Just Go

You never know until you go

sweet ride

I never had the X-Caliber trucks, but the red Park Riders were revolutionary for our downhill style when I was 8-9 years old.

Sacred Spot

Not Secret Spot

juxtaposition

Not sure what this guy's trip was. Nice fella though.

favorite meal

Solomon is afraid of everything. Except chickens.

new direction

I don't have time to write. Nobody wants to read what I write.

Almost.

Here is a sequence I think we can all empathize with. So damn close. The best/worst part is the view of the opening as you faceplant.

SURFBOARD DESIGN

I know nothing except the fact of my ignorance. -Socrates

What does board design really do for you? Can a new or drastic refinement of a board make you surf better? Or does it just make it easier for you to express yourself in the way you would like to? Can you go from Clown to Curren on this new ripper-stick? Or is it like cocaine, it just makes your persona more vibrant?

After spending enough time orienting myself with surfboard-based hydronamic fundamentals, I proceeded to design the Big Time Operator. Wide, flat, and short compared to a standard issue thruster, BUT, it's tail is pulled in through double wings and the rails are more common to a thruster than a fish. It has four fins in which placement is super critical since there is no fat rail to push back or center fin to drive from. The center point pulled way forward with a wide flat nose. An all purpose surfboard to make average waves easier to ride.

What does that mean, easier to ride? My personal answer was a board that was loose to compensate for my chicken legs' lack of power. The board should not be to wide-assed so that it can't be ridden in the pocket or vertically. I wanted to still be able to hit the lip like a normal thruster. I wanted it to plane well unlike a modern thruster which requires effort to propel in smaller waves. I wanted to catch waves easily. What I wanted was a board with the speed and planing of a fish, but with the positive drive of a thruster.



What never crossed my mind is that I designed this board for me. I wasn't thinking about how anyone else's skills would affect how this board performed. Such as, if you are a full-fledged ripper would this board be an unnecessary element in your day-to-day quiver? If you are a kook, would the footwork required to function this board make you worse?

So here I am a year after launching this on the world and my friends in specific. The feedback is mixed. And there is no rhyme or reason to it. A couple rippers love it. A couple less skilled people love it. And vice versa. I personally can't believe I made the board. It goes fucking great in softer slower waves. But I didn't like how it went in real surf. Which began a whole new thought process. Does it suck in good waves? What the hell am I thinking? Who died and made me design legend? And what constitutes working well? Am I ripping as compared to the latest video offering? Am I able to perform the three maneuvers that I always perform?



What I am realizing about surfboard design is that all boards work. All of them. It is what is inside your head that determines how you perceive a board's value. Too many years of videos and magazines have created a homogenized vision of good surfing. And those who know me understand that I do not buy into the hippy, retro, plywood, bearded, soul-arch-every-wave game plan. I actually hate hippies, or at least the ones under 60 years old or the ones over 60 who became real estate moguls. But I know see the value of every board. It may not be what eases display of your repertoire in perfect surf, but it rides exactly perfect. You just need to see how it goes and ride it for what it is worth.

I am Old

Plywood

Modern Surfing? Me thinks not. I think you call that laying on plywood.

My friend Spike just told me he rides a Alaia surfboard, you know, plywood without a fin. I half laughed and half gagged. Spike took up surfing as a adult after moving to NC from Kansas or somewhere in the middle of the country. One would assume that he would be super keen to perfect his skills on standard surfcraft before getting all quasi-alternative in the water. He said that the waves suck so bad that the Alaia keeps him entertained.

My gut reaction to the plywood, finless, bearded cool-guy surf trend is that it is stupid. Sort of a be an individual by doing what other people are doing mentality. If you are going to do what is trendy, try ripping really fucking hard. Not go straight and poop squat and spin around like a 9 year old on a boogie board. Fucking stupid. A novelty and maybe worth a try at best, like humping a drunk fat chick.

But something Spike said jogged my hard head. He was bored - and it was really hard - which made it fun. He was having fun. That is all. So what if the skinny jeans are doing it? Nothing is new. You aren't the first at doing anything. So I need to shut up let people have fun. Now get out of my way, I am going Stand Up Paddle surfing.

Shaping in Kauai and the Birth of the Hydro-Matic®

The Hydro-Matic 5 Fin Pain in the Ass, after being tested in nerf-surf.

It started in the 80's. I guess Blair knew the Campbell Brothers and Sunshine House Surf Shop ended up with a demo 6'4" Bonzer. Since I lived with Chauncey who managed the Sunshine House, the board was in my or Minesinger's possession almost a whole summer. It worked great although a tad too big for me. 5 fins was so cool and different. It felt really drivey and I rode some fun waves on it.

In January of 2008. I was given a mangled blank that the shaping machine had grazed and left worthless for the project it was intended for. I did my research and asked a lot of questions. I took pictures of Hamilton bonzers, studied the Campbell Brothers info. I found glass on fins from a vendor that Chauncey himself recommended. I came up with a name for the board after reading a book on vintage automobile brightwork - the Hydro-Matic.

The real treat was I shaped the board from scratch myself. I hand drew the template using a huge piece of cardboard to flip and duplicate. I put the rocker in it since the blank was big for my intended purpose. After 6 months of research and work-a-little-at-a-time, I had a blank I was happy with. It sat in the shed until I got another board order. That took months. I finally had enough to make the trip to the glasser worthwhile. I had a airbrush worked out too. It looked sweet on paper.

After a couple months at the glasser the owner of the other board called and needed his board asap. I prodded the glasser to finish up and gave him a pick up date that was last minute. I was going on a trip and I needed the board to ship before I left. The day I left I finally got the other board, but the bonzer was still not close. It had now been at the glasser 3 months.

When I got back from my trip I called the glasser and prodded again. He finally relented and said the board would be ready in a couple days. So I made the drive out there to have a look. The airbrush was great, but that was it. He had glossed but not polished the deck only. One laminate was upside down and the fins where in the completely the wrong spot. I was so angry all I could do was take the board and walk out.

Click to enlarge. Note the chunks of bad color, the Rub It® lam upside down and various small but shitty dings. Sweet.How do you put a laminate on upside down if it has words on it? Really dude? Really?

It took me another 4 months to find someone bored enough to grind off four fins, repair and reset. A few weeks later he had the board and a few weeks after that I had the board in my hands. He couldn't match the color so now the brand new board had a mangled bottom, and big chunks of color blunders. None of this was the repair man's fault, it just looked like ass. At least the fins where right.

Last night the first north swell arrived and I was going to be on the north shore for business. I was so psyched I could barely contain myself. The day dawned flat and after 12 hours of meeting I finally saw the ocean with 45 minutes of daylight left. It wa head high, onshore and packed. I paddled out and caught some shitty, soft, slow wind choppy feeling waves and couldn't even begin to feel the board. Everyone got out and I snagged a decent one and worked it through the inside. It felt positive and drivey and I ended the ride with a reo. Or should I say that I ended the ride on dry reef? I mashed a toe and dinged the board a few places.

After a year and a half, I think I deserve a set wave on that fucking bonzer. But no…

Top 10 :: #5 Margaret River, Western Australia

1988 bitches. Back in the day. God I hate that expression cuz it is usually coming out of the mouth of someone born in the 90's. Anyway…

Me and my main man Hugh "Giant Hairy Testicle" Coyle were stuck in Perth after the worst trip in history. (I'll go there in another entry.) We flew all the way to the west coast of Australia to stay with friends. So we are in Perth, aka: Australia's version of Virginia Beach, with such rotten-crotch hideous options such as Trig Point, Scarborogh or even Cottelsloe to choose from, we thought we made a huge mistake. The days long misery was broken up by car shopping and a trip to some beach where a recent storm left the lineup a chowder of churned seaweed. It was onshore and large, but we were gonna fucking surf. My first wave I fell and literally got trapped beneath the seaweed. I came about as close to drowning as you really ever want to. All I could think was, "What the fuck are we doing here?"

A quick trip to Rottnest soothed our surflust for a minute. Then a trip to Lancelin with the family we were staying with found us sharing the lineup with our friend Steve, who was wearing sluggos and riding a goatboat. The waist high wind swell reminded me of my trip to South Florida, or as I call it, Hell. Nice flies though. Plenty too. Sweet.

We invented a game of called "Go to the City and Get Drunk All Day." We practiced hard and concentrated on perfecting it. We often found ourselves following any girl who would speak to us to any party we could go to. On one evening, a few fellas commented that we were really stupid. Which I was aware of since I still hadn't caught any waves better than home yet. He told us that three hours south was Margaret River. It had big surf. He also said that Perth has the worst waves in Australia. No shit Sherlock.

So we hit the road in our Holden Wagon saying c-ya to our lovely hosts in Perth. In three hours we would be ball deep in pits, mutherfuckers! Except our Holden only ran for about an hour before requiring a couple hour cool-down. There are Sunshine House stickers all over everything exactly at 100km intervals between Perth and Margaret River. We arrived basically a day later. Sweet.

We arrived for a strange patch of onshore and everything from HUGE to tiny surf. Luckily the area is set up to handle it all. We surfed a lot despite everyone else laying about complaining about no surf. We also spent a lot of time on the side of the road waiting and smoking weed with Allen, the local car repair guy.

The reason everyone was so lethargic was that the surf gets big in the area. Often. So everyone rests between swells and good wind. Needless to say, we were shocked the first time we rolled up to Margarets and saw it really doing its thing. What a site. Wow. It is a really beautiful spot and the reef was going mental. A handful of guys were out getting sick pits.

I was waiting in the line at the shitter with all of the over-adrenalized surf-bots. When I got through I saw that Andy, one of the self proclaimed "Hattie-Hats" (don't ask cuz I don't know) was already paddling out. My plan to procrastinate and spread doubt until we drove off in search of less massive waves was killed. Andy was already halfway out and Simon was suiting up. Hugh "The Sockless Wonder" Coyle looked at me with that defeated look of inevitability and started suiting up. My stomach dropped and I had to make that horrible decision, go out and get killed or stay here and be everyone's winghing poofter at the hostel?

I figured the more I thought about it the worse it would be. I suited, waxed, ran down the steps and paddled out as fast as I could. I have used this method of thoughtless pursuit of larger surf ever since that day. I go right to the spot and catch the first wave I see and ride it as far in as possible. It settles my nerves. And allows me to see the scene better. If I sit and see waves, I just freak out and psych myself out.

So that is exactly what I did. I caught a small one right off the bat. It was way larger than anything I had ever ridden and I don't remember ridding it, just looking up at the lip and doing the "Adolph Straightoff" into the channel. I sat on my board and my smile broke onto my face. I actually enjoyed it and wanted another.

As I paddled back out I saw a real set building. Everyone was caught off guard and they all were scrambling like cockroaches in the kitchen out the back. This was all to the cries of "Out the back!" Which I had never heard before and thought was super cool. At the last second a guy swung around, gave a couple quick paddles and dropped like a stone down the face. I had the best view and I screamed as loud as I could as the whitewater exploded behind him. When it cleared and he bottom turned, I looked down the face from the top of the shoulder and saw that it was Hugh "Fucking-A Right I'm Going On This One" Coyle.

That site that is forever burned into my memory, and truly one of the best experiences in my surfing life.

Newbies

Recently the SF chronical ran a story about violence in surfing. http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2009/05/07/BAA717FRCT.DTL

The ensuing commentary was outrageous to say the least. Some funny, some stupid and mostly ignorant.

Jerminator: I’ve never understood why people think it is so special to stand on a piece of wood while a wave carries it along. I’m sure it is a good feeling, but so is playing with my nuts. And I don’t punch people in the face over that….

One thing that sticks out in my mind about this article, the comments and the subject itself is that no one can ever explain to non-surfers why people get punched. It always ends up sounding like some over aggressive numb-nuts punching someone for nothing. Which, I am sure is the case sometimes. But I would say that most the time, people who fuck up in the water get away with nothing but a comment under the breath or maybe a finger pointing. I don't think that violence is the answer, but as Chris Rock says about such things, "I understand."

So I was trying to figure out a good analogy. How about this: You spend years of your life training to be the best driver in the world. You travel the world to train and test yourself so that you can enjoy the finest that automobile driving can be.

Then you save money and set yourself up with the best and most hooked up whip you could ever dream of. Some shit that makes Pimp My Ride look stupid.

One day while you are cruising in your supercar in downtown traffic, comfortable in the knowledge that no matter what happens you are prepared to handle it better than anyone else on the road. All of the sudden from between two parked cars to your right a person shoves a occupied baby stroller out into traffic. You must sacrifice your car to avoid hitting the child. By doing so you have now crashed into another vehicle causing more damage.

Are you upset? Are you upset about your car? Are you upset that now you have to deal with all of this? Are you mad at the person who let go of a stroller and let it roll into traffic?

Fuck yeah, your mad. Jebus forbid someone actually got hurt. That enters a whole 'nother area of spew.

Now. What if that person who lost control of the stroller has never walked a baby before and wasn't aware of how dangerous traffic can be to a infant? Lets just say this person is from Papau New Guinea and actually had no idea, and panicked. Would you still be mad. Fuck yes, you would. You know why? Cuz, what kind of fucking idiot pushes a child into traffic?

So when you don't have a fucking idea what you are doing in surfing, stay the fuck away from people who do. If you can't understand why surfers get mad, it is obvious you are a fucking stroller-pushing dipshit. You should go to where there aren't other surfers until enough years go by and experience dictates that, indeed, some people need a punch in the ear to sort them out. When you finally see why people need a Hawaiian donut, then you are ready to go get one.

Top 10 :: #4 80th Street Jetty, Ocean City, MD

I pulled up to the dune crossover and saw this:

So Chris Minesinger and I went surfing. It was perfect. I went left, he went right. We got tubed, slotted, pitted, shacked and strobed. It was silly perfect.

Longboarder, Hairfarmer

Florida's Surf

found this comment under a youtube video of Ruggles going off.


cubanboy740 (3 weeks ago)
the water is cold there right ?? i live in florida we got great waves too.

Benjiman72391 (3 weeks ago)
no you don't

Top 10 :: #3 April of 2002. Outside Corner, Uluwatu, Bali.

Jimbaran before the terrorist attacks.

Get comfortable. This is a long one. But there is a back story to how catching only a couple waves could be one of my best sessions ever.

I was on my wedding/honeymoon. So I was trying to contain my surf lust the best I could for the sake of my soon to be wife. We had a few things we needed to accomplish. We needed to find the perfect spot to be married. We also need to find the place to stay and celebrate the marriage. We needed to satisfy our craving for culture and we need to spend a couple days just chilling in post nuptial bliss - or as we referred to it, “Neck deep in the pool bar.” So I concentrated on getting those taken care of so I could just surf the rest of the trip. We were there for a month. So I figured I was safe.

We arrived on the tail end of a good swell. I squeaked a session at Uluwatu in the fading swell and bulbous crowd. I didn’t catch any really good waves. The next day was flat. The marginal conditions only fueled my desire to get pitted off my scone. I was there. I was walking through the cave. I was chilling in the warung swatting the hives of persistent Balos. So close…

Yeah, it looks kinda fun I guess.

But my wife pounced on the chance to search for the best spot to get married. I knew since it was flat, that it was my best shot at getting this done and getting back to the surf. Not that I was bummed to go find the place I was to marry this beautiful woman. It’s just that as a goofy-footer who grew up watching surf videos, I was freaking the fuck out.

We bailed up to Ubud after a couple of flat days and fell in love with the area. Any place that has a monkey forest is good in my book. We hiked, and searched and perused for days until we found our spot. It is called the Alam Inda and it is amazing. We had a crazy beautiful house that seemed like every inch of it was intricately carved. The front door alone was a 12 foot wide and six foot tall pocket door who’s every inch was detailed in a way only the Balinese can do. The bathroom was sort of outside. There isn’t a roof over the shower and the walls are carved stone. This made it seem like you were outside in a rainforest instead of in a bathroom. Upstairs, the bedroom had a beautiful window seat and and a hand carved posted bed with mosquito net draped around it. It looked like a scene out of a really old movie. It was perfect.

My wife before she realized she married an idiot and would have been better off with her admiring monkey for a life partner.

We had our day in the sun and a few more days basking in the warm-fuzzies. Ubud treated us well and we had a great rhythm there. But when the only bar in town that served VB (Victoria Bitter) ran out thanks to us, we decided to head back down the hill to the beach.

While I was love drunk in Ubud, a swell had come. A good one. And I missed it. I wasn’t bummed cuz the commitments were over and the Mrs.. and I were on a mission to chill. I still had almost three weeks left. So things looked good for me. My wife, Kristi, loves nothing better than to be left alone on a hot beach with a book and a drink. I love nothing better than to go surfing. What could go wrong?

Between injuries and illness is knucklehead times.

Some good friends of ours, Jean Pierre and his wife Reagan were in Bali too. I contacted them so JP and I could surf and the girls could do what ever they wanted to do. They were posted at Nusa Dua and the wind was supposed to be light. So I agreed to roll over there early to get some empty waves.

JP and I ended up walking for miles down the beach trying to find a boat to take us out to the reef. It was so hot I was kind of tripping out. We just kept walking. And walking. JP had a hat and rash guard on. I had no shade. After an eternity we finally found some boats and got the ride out to the peak. The waves were a lot larger than it looked from the beach. That was probably because the waves were out in the middle of the freaking ocean. I almost immediately broke my leash and spent the next two hours trying to not lose my board in the top-to-bottom right hand tubes. We got some really good ones, but I was taking it really easy. I didn’t even want to imagine trying to swim for a lost board out there.

The session wore on and it eventually dawned on us that the boat wasn’t coming back. So we agreed that we would just head in. I had reef booties on. I did offer one to JP, but he politely declined. We spent the next hour gingerly tip-toeing across the reef. The whole time I couldn’t stop thinking about how frustrated I was and once I had a leash on my board was gonna fucking destroy the next wave that dared to cross paths with me.

We finally made it to the beach but still had the grueling miles-long hike through soft sand in the midday Indonesian sun. When we finally made it to the hotel we found the ladies in the pool. As soon as I got in I new something was wrong. I was freezing. Loosing my mind. Quivering, shivering, chattering-ass frozen. So we moved to the hot tubs. Bad move. I started to really feel weird there. I wasn’t cold anymore, but I was getting dizzy and disoriented.

By dinner I was starting to lose control of my mind and I had almost violent fits of chills. Before dinner even arrived I had to excuse myself. JP walked me back to their plush hotel room. It was a short walk but during it, I fell out. The last thing I remember was entering the room and having convulsions. The air con was set to a ridiculously cold temperature and when I hit that air my body gave out. All I wanted to do was get the fuck out of that room. JP didn’t want me to since I was burning up. I think the convulsions convinced him that I needed to get out. So he wrapped me in blankets and left me on the porch.

I don’t remember much of the next week except for a couple specific incidents. The first was Kristi freaking out and demanding that I get in the pool. My fever was skyrocketing and I was hallucinating and having convulsions. She realized that the only way to get through this was to get me into the cool pool. That was the worst hour of my life. Period. I literally had to put a toe in at a time and then work through the convulsions. Once calm, another toe. And then a calf, another calf, a knee and so on until I was neck deep. The only reason I did it was the fear and worry in her eyes that she tried to hide, but couldn’t. I decided that death would be way better. But her eyes reminded me of what we told each other a few day prior and I pushed myself into the shallow end losing my shit like never before.

I saw this photo before I shot it and was excited to take it. The farmer however was bummed and asked for money. He asked for $1 US. I gave him a couple and called it good.

Another incident I remember was entering a doctor’s office and some homeless looking guy was sleeping on the ratty couch. When we came in and asked for a doctor, the guy on the couch got up and invited into an examining room. He was the doctor.

After a solid week in the fetal position I finally felt like a human. We were near Kuta beach so I decided to have a look at the waves. When I looked, the whole freakin beach from end-to-end was lit up with swell. It was huge. And it was perfect. I decided I would go back to the room, drink lots of water, try to eat something and prepare to surf tomorrow.

While you sleep and vomit, the surf pumps.

The swell dropped a lot and it took me a long time to find the strength to wax up and get to the beach. But I was feeling almost decent and it was still chest to head high, straight offshore and lined up for hundreds of yards. What I didn’t realize was that there would be 7,000 Europeans in the water. I paddled out anyway and after an hour or so I was feeling good. I was catching waves and that familiar comfort was coming back. I started doing some turns, pulling in and all that jazz. I was back! I decided to head in so I picked off a really good one and milked it all the way through for a really long wave. I reo-d the closeout at the bitter end and used that speed coming down from the lip to propel me to the beach. As a sped toward the sand, a tiny touch of backwash headed out to sea, straight at me. I opted for a little ollie off the whitewater. I literally went two inches in the air and when I landed both of my legs split. My back foot slipped off the back, my front foot off the front. Both knees met in the middle of the board despite that not being possible.

I had that immediate floaty feeling in both knees and knew dead-on that I stuffed them. I literally laid on my board face down and broke into tears. If you ever tore ligaments, or even sprained them, you know that it doesn’t really hurt, per se. But still, I was crying like a baby. I hadn’t had a proper Indo surf. Now I was gonna have two sprained knees at the very least.

Kristi helped carry me back to the hotel which was painful and agonizingly long. I spent a whole day in a drunken depressed funk. I think Kristi was getting bummed too. And she pried about how my knees felt and what happens at rehab. She really wanted me to surf. I had given up. But she wanted me to be happy and pressed the issue.

The next day I decided to take a slow and methodical walk around the pool to see what was going on in my knees. Surprisingly I found that my right knee wasn’t all that sore. Just a little swollen and about 80% range of motion. My left knee however was really swollen, black and blue, and it hurt to think about moving it. 50% good news right?

I couldn’t really do anything else, so I did the 15 minute ice routine and went for slow, careful walks. I started getting in the pool and kicking the best I could. After a couple days of this I could walk and I began walking in the pool and adding a touch of gentle stretching. After a week I could walk just about normal and the I would even say the right leg was 90%. I was running in the pool and stretching for hours and hours a day. The bartenders began to refuse me ice cuz I was using it by the bag.

We took a trip to Uluwatu to have a look. I was feeling really good and was focused on feeling better. Then I stepped onto the cliff and saw perfect overhead Uluwatu. I just about wanted to kill myself. All that positive energy out the fucking window. I was pissed. These assholes were scoring the barrels of a lifetime and I was sitting in a pool doing tad-pole kicks all day long.

I decided once again, with gentle prodding from my wife, I was going to focus and get into the water. So the next few days I ate clean, walked, ran and kicked in the pool. I stretched and iced, all day. The swell came up again and I saw Kuta’s bomboras spewing plumes of spray from far away. Kuta looked like Armageddon. There was no discernible waves, just swell. Every-fucking-where.

The sign says it all.

I grabbed my 7’2” and headed to Uluwatu. It was fairly early and we arrived to almost no one about. I watched for a short time and was just fucking blown away at how long and perfect a wave could be. No one was out and I knew it was large, but not how large. After a half hour of almost shitting my pants, I said fuck it and pulled out the board. As I waxed up an Aussie asked if I was going. I said yes so he said he would join me. As we made our way down to the cave we saw a couple Brazileros head out and realized it was fucking giant. For some reason I kept walking anyway. I made the call and headed to the beach instead of straight out of the cave. As I walked along the cave wall headed to the little beach, a gia-normous snake slithered out of one hole in the cave wall and into another. It must have been six feet long and 12” thick. No shit. I freaked out really hard and ran to the beach. The Aussie guy was not worried about the snake, he was worried about the surf. I however, said fuck that snake and jumped in.

I immediately began speeding down the reef in the hell current. I encountered a few waves and had to adjust my duck dives to accommodate the big board. But I got it wired quickly and pressed on. A couple solid ones nailed me but I was scared of the snake so I wasn’t heading back in. By the time a finally got out the back, relatively easily, I was halfway to Padang. And if you have never been there, once you get down current of that headland at the end of Uluwatu, the current is fucked. As in - your fucked. So I put my head down and settled in for the safe but long paddle up the point. I figured it was a half hour before I made it to the take off spot. I was spent. Done. Tired but relieved I sighed and sat up to get my bearings.

Immediately there was whistles. Lots of whistles. I thought, “Fuck, the Brazilians are scrambling. OH FUCK!” Out the back, I mean way the hell out the back, a top-to-bottom steam train of a wave was coming and I was no where near safe. The worst part was that I had about a solid minute to think about how I was about to die. So I considered the options and did what I could. I duck dove the hairy bitch. I managed to hold onto my board and pop up quickly. The next one was twice the size and I was in a worse place.

There should be a sign on the cliffs that reads, “Welcome to the land of 15 waves per set.”

Maybe there should be a sign here that says, "Going Off Daily."

When I surfaced at the end of the set alive, I was past the headland again, halfway to Padang. Now I was pissed off. I calmed myself and settled in again for the long paddle. I realized I hadn’t seen my new Aussie friend the whole time. Just then a voice came from behind me. “Fuck mate you got destroyed.” It was my friend and he had the look of psychosis in his eyes. He was just making it to the lineup for the first time. We had a lovely chat on the way back out and watched in horror as a set rolled through. A brave fella paddled into a peak and I finally saw how big it really was. Jesus-tittie-fucking-christ. These nut bags are riding 9’ guns and getting slotted. I was feeling a little ill, so I decided to not look anymore.

I finally caught a couple and felt better. It was perfection and I was surprised how easy it was to surf. My confidence was climbing slowly out of the basement.

Then “It” came. It being the largest set I have ever had to deal with. The first wave swept wide of me at 100 miles an hour making a horrible metal-grinding noise. The next one was bigger but adrenaline pushed me into the spot, I saw my opportunity, spun and went. The only thing I remember was thinking, “Don’t kick out, ride this thing all the way back to Kuta.” But man does it get shallow towards the end. And the sight of that churning, gurgling shallow reef turmoil made me choose a watery death over a dry, pointy reef one. So I pumped as hard as I could looking for a small break in the never-ending feathering lip. I angled up the face and tossed myself over the back. I managed to not get sucked back and was pleased my leash held.

A nanosecond later I was forced to weigh options again. The rest of the fucking 12 wave set was heading my way. Although it was only half the size of the outside corner, I wasn’t sure if I should try to push through or angle down the reef away from the whitewater. I chose immediate safety and ended up even further down the reef into no man’s land. When I finally popped through the back of the last wave I was surprised to see my Aussie friend. We both hollered at each other, stoked to have survived that set. I told him how amazing and crazy long my wave was. I asked him about his wave and his reply was, “I never caught a wave mate. I got dragged all the way down here.” It seems he saw me snag one of the first waves of the set and tried the same. He took it on the head and basically did the Richard Simmons Underwater Aerobics for about a half mile.

Crazy perfect, stupid big, virtually empty and a completely unforgiving bitch.

We battled the current for a while until we realized we were actually going backwards down the reef. So we gave up and looked for an escape. We saw a very tiny break in the cliffs with a rock/reef beach and some foliage leading up the cliff face. We agreed that was about our best option to get up the cliff. The problem was that head high drainers were landing on exposed reef in front of that little spot. We needed to act fast and my buddy said, “Fuck it,” and paddled in. A wave washed over him and he managed to stay above the impact and floated onto the beach. I tried to time it the same way but the swirlies and boils were pulling my board all over. I looked back to see a wave pitching out. So I sprinted forward with my fingers brushing reef as I reached. The wave landed on my calves and I was propelled violently over the dry reef like Pete Rose. Safe.

When we were both finally standing on the land it all seemed so funny. I had an adrenaline buzz. A couple times I lost focus and ate it climbing up the cliff back to the road. I banged my shin and dinged my board. Then we had to walk a couple miles back to Uluwatu in bare feet. When we finally got back to the warungs above the point it seemed like a dream. I watched what was going on in the water. I watched people go out and come right back with broken boards. I watched people paddle out and get swept away without ever seeing them again. I watched guys pull in, get pitted and paddle back out like it was nothing. A couple times people patted my semi-local Aussie friend on the back and asked how the waves were. He told them how he never caught one but had gone for the ride of his life. “Well mate, pretty farkin brutal out there.”

Who loves perfect overhead barrels? I do, I do…

On that day most people were content to sit on the cliff and drink Bintang and eat nasi goreng. Maybe a good call. A couple fellas made comments about how I should be stoked that I caught a couple. All I could think was, “They have no idea how true that is. No fucking idea at all.”

Fucking Ruiner

Top 10 Continued

#2 A Really Really Good Wave in the Northeast Caribbean

The view from the top of the hill. Muy tranquillo.

On one of our many trips to leech off of "Diamond" Jim Veiga and his ever-improving accommodations and modes of transportation, we happened upon a certain world-class right doing its thing. We drove up a small mountain or extremely large hill, depending on your perspective, about 10 miles from the beach to have a look at a series of waves. From there we would usually get bummed out, and force ourselves to make the miles long hike into one of these notoriously fickle waves to ride small, choppy and shallow waves. The consolation is that they are rarely crowded.

On this particular day however we were greeted by favorable winds, decent swell and clear skies. We all marginally freaked out when we saw what looked like small lines wrapping along the (in)famous cocktease of a point. And god what a view. The huge bay was a sheet of glass with swimming pool clear water surrounded in a crescent moon-shaped, pure white sand beach. Each side of the bay was trimmed in palm trees and lush tropical jungle. A funky little tropo bar sat just off the road in the middle of the beach.

We all strained to figure out exactly how good it was. But it is hard from 10 miles away and the consensus was that it looked small and fun. So I pulled out my 500mm lens and held it up to my eye with my bare hands to get a better look.

If you have never put a lens that long up to your eye without the help of a tripod, let me explain. You can't see jack shit. Every minor movement is exaggerated so bad you feel like your eyes are gonna pop out of your head. This is compounded by trying to focus on something half the size of a flea's nut sack. But I gotta tell ya, I just about shit my pants when I finally saw something moving on a wave.

It wasn't small and fun. It was good. Really, really good. Way overhead. Lined up. FUUUUUCK!

The view through the 500mm lens.

After the short, over-accelerated, hyper-fueled, mega-aggressive drive to the beach in Jim's sketchy jeep, we all made the excruciatingly long walk the length of the entire bay. We finally reached the paddle out spot. Which despite the size of the bay, which seems to be three miles wide, the paddle out spot is very concise. We all lined up behind Jim and followed as he weaved through the shallows. He was barking out instructions regarding what we were all about to commit to when a big perfect left reared up in front of us. Being a overzealous goofy footer, I immediately ignored Jim's instructions and paddled straight into the take-off zone and went on the next wave. I barely made the drop and had a minor heart palpitation when it jacked up and threw out. I barely skirted out of the wave and rode off the back. I found myself in position again almost immediately as I noticed Ricky B moving into the zone too. The second wave was much bigger and I realized as I pushed over that maybe Jim was telling us NOT to ride this wave. Despite myself, I got pitted again and rode it out swearing and screaming out loud how, "I gotta get the fuck out of here. This thing is trying to kill me."

As I paddled laterally across the reef in front of the take-off spot, I intentionally paddled way outside the zone and Ricky B who was looking pretty determined to catch one even though I just declared to the crowd it was in our collective best interest to, "Move along. Nothing to see here." As I passed Ricky an even larger set appeared. Ricky and I put our heads down and sprinted. I was headed west towards the channel. Rick headed north, hoping to punch straight through. I managed to pierce through. I looked behind and saw Ricky duck diving right smack-dab in the worst place. I cringed as the lip chucked and you could see the shallow reef under Rick.

Everyone else had followed Jim through the small keyhole west of Millimeters, as we later learned that left is called, and avoided the majority of interaction with any real physical drama. (Although having repeated the process several times after this day, the visual drama is fairly heavy.) Ricky however was the proud owner of a broken surfboard. I felt horrible, but what can you do? He was now a long shitty swim, a even longer shitty walk back to the car to be greeted by no backup boards. Hey at least that cool tropical bar had a good view of what he wasn't surfing.

Ricky B in better times, atop the Broken Windstar

We all paddled across the front of the reef behind Jim like good worker ants until Jim sat up and looked out to sea. I looked around to try to triangulate my position. We were so far out in the ocean that lining up on stuff was impossible. When a set came to us, we all scrambled for safety, except Jim, I saw natures little road signs begin to appear. First the water ran off the reef east of us in a ugly display of displacement. Then rocks appeared. And Jim calmly sat on top of those rocks as the rest of us ran crying out to sea like little faggalas. Jim casually turned and looked like he was going to drop right into the dry rocks. The peak jacked up and Jim disappeared down it's smoother-than-a-porn-star's-coochie face.

It took a while for everyone to figure out that because of the heavy bowl on the peak, you gotta take off right in front of the rocks. Or a fair way down the line. I must have paddled for 10 waves before I got mad and sat next to Jim and finally caught one.

Words can't really explain it. The physical aspects go like this. The medium size waves were two or three feet overhead on the wall, sheet glass. It has a hollow as hell first section which runs about 20-30 yards across fairly shallow reef. That is followed by a steep but rolly section that ran forever -it seemed- maybe another 50 yards. And on the medium size waves that hugged the reef better, you get greeted by a third rolling bowl that lets you surf until your legs gave out. If you got one of those, you got cleaned up for sure, so it was a toss up. The big sets were a lot hollower but were shorter and petered out in deep water missing the reef on the inside. Sort of like a reverse Kuta reef.

After my first wave I sat in the channel and freaked out a little. My heart was going a million miles per hour. My mind was doing loops inside my skull. I had a hard time rewinding the ride and figuring out what happened. I saw a big set coming so I started paddling back up the point. Everyone was scrambling so I put my head down and started sprinting again. When I looked up I saw Jim air-drop into a huge set wave right under the hook. He made the drop and stood tall for a few moments before the foam ball ate him. I screamed as loud as I could. That was one of the most amazing things I have ever seen in my life. Then I got cleaned up really bad and pushed way past were I kicked out of the previous wave. As I paddled back I watched everyone of my best friends catch the most beautiful waves anyone has ever seen. I was hooting and whistling and screaming for all of them.

This went on for a couple hours. Everyone was screaming and whistling and getting shacked. On another particularly large set, Jim again went for that late drop tuberiferious-ness. He had made several of them and also gotten bitch-slapped a few times. This time however he got pitched out into the flat and landed on a rock on his taint. Yup. His taint. He paddled back out agonizing over his now very tender perineum. He attempted a few more waves but finally chucked it in for the day. How ya gonna surf with your nifkin all jacked up?

Slowly the crew headed in one by one. Until only Bill "Gloydal-Zoydal" Gloyd and I were left. Since only two of us were there and Jim in particular was gone, we were left to cherry pick the best waves. Bill mentioned to me after I paddled back from my best wave of the day that he was going in. I thought about it for a second. Then I asked him to turn around and have a look at the whole scene. Look at the perfect blue sky. Look at the gorgeous white sand beach with only our own footprints on it. Look at the postcard palm trees and rain forest that surrounds the whole bay. Look at the clear warm water. Look how many people are in the water. LOOK AT THE FUCKING WAVES! His eyebrows raised up and he smiled that smile only a kid gets when he knows he can get away with something. He nodded in agreement. and we kept surfing.

Top 10

This was inspired by the 25 things Facebook note that went around. I just thought it would be great to put down the same thing but strictly for surfing. So Here we go.

#1 Best surfing day ever. June of 1991? New England.

My most vivid memory of this day is of the so-lame-its-actually-neat and ultra functional Boston Harbor live-readings station on tv. It had real time wind and swell readings at all the buoys around the harbor. Nerd speak blurted out in mathematical rhythm while we all drank, jammed Warrior Soul and huffed on cigarettes. That basic interface with the sweeping hand and pong-like graphics began showing signs of the wind switching. It wasn't supposed to switch that night so we were drinking pretty hard. But as the festivities progressed and the wind swung around ever-so-slowly, the amp factor went through the roof. I remember us all screaming and tackling each other as we realized that we were gonna score the next morning. I hopped on some one's bike and rode to my house and grabbed all my gear. It was pretty much the middle of the night and I was hammered drunk. I luckily grabbed all the wetsuit stuff needed.

We reconvened at Chris Minesinger's house and loaded up. The call was to hit Rye for dawn patrol since the world was going to be caught off guard. Jean Pierre, Minesinger, and myself hit the road a bit too early in an effort to pry ourselves away from the alcohol. Minesinger was smart enough to fill up a roadie for the long drive. We arrived at Rye before the sun even cracked the horizon. Pretty ambitious right? We sat in frozen horror as no waves even sniffed at the famed point. It was darker than Danzig's stool and colder than a witch's tit but I had to get out and walk up to the shoreline to get a better look. I mean come on! The buoys were something like 12 feet at 16 seconds. It was puffing offshore and the water was a sheet of glass. JP stepped up behind me for a look, and Minesinger camped out at the car eating an apple. Just then a set appeared and hit the point, throwing out a solid overhead, flawless right/left. The left ran down the rocks at 100 mph for 50 yards and shit itself on the beach in front of us.

Kadri dropping anchor on the shoulder at Rye.

JP and I screamed and did the grab-and-pull game to see who could get back to the car fastest. We all paddled out fell on several waves, still drunk and half frozen. Minesinger moaned really loud and then threw up in the channel. It was half vodka, half just-eaten apple. We all laughed that proud laugh, very impressed with the fact that despite being hammered only two hours ago -proof floating in the channel next to Chris- we were now scoring perfect surf. Eventually we all worked the jitters out and scored some really good Rye. After a couple hours a few of the locals realized that the wind switched early and they showed up in force. So we were out of there.

Chris had to get back and open the shop, and The Donald had risen from his slumber and was to meet us at Fuck Yourself cove. (That's not it's real name). Chris dropped Jean Pierre and I on the rocks above the cove and split. The wind was elegant and gentle, the swell angle dialed to perfection, and the size exactly what this tiny little cove liked. But because this cove was surround on two sides by tall cliffs connected by a spit of sand, even a cunthair too much water shut it down. Best case scenario is exactly two hours of serviceable tides - from one hour before to one hour after low tide exactly.

We were about a half hour early and pretty excited about that. The sun was blazing in the early summer sky, and the rocks that sit right next to the take off spot were really warm. We laid out of wetties and towels and smiled as we realized we were about to get a quick nap and probably dry our suits out before the next session. So I happily put my ass down on my towel, stretched my legs out and did that little exaggerated thing were you throw your arms up and then clasp your hands behind your head. I started to lean back, and looked one last time at the ocean before hitting my back to the warm, inviting rocks.

"Holy sit mate," Pierre screamed as a absolute slut of a wave ripped across the cove, bounced off the cliff, ricocheted into a peak, heaved up, hurled over and freight trained down the line, corkscrewing along the rocks the entire length of the cove. We gawked as a five wave set did what that cove is meant to do. So we struggled into our horrid, cold, slimy suits, struggled the boots on but gave the gloves the finger. We both frantically climbed down the cliff next to the take-off spot and launched into the zone, a move that requires about one half a paddle. The waves were a couple feet over head, making the ricochette peak very solid. But Pierre and I are both goofy foots, and its a pretty sure thing when this place is firing. So we easily pulled into wave after wave after wave. And the best part is that the swell angle and size made one very unique aspect of this magic little cove come alive, the fact that it bends back out to sea as it follows the shape of the rocky shore. That way when you kick out at the end you don't get caught inside, you are even with the peak and just have to paddle straight across the cove. Mind you, that fact also makes it a very tough wave to surf backside, as it bends away from you despite being fairly hollow from the start.

The Cove, a little mixed up, but you get the picture.

Pierre and I shared hoots and screams as the scene unfolded. Who could ask for more? How about another one of your best friends? We heard a slight hoot from the rocks and saw The Donald dashing into the bushes, obviously headed to the car to get his gear.

The session went on with us all trading wave after wave. The sun was now high in the morning sky and the air was warm. The water was as clear as it gets and my favorite wave was cooking. Eventually the tide filled in and we had to climb up the rocks and realize, that was a special day for sure, but it was over.

A quick check at the beach break showed a lot of swell still, but everything was buried under the rising tide. But the truth was, it was still morning. And for New England, a fucking beautiful day. So we scrounged together about $3.50, seriously, and shared a small sandwich. Then the idea to drive over to the outdoor skate park and enjoy a session in the sun was brought up by my favorite sun worshiper, The Donald.

I was so tired I could hardly move and I think Pierre was asleep in the back of the car on the short drive there. But once at the park, we all came alive. To be outside in shorts, at the park, in the sun. Wow. What a joy. So we sessioned for a surprising long time. Once we were all spent and sweaty, nothing sounded better than a surf.

The Donald at the skate park.

It was now early afternoon. The wind seemed suspiciously nice and the sun still blazed the sky. When we pulled up at Long Beach you could have easily mistaken the scene for somewhere much nicer. Clear water, overhead barrels, blue sky, no one out. Are you fucking serious? The left that runs into the shallows behind the cliff, which is normally soft and short, was beginning in the middle of the beach and shotgunning into the normal area where the peak was, continuing on in its mach 5 journey into the shallows where it was backing off gently. It was that perfect beach break wave that was so fast that no matter what you did, the ride was incredible. You could drop in and gun it, or you could pump a couple and go up and crack it, or Pierre's favorite, keep the high line and do filthy long floaters. Again a little rough for our regular footer friends, but they can eat my ass.

If I am not mistaken Chris showed back up and Kadri paddled out. After about an hour I was stuffed. My arms were jello. My face was beet red burned. My shoulder felt like someone had been charlie horse-ing me for a week. But after each ride I would walk back around to the middle and wait for a lull before wadding out as far as I could, and paddling out for another. We got home after dark. I struggled my gear up the four flights of stairs and dumped it all unceremoniously in our tiny shower. My hooker girlfriend was all over me since it was my day off we were gonna do something together. I never called and had been gone for, well, 24 hours. She bitched at me and I couldn't even hear it. I kept trying to explain to her that it didn't matter. The waves were epic. She was so put off. I finally gave up, ate one of Donald's fried Bologna sandwiches and went to bed. I think she was still yelling at me for a while after I fell asleep, but who cares?