GOTTAGOTOKNOW

So many factors that might make you opt to pull the covers back over your head and surf some other time: sub-zero temps, icy roads, 29 mph offshores, bouys giving wacky information (due to those offshores). But that old saying eggs you on. Gotta go to know.

Glad I did.

Hump Day

Wednesday seems like a long time ago now. Rye and I spent most of the day driving up the north coast in my jalopy until we decided on this beach break, which was pretty near its max-out point. That paddle-out was a grandmother, but when you finally made it outside, some nice humps were rolling through. Sets were averaging head high, but it's always hard to see the size without something for perspective: blow up the first pic and you can get an idea from the seagull. In the third picture above, there's a guy paddling out on the right side of the frame.

I got a few really nice ones then convinced Rye to paddle back out with me after taking a wave all the way in. He'd been struggling to punch through the middle and was catching his breath on a log. He didn't realize that the rip was working a little bit and you had to paddle almost all the way to the farthest boulder outside to be safe. Once we made it out the second time, he immediately spun for a set wave and caught it. He disappeared behind the shoulder only to emerge about a hundred yards up the beach. Not skunked after all!

Surfing good waves with just a friend and a sea lion is one of life's rare treats.

Now it's pissing rain and blowing hard. Doesn't look like surf will even be an option until the weekend (at least). Oregon. Winter. Welcome back.

Flawless

Unspoiled by
Murky water
Onshore winds
Secondary swells
Or guys in neoprene
Bobbing on the surface.

Sunday, January 18, 2009
Images courtesy of G$

I Got Some Waves

The weekend before last was a wave-fest. Four days of surf in the 8-10 foot range at around 15 seconds with east winds. Friday was the biggest day, with crazy amounts of water flooding the cobblestones, making entry and exit (in the dark) the scariest part of the session. Rips were strong and hold-downs were long on Saturday, and the ocean reminded us who was boss on several occasions.

After hitting (almost) every spot on our quest for perfection, we finally cracked the code on Sunday and Monday, discovering that the place that most accommodated the pumping swell was the most obvious one - right where we started our search. Endless lefts and rights that held up when they looked like they might shut down, with plumes of mist blowing from the peaks. We surfed for nearly four hours a pop.

Throw in bluebird skies, a beach house with a hot-tub and wood stove, a stack of stoking surf movies, endless vittles and cold beer, and great friends old and new, and you have a recipe for and epic MLK holiday.

If this is winter, who needs spring?

Six-Outta-Ten

There was so much anticipation building up to the weekend. You could just tell that Sunday was going to be good: The buoys beckoned with 8-feet-at-13-sec readings that morning. We spot-checked a few places before settling on the old standby. But when we got to the cove, it didn't look all that. There seemed to be a secondary swell that either flattened the waves or cause it to jack up and close out inside.

Should we hightail it back to spot number one? We didn't really have time. So Gee and I said screw it and found a log on the beach to throw our stuff on. We changed fast and I snapped the photo above before finding a rip and paddling out. It wasn't as "meh" as it looked from the cliff above (it never is). Sets were shoulder-to-head and pretty glassy, but it was incredibly shifty and the bigger waves tended to shut down in one booming curtain call.

The conditions got even more challenging as the tide dropped and we both went over the falls on waves we underestimated the speed/steepness of. We changed peaks and were sufficiently humbled when a longboarder pulled into a right-hand tube and shot out completely dry.

Another hour passed.

"One and done" was the decision with three hours and a few decent waves under our belts, but nothing to write home about. Then, a rare a-frame peak almost seemed to weave past the guys on the outside and feather right in front of me. I snagged it, dropping in at a hard angle and making tracks, hearing a tunnelish echo right over my back shoulder. Goddammit, I'm outrunning tubes again. Why can't I just drag a hand or do a little wheelie to slow down in the heat of the moment?

On the way home, Gee asked what I'd rank the day.

"Six out of ten."

By the evening, as we sipped margaritas with sunburned faces and went over each wave in detail--coming to terms with the fact that another big winter storm was approaching--that number magically changed to seven.

Ready... Set... WHERE'S THE SURF?

This homeless dude with an heirloom tomato nose approached as we struggled into our wetsuits.

"You're surfing?" he inquired, his breath smelling vintage 3am. "Ain't it cold?"

Yes, we answered.

He looked over the cliff, down to where we were planning to do our thing. It was so well-protected from the storm surf that it was hardly working. A longboarder bunny-hopped along, trying to milk some momentum from a slow-roller.

"Not much going on down there," he said. "Ever heard of Sandy Beach in Hawaii? I used to body surf that place a long time ago." The odor was really bad -- the kind of sour twang that reminded you of long-forgotten pickle jars. "I seen a lot of guys get hurt there."

We nodded.

"Well, have fun and don't freeze!" he said. "It's like you get all suited up, climb down, get in the water, and just sit out there. It's like: Ready... Set... WHERE'S THE SURF?"

Then, right on queue, he spun around and hopped onto a city bus that had just rolled into the parking lot.

True story.

Note: We actually DID surf, and had a decent time. Pictures are all of the spots that we didn't tempt fate at on Sunday... The second to the last one reminds me of Sasquatch.

...........SOJOURN...........

Heaven on Earth = A full day surfing head-high waves followed by sitting in a hot tub, beer in hand, looking through the window at my wife and baby. Hanging out with my wife, baby boy, and best friends, drinking good wine, watching football in the afternoon, even playing a little Guitar Hero...

We spent the whole holiday weekend at the beach. It was my first time back in the water in three months. Saturday was really disheartening, surf-wise -- I couldn't even make the paddle out and had to forfeit, belly in, and run to the rip. When I finally did, the waves were doo-doo anyway. I got skunked and seriously questioned whether I would be able to keep surfing if my conditioning was this bad.

Sunday was redemption. Big, bowly lefts (and even a few powerful rights). I was a glutton because I had a whole peak to myself, and I'd just cruise back to the rip after each ride, again and again. My final wave was an outside bomb; I heard OS hooting, after which he said it looked about head-and-a-half high.

Monday was freezing. Waist-high peelers that petered out pretty quick. Only 4 guys in the water at 9am and one managed to get my way. I tried to fade down below him and clipped the tail of his board. My Skip Frye Flex Fin left a long gash from rail to stringer on his board... His tail left a new 12-inch long channel down the middle of mine.

It was an amazing weekend though, and one the whole family plans on replicating soon and often!




Pictures are all from the day we're now calling "Super-Bowly Sunday" (two weeks early).

Foghat - Slow Ride (Guitar Hero Version)

Better Luck Next Time

Deep North, not exactly corduroy...













Gee's first surf trip since moving back from LA
and he already looks like an Oregon crusty.













Maybe if I shoot the picture at just the right
moment, it'll look inviting... nope.













Five of us piled in the Econoline and guess
who had to ride in the carseat? There's something
poetic/just plain silly about the fact that this is
where I ended up sitting on my first surf trip since
becoming a dad. Hazing ritual? Maybe. But it was
pretty comfy and felt safer than sitting on a stack
of boards in the back of the cargo van.

Long story short, we didn't even get wet. We had
a few beers and huffed some salty air though.
And that was good.

I can pretty much guarantee that next time will be better...

Slim Gaillard - Laguna

Curse of the Bambino

So my friends all came into town for the holidays and, of course, they wanted to go surfing last Saturday. I heard the forecast was looking good, but I haven't checked buoys since I came to terms with the fact that I won't be getting wet for awhile. Gee (on a homecoming from LA) swung by my house, said howdy to Nico, and borrowed my quad. I'd be lying if I said it didn't sting a teeny weeny bit, but--I swear to you--one huff of baby smell makes my temporary land-loving ways beyond bearable. He's awesome.

Anyway, I'd actually forgotten that all my chums had gone out when my phone rang in the early afternoon. It was Gee...

"Dude, I have no idea what happened," he said. "The forecast said 5 feet at 10 seconds, but I haven't experienced waves that big in a long time. It was hairy!"

He told me about how there were some macking waves to be had, but also a lot of closeouts that made the prospect of throwing your juevos over the edge a little sketchy. Between all of my friends on this Thanksgiving surf reunion, only one wave was ridden--and that was if you added all their failed rides together.

I was actually cradling the phone between my shoulder and ear when he called, because I was rocking Nico in my arms as I watched a college football game. I looked down at the infant, who was sliding in and out of dreamland, and imagined that he had somehow influenced the elements from the magical unconscious place.

Winter has made its wet, windy presence known now, and I can't think of a better time to have a bambino and be an Oregon surfer.

Pylon - Working Is No Problem

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