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?

misery loves company

Tails of dinner at Yanuca Island

I prefer to travel with someone. Misery loves company. That way when its flat you have someone to complain to. Go drinking with. Someone to bitch at for snoring too loud. All that stuff. And when its going off, you have someone to talk about that set wave you fucked up, the barrel you missed, or how the fin snapped off in your ass.

It can't be just anyone either. I need to travel within my group of pre-approved surf trip compadres. Or my wife, but she cuts down on the water time. Although the fringe benefits of having her there are sometimes worth it. Especially if it is flat. Or when that fin snaps off in your ass.

Skeets "pre-approved surf buddy" Coyle, stoked on Fiji

So when Bill called and said we are going to Fiji. I said, "Not me." Its too expensive and I would be traveling alone due to financial and geographic reasons. But Bill insisted. "How often do you turn 40? You gotta go. Skeets is going!" So I said okay since at least once I was in Namotu, two of my top pre-approved surf trip fail-safes would be there to buy me beer.

Highlight of the week at Christmas Island

On the flight over we stopped on Christmas Island. I was excited to get out and see this tiny island in the middle of nowhere since we had a couple hour layover. They opened the doors and the humid stagnant and completely un-Christmasy air filled the cabin. "Please remain seated. You will not be getting off the plane," the captain said. Then they proceeded to walk up and down the aisle spraying toxic bug killer in our faces. Twice. A saved christian woman was singing and spackeling jesus-filth at everyone in ear shot. I noticed one particular fella getting an ear-full. He was smiling and listening with accommodating body english, but his eyes said, "For the love of all things sane, kill me. Or kill her. Please."

So off to Fiji with a sweaty smell, lungs full of PCB's and the hideous chorus from a christian sing-a-long bashing my frontal lobe. At some point we landed. Handles of bourbon were really cheap. So I stocked up. My first stop was a solo mission to a camp near Frigates. It was a two hour drive, and then another hour or so by boat to get you to the camp. I knew I would need a drink.

It was late at night and I only saw one other board bag in the airport. When the driver from the camp showed up I realized the other board bag, and more importantly, the owner, his girl and all of their gear were going too. Which made things a bit tight. After about ten minutes of the drive, I really needed a drink. The like-minded Aussie must have smelt what I was thinking and handed me a soda to mix with my bourbon as he and his girl did the same in the back seat. I remember chatting to them and the driver and pounding non-stop drinkies. I woke up when the van stopped, with a drink spilled in my lap, drool all over my face and no idea where I was.

We crashed in a hotel for the night and woke early to ponga out to the outer islands. As soon as I stepped outside it started to rain. By the time we were actually out in the ocean, it was opaque squall conditions. The couple both looked terrified and ready to puke. You couldn't see five feet in front of the boat and it seemed like hours since we last saw any land mass. But the ponga driver was all smiles. So I hunkered down watching all my gear getting soaked, shivering, dreaming of a dry towel or a cup of coffee. But we smashed on through the chop and wind and rain until we finally saw an island. Not the right island, motioned the driver. And onward into the grey we went.

Team Libido in one of the few non-uncomfortable moments

After a handful of days on Yanuca no swell had shown. The rain poured and the only people on the island besides me and the couple from the drunken drive was a slightly overzealous camp owner and the icy-cool boat driver. The driver spoke no english and the english the owner was speaking made me run and hide. I tried to relax and snorkel and all that stuff. But it isn't in my nature to sit idle for days on end. I got on with the aussie guy well, but he and his chick were about to be separated forever. So they had no use for me and spent most of their time humping in their private room or practicing foreplay in the common area. I bailed for the main island with only one sub-par session at Frigates, to grab a long ride back up the coast for a boat ride out to Namotu.

Yanuca Island School's Lali

I had trouble finding my driver. He was off drinking or praying or smoking cloves. I don't know. When we found him after hours of banging on doors and making phone calls, he was nice enough to yell for me to hurry up. I asked repeatedly if he knew where we were going. "I have family there," "There is only one road," and "Please do not worry," were his responses. He got lost. He refused to ask for directions and wouldn't use his phone. When I finally pulled up at the boat launch for Namotu Island, they were literally launching the ponga without me. I smiled at the driver and told him, "Fuck you very much," then ran yelling for the boat. Me and my gear got on at the very last moment.

Welcome to Namotu, hope you like to go left

On Namotu I caught up with the boys, met some people and got settled. We had a dorm style room that we shared with a couple very entertaining folks. Mike the boat captain in particular kept us in tears with his stories of being "Tore up from the floor up, " and "Beat up from the feet up." He smuggled weed into Fiji and snored like donkey. We were covered in ridiculous Mardi Gras beads and laughing at his stories the whole time.

Captain Mike, the dog, Mardi Gras beads, drinks, friends and enough laughs to almost shit your pants

A couple of the SoCal boys didn't seem to like me very much. It was actually their trip, their crew. So I tried to ignore the comments - both out loud and under their breath. But as is the case most times, all that got sorted out in the water. One guy in particular felt the need impart his personal lip service on me, and dropped in on me a few times in the first few sessions. This was not a accident. He didn't kick out. He was trying to push me and my boys around. I guess, to paraphrase Charlie Murphy, "I look like the guy to steal on." Once the waves got beyond a certain size, the talk needs to be replaced by the walk. Sad part is that the waves weren't even big. But when it was good, my boys were the ones on the peak taking the bombs while he and his crew sat and watched from the shoulder.

Hard charger Victor Lozano at Despos

We met three guys from Hawaii, Jim, Victor and Mike. Those guys were 100% aloha and keen for some waves. We hit it off. Part of it was the common bond of Hawaii, but also a desire to have some space on a tiny island that was being rented by a mildly possessive group of old friends. Jim took me fishing and told everyone I caught a Papio even though he caught it. He even made get a photo with it. Turns out Jim was the overly nice guy on the plane at Christmas Island listening to the jesus-babbler. And there were some fishermen there too. One complete knucklehead became my unofficial brother when I showed him a photo of me with a mullet. Everyone thought that was awesome, and weirdly, that photo broke the ice with the SoCal crew.

My new brother-from-another-mother asks, "Can you hold my balls?"

On the last day at Namotu, everyone on the island had to leave to make room for the next group. Except me. I didn't have to leave since I wasn't going to the airport. The waves were cooking and I enjoyed a final session before the new group arrived and took over. I hopped in a boat and motored to another spot on the main island and checked into a crappy hotel room. On the way I chatted up the boys who just surfed with me. They filled me in with the basics for scoring surf from that area.

I looked into booking a boat for the next few days to get out to the reefs. It was going to be more expensive to stay in this shit hole and book a boat than to stay at the 4-star resort of Namotu. And I was alone. Again. I walked around to sus out what the right call was. First stop, the bar. I heard the familiar aussie slang and saw the obvious surf brands, so I pulled up a stool and started a chat. My inquiries were met with surf mag vomit and obvious attempts to spew any legit lingo without a real clue what any of it meant. A pet peeve of mine. In mid-sentence about proper foil for advanced entry rocker as applied to a reefbreak versus beach break, I drifted outside. Another Aussie fella invited me over. His energy was calmer and subdued. So I began the questions. He was leaving the next day but filled me in on where and how. I asked pertinent questions to determine the validity of his opinion. He knew his stuff so I rented some internet time and checked the swell forecast and local weather. The wind was going to be slightly off and the only spot that would be good was a long, crowded and expensive ride. This fella reckoned it was crowded when everywhere was breaking. So the following day would be "rooted." Sweet. At least I was alone and this place is foul. But with no one there to complain to, I was forced to push on.

Nadi sites and my guide to kava induced stupor

I choose to do the tourist thing instead of surf. I tried to go several places that were closed and finally settled on Nadi. I saw the market, ate some odd food, and looked into the sites. I met a nice guide and he eventually led me to his shop. I had my guard up because like Bali, everyone is trying to sell you something. But this guy kept telling me about history and political turmoil. He was Fijian. The Fijian and Indians are at each other's throats. So I was surprised to walk into his shop and meet his partner, an Indian. We spoke for many, many hours about global issues, Fijian struggles, American Imperialism, the fate of children in the world and marriage. We drank so much kava my head shrank like Beetlejuice. When it got late, my new friend helped me find transport back to the shit box hotel. He never asked me to buy anything. I gave him a donation to assist in their personal struggle to fund schools. He insisted I take paintings the children made, and then gave me a carved turtle necklace for my wife.

On the entire three week trip the surf never really got epic. We caught super fun pits at Despos, one good size day and a handful of fun sessions at the lefts. And that was it. I made some great new friends. Some guy broke his hip fishing. That was cool. Bill got a concussion and Jim tried to kill him. Which is still funny. And even the SoCal guys lightened up and were super nice by the end. We actually ended up getting along good. It was a blast meeting those guys, partying with a couple my oldest, dearest friends and seeing lots of Fiji. All in all a good time, but not uncrowded. Fun, but expensive. Difficult, yet pampered. I wouldn't do it again, but I might, if my wife goes with me this time.•

Bill "pre-approved surf buddy" Gloyd on a nugget at Namotu

Dog Days

Typically, a surf session during a New England winter is cold. This day was excruciatingly cold. The kind of cold that makes a fifth generation Maine lobsterman say, "Holy crap, it facking cold!" But I was excited. There was surf. The wind was offshore. And I was going surfing for the first time in almost five months. Plus we were going to one of my favorite places, Long Beach in Gloucester.

In Cape Ann, at the end of a long road, far from anything yet somehow right next to everything, sits a point break. Jay surfs it alone in the middle of the winter a lot. I just happen to check it one day when he was going out.

During the painfully flat and arm-pit-hot summer prior to this day, I took alcohol a lot. There were many occasions that Gutterboy and I drank the Spaldings from the previous night's activities as soon as we got to the surf shop. This was just to keep from being sick. Which sounds sick, maybe even retarded, but hair of the dog is a good option when you plan on drinking all day anyway. May as well go ahead and have a drink, right? So as we were cleaning up broken hangers, Jager empties, Goldschlager glittery spills, and funky half ashtray/half beer cans from every crevice of the surf shop, we drank. So what if you haven't been sober for a minute in something like 40 days? There hadn't been any surf.

I had met a girl during this run of debauchery. Actually, whore is more appropriate. Well, no, I never paid. Anyway. It should have been a red flag that this girl thought that my lifestyle was fun. But like I said, I was drunk, so why would I care? In order to ply this female with adequate intoxicants to make me more interesting and her clothes easily detachable, I set up a evening with my friend Mike, the heavy metal-ist, drug ingesting, English teacher. We ate. We drank. Everyone ate pills of some sort except me. Not a fan. Really.

We found ourselves at a bar at some point. When the bouncer stopped my companion for i.d. I could see this not working out as I planned. She was just shy of drunk to perfection. So I questioned the overzealous fellow about his reasoning. Bad idea.

As I laid in the gutter waiting for a cab to take me to the hospital I saw down her shirt as she comforted me. That was when the pain really set in. I should have eaten some of those pills.

There are characters in every beach town who rip balls. You have never heard of any of them. Kadri Kurgun owns it. Now you know.

Fastforward and here it is, winter. Surf season. Crutches gone. Rehab almost finished. And I was sitting in a crowded car full of gear and cigarettes and New England surfer stink. Staring at the perfect head-high tubes. There was one car in the lot and it owner was out solo. He's a nice enough guy who has a couple dogs he takes with him everywhere. And I love dogs. So this guy is cool in my book. Everything looked perfect. Except…

I gotta shit.

Just like that. Good surf gets me fired up and a lot of the time the tirds just start rushing. I have no options. Gotta go. Now. I opened the door and everyone cursed the cold, or more specifically, they cursed me for letting cold in the stench-mobile. I dashed around like a mad man looking for cover. The beach houses were empty so I ran behind them and backed up against a snow drift about six feet high. I actually felt bad to be crapping on someone's back patio, but fuck it. They wouldn't be around for another few months. I think my shit should be gone by then. And I had no options. I dropped my pants, squatted and the adrenalized fun-factory pumped out yesterday's New York Pizza at high velocity. As I ached through the intense cold of being pantless squating in a snow drift while 20 mph northwest wind stung my balls I started to get bummed. It was intensely unpleasant and I was already frozen. I hadn't even paddled out yet and I was cold. I started to dwell on it when the dogs ran around the house and trotted up to me for a sniff-and-greet. I struck myself clean and patted the dogs hello as they went about dog stuff unaware of how fucking cold it was. My attitude began to change as I pondered their attitude. They didn't give shit that it was 10 degrees out. They just want to…

Wait.

They just ate my shit!

Holy crap. They saw a steaming hot tird and gobbled it up in a nanosecond! My eyes almost popped out. I had to do the look away and look back to see if it was real. Holy shit balls, the dogs ate my poop! I gagged back whatever was left of breakfast and hustled back to the car. I told the boys what happened and we all laughed until the foul smells of wetsuits, feet, booty sludge and cigarette butts snapped us back to reality.

Jean Pierre Knight's Long Beach floater on the shorter, closed-out-but-punchier right. Kadri hacking the shoulder inside the rocks at the end of the left at the far right.

The session was short but nice. The waves were a bit soft but a good first day back after a long stint dry-docked. As I sat aching in the water between waves my mind jumped back and forth between the shit-eating dogs and my needs to get my own shit together. I hatched grandiose plans to self improve. No more all-day drinking, no more lighting each other on fire, no more wine tastings for 3 hours during work, no more… But it was just too brutal. After changing out of a wet wetsuit in 10 degree weather with numb appendages, I said fuck it, stopped at Taco Bell, then grabbed a 12 pack, a pack of smokes and headed back to Boston.