A Clear Sense of Things

American poet Wallace Stevens penned the following lines about fall:
After the leaves have fallen we return
To a plain sense of things. It is as if
We had come to an end of imagination,
Inanimate in an inert savoir.
Sorry, bro!
(by the way, I looked up savoir so you don't have to: a personification of death)
Fall means many things to many different people up here in Northern California, but 'inert' isn't one of them. Winemakers and grape growers boost their heart rates to 'high alert', poised on the edge of a gargantuan push to kickstart one of the most wonderful processes in all the world.
Steelhead, feeling increasingly more funny in their netherparts, burst from their upstream feeding grounds in pursuit of saltwater and sweet, sweet love. Fishermen, feeling a similar tingle,  spool backing onto fly lines and fantasize about #8 egg-sucking leaches and depth-charge nymphs.
Young 'uns lay out new clothes and feel awkward and try out for sports and theater productions and wonder if their fresh haircut will grow out by picture day.

And surfers. Eager to transcend the thigh-high windchop and socked-in, wool-sweater fog of summer, surfers begin mindsurfing the inevitable pulses of North Pacific energy.
Know who's ready for Fall?
Lucas, as evidenced by his new Sparkplug.
This thing has fall in Northern California written all over it--clean lines, no-nonsense shape, no frills glass job by Pico and the good folks at Northern Light Surf Shop in Bodega.

To be fair, Wallace Stevens was living in Central Pennsylvania when he wrote A Plain Sense of Things.
And, in a sense, we, too, return to a Plain Sense of Things in fall--attentions shift wherever they had been for the spring and summer, and come into a sharper focus. The Pacific Ocean stirs, and things start happening. Surf. Weather. High pressure. Low pressure. Pulled pork in the crockpot. Red wine and Islay single malts. Socks. Unmanageable surf. Highly manageable surf.

Lucas is a man who thinks ahead. He'll have his Sparkplug quad dialed by the time the first overhead wave spins toward our rocky shoreline this fall, bringing with it the hopes and joys of Pacific Coast surfers, and a beginning, rather than an end, of imagination.

Plug

Kelly is a Renaissance man—surfer, artist, designer, entrepreneur, musician, dude with a mustache. He’s also a builder with of epic vision. How do we know it’s epic? because it’s in the name: Epic Design Build.

The EDB bros are scientists of building efficiency. They also like riding bikes, shredding Northcoast waves, and drinking beers at the Toad.

Kelly is at the forefront of a movement to transform Santa Rosa’s Railroad Square from a place of occasional dining and hobo watching to a model of the contemporary urban ideal: small local businesses, artists, intellectuals, musicians, surfboard shapers with an alarming amount of gray finding its way into their beard this winter, purveyors of local-made (and brewed!) goods intermingling with community-minded homeowners and their offspring. Sounds nice, eh?

So what does a man-of-our-times order when he wants to shred?

6’ Sparkplug.

Like the name implies, the Sparkplug is the necessary ingredient for heavy duty shredding. Plenty of foam for Northcoast paddling with a rocker to match our steep beachbreak offerings.

Quad for extra spark.

Because he's also a gigantic design nerd, Kelly created his own custom Sparkplug lam just in case, in the middle of a sess, he forgets why his board shreds so hard.

California born, start to finish.

Baby Damulag

Nature is fraught with paradox. Flightless birds. Flying fish. Dry lakes. Grape nuts. Snooki.

We, too, are plagued with an existential paradox: How we see ourselves vs. how others see us.

Rather than being at odds with paradox, Hawaiian born shredder, stoked California waveslayer, teen counselor, and new Sparkplug owner Baby Damulag embraces it. Take his name: a Damulag is a Filipino water buffalo. They’re strong like hell. They work like hell. And have you ever seen them around water? They love that shit. Much like BD himself.

But then why 'baby'? Because babies need their moms, and BD was one of those groms who talked trash about the older kids then ran behind his mom for protection. Scrappy! 

BD’s not afraid to charge some water-buffalo style waves, then come home and snuggle on the couch with his girlfriend and a soft blankie. That’s the kind of guy he is. No shame. Perfectly at ease with his existential paradox.

BD, at ease with his existential crisis, setting up for the next section on his new Sparkplug

His new sled, too, is marked with existential paradox. It’s a thruster. It’s a quad. Instead of going shorter according to current design fashion, BD added several inches to his standard board length. In other words, he’s doing his own thing and, baby or not, do you really want to mess with a damulag? 

Insane deck artwork/watercolor painting came all the way from Spain by talented artist Ruth Basagoitia, and celebrates the critical aspects of BD's existence.

Of Sparkplugs, Sandbars, and Seasons Greetings

I love it when this:
Turns into this:
6' Sparkplug for bicoastal surf enthusiast/surfboard sketch artist Kevin, who's flying out from the East Coast, grabbing his new stick, celebrating X-Mas with the in-laws, then jetting to Mexico all in about a 12 hour period.
Five Futures finboxes of fun. The Sparkplug is packed full of curves and designed for maximum rippage in small to a-lot-larger-than-small sized surf. It works well as a three or four finner. Up north, e. shreds his gen 1 Sparkplug with a bonzer-inspired setup.
Speaking of the East Coast, Mrs. HHG, the little HHGitas and I just arrived here and you know what? It's freaking freezing and I've gotten no fewer than 10 emails in the last 12 hours informing me that my homebreak is totally snapping and everyone is getting so pitted and it's the best, cleanest surf of the winter and the agricultural runoff from the rain isn't that bad as long as you've had your hepatitis shots...etc.
Still, as I write this, stuffed into more fleece than in an entire REI catalog, parked in front of a space heater, sucking down hot tea as if it's the elixir of life itself and contemplating how soft I've gotten, I can still muster enough holiday spirit to wish everyone a Merry Christmas. And coming from a semi-frozen Jew, you know it's real.