The Perfect Firestorm

My buddy Mike called me during his drive down from Oregon last Sunday.
"California is on fire!" he yelled, then the line went dead.
He called back a minute later. "Sorry," he said, "had to find a charger."
His reports were grim--much of the Shoreline Highway was socked in with an unclean-fishtank-shade of brown haze, areas were being evacuated.
Air quality was ten to fifty times worse than normal, dangerous for the sick, old, and young. I, personally, fit into at least two of those categories.

Satellite Photo of Northern California

Now, more than a week later, California is still in a State of Emergency with inestimable damages.
Here's how it went down:
Spring, 2008: dry.
Early June, 2008: hot and dry. Water resources and inland temps resemble August in 'normal' years. The word 'drought' is tossed around. Since we won't get any significant rainfall until late Fall, this is a problem.
Saturday, June 21st: atmospheric instability (usually seen in winter) produces lightning storms of epic (for California) proportions. At dawn's first light on Sunday, the reported 6,000 lightning flashes spark over 1,000 fires from Ukiah to Crescent City.
Farther south, fires in Santa Cruz destroy homes and close highways.
Sunday, June 22nd: news agencies offer hope. Reports abound of fires being '90% contained.' We breathe a sigh of relief, but not too deeply, as we are warned against this.
Monday, June 23rd: smoke fills our quaint little valley up here North of the Bridge. A brown haze settles in, as if we are staring out at life through an old coffee pot. News reports take a turn for the less-than-hopeful: temps are climbing, winds shifting, fires are no longer contained. Governor Schwarzenegger calls in the CA National Guard for assistance.

My Backyard

Tuesday, June 24th to Saturday, June 28th: fires worsen, air quality worsens, the state of firefighting worsens. Helicopters and planes can't drop retardant, as they have no visibility. Firefighters are exhausted after nearly a week of constant struggles. Fire are at an estimated 5% containment. Medical experts warn against doing anything outside, even surfing, as the coast is plagued with the same poor air-quality. Gov. Schwarzenegger declares a State of Emergency. Mendocino county begins evacuating hundreds of citizens.
Even worse, overnight storms are predicted to bring more lightning, fires.

Sunday, June 29th: the storms never materialize. Patches of blue sky appear for the first time in eight days. Temperatures back off, humidity increases, and firefighters intensify their efforts. It is claimed that 20% of the fires in Mendocino County are contained. Over 900 homes are still considered 'at risk.' It appears as if the tides have turned, but we've heard this many times this week as more than 18,000 firefighters continue to battle on.
And, we're just getting underway in a long, hot, dry fire season.
Did I mention how badass firefighters are? They ask for very little, and we owe them very much. Down from Shasta, up from L.A., how can you express gratitude to those willing to put their lives on the line to protect your own?
Much respect.

If you're the praying type, I'm sure many families would appreciate some thoughts sent their way.
As if that's not enough, in a snarky, nose-thumbing gesture, Mother Nature blessed those of us lucky enough to not be fighting fires or evacuating our homes with calm coastal winds and a clean south swell. I snapped exactly two shots in the parking lot this morning--the first was a clean soul turn under glassy conditions, the second was a hawk, perhaps enjoying the increased visibility at a slightly less hazy coast. The connection between the two pictures and the fires seemed clear to me at the time, but escapes me now. Anyone want to take a stab?


Take care out there.

A Clean, Poorly-Lit Surfboard

There's something about a clear longboard with a T-Band stringer that makes me feel good. A simple, elegant set of curves without bells, whistles, mudflaps, spinners, dingle balls, or anything else to distract the eye and the water.

I'm thinking of calling this new model: The 9'2x22.5 2+1 Squash Tail Longboard Designed with both NorCal Beachbreak and Central Cal Poinbreaks in Mind for a Tall, Svelte History-Teaching RipMaster.
Thoughts on the new marketing approach?

There's something about a guy showing up to pick up his board with a cold sixer. The board is a speed demon, as well as the brew.
And, like the IPA, this shred sled is all Sonoma County. Take that, fossil fuels!

The Best of Times, The Worst of Times

80s television hit series The Facts of Life's (featuring a then unknown George Clooney, pictured with full cast below) theme song urged us to take The Good, to take The Bad. "Take them both," the peppy jingle advocated, because, when combined, these two opposing forces form 'The Facts of Life.'

(whose hair is feathered better--Clooney, or Tootie?)
I was too soft-brained during this SitCom's run to appreciate how the abject nihilism and tenacious good-cheer embedded in its opening lyrics reflected our 80s nation: engaged in a dark, secretive Cold War, yet hypnotized by bright colors, reckless fashion choices, and dancing, dancing, dancing!
It's been a week of opposing forces up here, too. First (The Bad), my beloved MacBook was stolen. However, six days later (The Good), the teenage architect of this heinous crime was brought to justice, my laptop returned lighter by a few thousand personal files and photos, but heavier by some disquieting porn and game downloads.
Speaking of lighter (The Bad), this week also saw gastrointestinal gnarliness strike, leaving nothing in the house unscathed. It was like Invasion!From Planet C if the invaders were parasites and 'C' stood for 'colon.' Not pretty. However, (The Good) saltines were ingested, ginger ale was sipped, and most of us are feeling better.
Surf-wise, (The Bad) there was wind, and there was wind. However (The Good), a few pulses of south swell fought their way to our shores, providing a few peelers for those in the know.
The week continued, offering up some classic oppositions. It was hot (Bad for baby) so we blew up the pool (Good for baby). Gas prices rose (Bad), so we didn't drive (Good).
School ended (Good), so...well, that one has no downside.

(6'10" round-tail bonzer-inspired egg with 101 Fin Co bamboos for stoked bro up north)
In the midst of all this Facts of Life, a few plugs of foam were transformed into sparkling surfboards, resin and fiberglass were added, hardened, got sanded, got polished, got waxed, got surfed. A trip to the Fattyshack restored the stoke and belief in human generosity. Some beautiful fins arrived from 101 Fin Co.

(rootbeer tint Fatty special quad ripstick)
It's the stuff inbetween the Facts of Life, when I'm not struggling with a setback or a solution, where I find some sort of grace.
Neither good nor bad, but there you have it.

Three Little Fish

These three candy-colored ladies now temporarily reside in the (former) High Tide Surf Shop in Petaluma. I say 'former' because new owners Drew and Crew have big plans for the little shop, including a new name, location, and focus. For now they can still be found behind McNear's.

6'0 Blurple quad with a clear deck and red pinline.

Classic full board coke-bottle tint. 5'10". Quad. Bitchin.

I call this color Limeade. Fatty calls it Ice Lime. She also calls me a hairy little whiner, so you can make up your own mind on this one. 5'8" of quad fun.

I'm not going to spoil the surprise of the new name, so I've buried it in a word scramble for the motivated. Rearrange the following:
Sonoma Coast Surf Shpo
Linkage
These guys will pack any board and ship it anywhere in the world!*
*I just made that up.

HeadHighGlassy Officially Endorses...

As our national political climate has continued to heat up, I continue to be harassed by those seeking political endorsement. Initially, I deferred. My job as SurfBlogger is to share stoke, offer boardporn, and delete hostile emails from French surfers claiming there is no such thing as a fish longer than 6'2".
But as the race has reached a fever-pitch, it's become increasingly difficult, unpatriotic even, to remain silent. Much like John Edwards and Bill Richardson, I've been talking endlessly with the frontrunners, both hungry for the SurfBlog endorsement.
In the last two weeks, they have called to order boards in hopes it will sway me, and you staunch readers, one way or the other. I decided to let their board choices speak for the candidates themselves, posting pics of the board of the candidate I support.
First up was Hillary. On the phone she was confident, primed. She promptly ordered a 7'6" hybrid thruster. I asked her why.
"Focus groups," she told me. "Polls. Universal appeal. My grandpappy was one of the first to bring surfing to Pennsylvania."
Didn't sound too promising.
Next, Obama called. He asked questions. Listened. Sounded tense. Chewed gum. Not annoyingly, but still. He allowed that it was Nicorette. I appreciated his candor.
He had his own ideas, but listened politely to mine. He liked some of them, and I liked some of his. He ended up with a 6'6 quad egg, an all 'rounder with a focus on performance. "I want to unite longboarding with shortboarding," he told me, "the glide and the shred." I believed him.

It's official.

Round nose with lots of outline curve.

Double concaves and a thinly foiled tail. He knows his stuff.

Round pin quad. A judicious choice for his all 'rounder.

Even more surprisingly, he came over himself to check out the shaped blank.
Turns out he's not quite as tall as he appears on tv, and we share a similar fashion sense...

What a Difference a Day Makes

My friend Bri's been visiting for a few days. He's from Down South, and he alternated between disbelief that anybody would drive this far (sometimes twice a day) for surf, and being overwhelmed at how beautiful the commute to the coast is.
We scored fun, clean peelers one day and unfun, unclean, foggy mungus the next. The following photo montage captures the same spot, from the same angle, with only 24 hours of separation.


During the commute, we crested a hill and stopped to take pictures of a vineyard fading into a redwood stand. Bri took it upon himself to remind me how much I take the Northcoast for granted. I assured him I didn't.
"Yes you do," he said, then got back in the truck.
A few minutes later we stopped again for some pictures--this time of a rolling cattle pasture, a deep shade of green despite the already-scorched inland grasses, and another reminder that I take "all of this" for granted. During the third stop he again scolded me, this time in a eucalpytus grove. I gently reminded him that I didn't take all of this for granted.
"You you do," he said.
I submitted as evidence the fifty pictures I had taken in the last twenty minutes. Brian remained nonplussed. He popped a fresh stick of gum in his mouth.
"I drive past three power plants in my twelve-minute commute to the beach," he said.
He stared out the window. "In the dark one morning, I once ran over a bag of clothes that turned out to be a dude." Noting my expression he added, "He was already dead."
My friend continued, and I let him. People come up here for retreats, for escape, sometimes for surf, but mostly to remind themselves that places like this exist. That the not-so-distant California Coastline can still hold a community with more opossums than household wi-fi connections.
"...somebody once threw a dead cat at me in the lineup..." he continued. I let his list fill the car, then drift out the windows into the fields and hills beyond.
"...I think I caught a venereal disease walking across my parking lot with bare feet..."
I was starting to feel pretty good about myself at this point, and almost didn't mind when we checked another spot, a rocky pocket cove, to find blown out, uninspired lines dribbling onto the beach. The wind was up, the air as crisp as a fresh slip of paper. We watched as two seals made their way north, their heads disappearing and reappearing until they dissolved into the fog.
"What next?" my friend asked.
"Coffee," I said. "Maybe a sandwich."
We got back in the truck, turned on the heat, and rode for a while in silence, our cameras on our laps.

Just a hint of board porn, but it's mostly a plug for my buddy Jim, who designed my bitchin' dragonfly logo. Recently, he left his design firm to open his own. Even more recently, he should be scoring waves in Nicaragua right...about...now...
Anyway, I've linked his site somewhere over here--------------->

The Shape Remains the Same

Fish are so packed with techie nerdiness that it's easy to see why some shapers become 'specialists,' dedicating themselves to a design whose form is being continuously evaluated and interpreted, whose application is as malleable as the foam it's shaped out of.
There are so many Fish interpretations out there that existential questions arise: if a low-volume, competition-style tri-fin thruster with the slenderest of nods to the swallow tail can be considered a Fish, then what can't? If the outline is different, the rails are different, the volume distribution, fins, and rocker are all different, then how can it be called a 'Fish'? Linguists (are you there Sharkbait?): talk amongst yourselves.
In the parking lot of our kind-of-local south swell magnet the other morning, a fellow surfer slid his thruster back into its bag when he saw me waxing my Fish.
"Yeah!" he yelled across the lot, hopping up and down. "Let's do some fishin!" He pulled a twin fin out of his truck, assumed a guitar-rocker stance, and threw me a circa 1986 Van Halen hand sign.
I'm going out on a limb here: nobody has ever seen someone pulling a thruster out of their car, been inspired to return their egg or longboard back to its bag, and yelled across a parking lot, 'Yeah! Let's do some thrusterin!'
I hope the word 'thrusterin' doesn't relinquish this blog's PG rating.
The traditional San Diego Fish, concieved by Bob Simons and pioneered by the Mirandon Brothers and Steve Lis in the early '70s, needs a few mods to really shine up here in our steep beachbreak surf, especially during this time of year when wave intervals are low and conditions are, more likely than not, absolutely horrible.
But, to paraphrase Gertrude Stein, a fish is a fish. The lineage is not difficult to parse out. Sure, surfboard design geeks (myself included) may argue about who was the first to stick a fin here or add a concave there, but the big picture isn't difficult to grasp. To ride a fish is to understand the stoke that could transform you into a parking lot hair-rocker. To run a planer along a rail is to shake hands with Rich Pavel, or Bear Mirandon, or Bob Simmons, or King Kamehameha, or the countless others who have interpreted and reinterpreted one of the most fun things in the world.
Speaking of stoke, couch potatoing doesn't get much better than a lukewarm can of Tecate washed down with some Invasion! From Planet C. As of this penning, there are five (5) left in stock at Amazon. Get to it!