Tuesday, October 30, 2012

The Green Lady

The Green Lady for SoCo wave shredder, family man, teacher, and open-minded weird board enthusiast Paul.
8'ish with a full coke-bottle tint.
The Lady series, spawned by The Painted Lady, are northcoast-specific trim machines. They borrow heavily from Greg Liddle's hulls in concept, though only moderately in form. I'm aware that Lady is a terrible name for a surfboard model, but sometimes these things are out of my hands.
More rocker than a traditional hull and more meat in the rails for our long paddles, thick wetsuits and shelfy sandbars.

 Less convex on the bottom of the board, and pulled in noses and tails to fit in steeper pockets.
These things work best with some added length—think mid seven foot to mid eight foot range. This gives them a long rail line for drive and hold. A flexie fin rounds out the package with the result of a fast, maneuverable, drivey pocket rocket that finds the power spot on the wave and holds tight. Think: greased pelican getting shot out of a black-bored 28” Browning Citori barrel.

Actually, don’t think that. It’s kind of gross. I’ll let you come up with your own parallel—you’re an adult and I trust you.
If you’re an East Coaster dealing with the aftermath of Sandy, our thoughts are with you.

Tuesday, October 9, 2012


If March roars in like a lion, then October pads in giddily like a golden retriever, all joy and gentle reminder.
You may need these, October suggests, your socks cradled in her mouth as you creep out of bed at dawn, suddenly darker than it was last week. Or this, she says, nuzzling a sweatshirt.
October points to the Thermos you almost forgot on your way out the door, the hotwater jug, the hat October knows you’ll be glad you remembered when you get out of the water.
October rides shotgun to the coast, head out the window, head back in to look at you, warm lips stretched into a smile, and asks, isn’t this amazing?
And it is.
And then you’re at the coast and October is bounding in a frenzy, dizzily pointing the soft cylinder of her nose at the sea—its cloudy breath and slick, morning-gold surface.
Then she’s wriggling, belly on the ground and you lower yourself to see what she’s got. Down here, she implores, listen. And you press your ear to the ground—wet, fresh—and you hear it. Thump Thump Thump of October’s tail on the packed earth.
Thump Thump Thump of the waves’ as they shatter onto sand.
Thump Thump Thump.
Deeper you listen, eyes closed.
Thump Thump Thump it goes.
Winter’s almost here.