War Pony Chronicles

I have a policy when it comes to taking orders from guys who've been drinking: give them forty-eight hours, then call them back.
This particular decree was ratified a few years ago while dropping off boards at the Fattyshack. Local ripper Donnie was picking up a ding repair and, as can happen at the Fattyshack, beers were opened.
When local rippers see fresh foam on the glassing racks, their worldview narrows. They find themselves suddenly able to focus on three things only:
1. Touching the surfboard.
2. Ordering a surfboard just like it, only, 'with a few small changes.'
3. Drinking beer.
I blame not these men, attributing their response to the complex biology of manhood--desire, acquisition, celebration.
Donnie ordered a new board and, to celebrate, cracked a fresh Tecate, feeling like a new man. The problem was that that new man also wanted to order a board, then crack a fresh Tecate to celebrate.
Each new beer produced a new man, and each new man needed his own board.
When the evening was done, Fatty had to direct me to her guest bedroom. I had tried to match Donnie's beer-per-board revelry, failing somewhere between the balsa pipeliner and buckshot-weighted tow-in board.
My pockets were stuffed with new new order cards featuring everything from the old standards (twin and quad fin fish), to the experimental (finless wooden kelp-destroyer), to the downright perverse (an outer-bar gun whose length exceeded that of my shaping room).
Fats was in her shop the next morning when I woke, but she left a strong pot of coffee on for me. She's an amazing woman. When I found her later she pushed Donnie's phone number at me.
"Call him tomorrow," she said, smiling. "When he's feeling better."
Sure enough, when I called Donnie the next day it was clear that the forty-eight hours of sobriety had given him some time to reflect. His board order, at one moment numbering more than Ted Stevens' felony convictions, had been reduced to a mere two.
"I probably don't need the sixteen foot paddleboard just yet," he said sheepishly.

So, true to policy, I had to call Anton back forty-eight hours after he ordered his new War Pony (he had a few in him when he rang me up for the order).
Turns out he was still riding shotgun on the stoke wagon, using the intervening hours to decide on a glass schedule and color scheme.

The War Pony is a high performance fish design. It borrows liberally from the contemporary thruster in rocker and foil, but retains a lot of fish volume. The result is speed, maneuverability, and glide.

This one's a quad, for maximum ripability.

I like those edges crisp!
Anyway, do yourself and those around you a favor this election season: have a glass of your local brew of choice (currently, mine is a 2005 McKenzie Pinot Noir), call your local shaper, and participate in a time-honored tradition that may not be with us for too much longer. Order up a custom board, support your local economy, and really stick it to the terrorists.
Just don't be surprised if the guy calls you back in forty-eight hours.