Almost Famous

Stett Holbrook did a great job capturing the current spirit of NorthCoast surfing in this week's North Bay Bohemian. What's present is his article is accurate: a deep respect for surfers--by surfers--that may not be present in all of California's wave zones.
What's missing are all the boring, shrill stereotypes about surfers being myopic and territorial. Finally! Instead, Mr. Holbrook subtly highlights our coast's inclusivity. Our respect-for-just-making-it-out-into-the-lineup attitude. Our commitment to cold, dark, raw waters that are hard to love and, for some, hard to turn away from.
The article focuses on, well, me, but it really paints a thoughtful, articulate picture of surfing north of The Bridge. It can be read HERE.
Feel free to 'Like' and 'Comment' and stuff.

Speaking of surfing, remember that board from last post? Well, it's been all glassed up, waxed, and shredded. Initial reports: Oh boy.

Here she is all purty. Tony Mikus did a bang-up resin tint that's more 'kelp gold' than 'baby poop brown'. Thankfully.
I really like Tony--he's a character that's been under the surf-industry radar since the 70s. I like him to sign my personal boards. Here's what he came up with this pork chop:

Festina Lente is Latin for 'Make Haste Slowly'. Basically, it means that slow is smooth, and smooth is fast. So hurry up and slow down. Perfect, as I issued a rush on this board that probably had the entire glassing crew cursing my name.
Still!
It had to be done. Our plans for Baja were set. The paparazzi from Stett's article were relentless. South swell pulses were on the radar. Shredding had to happen, and it had to happen on this board.
And it did!

Wanna know what it's like to paddle out a new design with weird, homemade fins into hollow, dredging, top-to-bottom conditions?
How the hell should I know?
Both of today's sessions were in playful, peaky, shoulder-high mushburgers with fun, lined-up inside sections. This lil' lass dominated: easy entry, positive bottom turns, and loose, drivey fun.
Here's a rocker shot:

I can't say with complete honesty that both of today's sessions were totally 'sober' or 'without the influence of Tecate and tequila', but I can say this: this surfing life is a gift.

One Lone Swordsman

New Broadsword, and punch #3 on the Sandwich Club Card for SC shredder Mike.

This was my second-to-last blank from a batch of US Blanks that had insanely dark cedar stringers. Every time I'd make a pass with a hand plane my shaping room smelled like someone eating a pulled-pork sandwich in a Norwegian sauna.

Mike wanted a shorter version of his previous Broadsword (see here) for maximum rippage in more sizable surf. Since he digs the other board so much, we just had to make some down-scale adjustments (rocker, outline curve, fin placements) to recreate the magic in a smaller form.
Customs are rad!

If you live in or around SC County, there's a solid chance Mike oversaw the shipment, unpacking, and shelving of your foodstuffs. Not an easy job, nor one without some serious lift-from-the-legs skills.
The dude knows his veggies!

Broadsword Nouveau

What better way to celebrate the hard work and gritty determinism of the early American settlers than to set aside the third Thursday in November for gluttony, sloth, and immoderate consumption?
None!

Across the pond, however, our French neighbors reserve the third Thursday in November for impulsiveness and general abuses of the liver.
Vive la foie!
You see, just six weeks ago in France, deliciously thick-skinned Gamay grapes were minding their own businesses in the Loire Valley, contentedly fattening up on their vines while watching the world zip past them in a blur of unfiltered cigarettes and colored denim.
Then they were picked.
"Fear not!" their thinner-skinned varietals called to them as they were loaded onto palettes in whirls of unfiltered cigarettes and colored denim. "You will have plenty of time in ze bottle to adjust to ze new life!"
"How long?" cried the Gamay grapes, bunching together tightly. "How long?"
Turns out, not long at all. Anxious, curious, really thirsty, the French harvest, press, ferment, bottle, and drink their Beaujolais Nouveau in six weeks.
Why?
Because seven weeks is too long to wait for a bottle of wine.

And what better to do when you're in France and it's the third Thursday in November than uncork a freshly pressed wine and have at it?
And what better way to celebrate the third Thursday in November if you're Pierre in Northen California than to uncork this Franco-American midlength: Broadsword, Beaujolais tint, fresh out of production and ready for consumption.

And what better to do if you happen to be at San Onofre between Wednesday and Saturday afternoon than stop by and say hi? We'll be the large group of pasty Northern Californians chasing our wee ones around between log sessions, sipping lukewarm Tecates, stoked out of our minds to take off the booties and share some waves with friends.
Happy Thanksgiving.

Of Thanksgiving, Turkeys, and Fresh Foam

Thanksgiving!

For some, the mere name conjures food porn of the highest order: turkey, duck, chicken (sometimes in the same overall package), ham, mashed potatoes, yams, and more pie than you can shake a big, pie-shaking stick at.

For others it's about family, offering thanks for the many blessings we've received during the year, and maybe having a few too many dry reislings before telling your uncle that he could probably better understand the Occupy Movement if he rolled down the windows of his Lexus and took his first deep, un-airconditioned breath of inequality. Oops!

Most of the world doesn't give a shit about Thanksgiving, though, and that's fine with me. Babies continue to be birthed, waves continue to roll toward shorelines, and my 1998 Toyota Siena minivan continues to guzzle coolant like someone I know guzzled dry reisling before having a few fateful words with their newly-estranged uncle. Oops!

And surfboards! Surfboards are dreamed-up, fantasized about, laden with impossible hopes and dreams, belabored, ordered, anticipated, then finally received in a ritual as complex as the holiday itself. The following is a journey of two fresh boards--one for Mike and one for Kelsey--delivered, surfed, and toasted during our recent Thanksgiving pilgrimage to SanO.

1. The reveal: 7'6" quad egg and 9'4" log.

2. The First Wax. Child labor makes the process faster, though much more likely to get wax in places where wax doesn't go, Like on the bottom. Or on fins. Or in finboxes. Tough call.

3. The Kicking-of-the-Tires: gonna be a good noserider! My 2yr old channeling George Greenough's hair.

4. The Hero Shot.

5. The Locating-of-the-Sweet-Spot.

6. The Staying-Out-Until-Near-Dark-and-Trading-Boards-and-Experiencing-General-Euphoria.

The seasonal spirit more than made up for the I5 traffic, though I have to admit the first spirit I hit after twelve hours of driving was a wee bit of the Talisker 10yr--another reason to give thanks.

As Artie from the Larry Sanders said of Talisker 10, "one day you will die and go to heaven. When you enter the pearly gates and meet God for the first time you will say 'hello' and he will say 'hello' back. When he does, this is what you will smell on his breath."

In my dreams God also has a post-sess saltwater nasal drip going, some serious surf hair, and a smile that says my secret spot is snapping, and I'm in a giving mood. That's an idea of heaven I could really get behind.

Thanks for reading, and hope you had a great holiday.

The Perfect Storms

Who was it that said, "I love it when a plan comes together"? Hamlet?
FDR?
B.A. Baracus?
No matter, the enduring aspect of a quote isn't the first person to speak it, but the latest person to speak it. Up here, it's got to be Northcoast shredster Shawn, who just got this:
And along comes this:
And this!
Up here NotB, we have a name for this trifecta of stoke: The No Fu@#ing Way, or the NFW.
In Shawn's case, it would be uttered slowly, almost breathlessly, with emphasis on the final syllable.
Other instances the NFW could be employed are when the wife/girlfriend tests positive for impending daddydom--correct pronunciation in this instance would be long pauses between each word accompanied by a wide-eyed stare into the distance.
Or, a macking set on the horizon with you in exactly the wrong spot. In this specific case, there is no preferred pronunciation--elocution will be specific to the size of approaching set, quality of the utterer's wetsuit, and one's personal prediliction for being held down in the dark, dark, cold, deep for extended moments.
Hope you score some.

New Yeller

A typical conversation with Unde starts with some stoked screaming. “Yeeeuuuuuwwww, Murray!” he’ll belt into the phone, Rhode Island accent unmistakable through the slurry of vowels. Sometimes the exchange won’t progress any futher. There’ll be a click and a dead line and you’re left wondering if Unde got shacked bodysurfing Ruggles, or if Unde scored a new pair of Birdwell trunks, or maybe he just pulled some hapless, waterlogged tourist out of Narragansett Bay. Sometimes there’ll be follow up—Unde will be on a new aquatic trip and will want to share. Taco Bell tray sliding. Prone surfing in a flowered Esther Williams swim cap. A new Van Duyne rowing surf boat to play with once the lifesaving season is over.
True Unde Story #1. I knew Unde for two years before I discovered he had a real name: Jimi.
True Unde Story #2. When Unde lived, taught, and shredded in Japan, his students called him Pantsu which, I believe, means Undies in Japanese.
True Unde Story #3. Unde loves the ocean more than anyone I’ve ever met. East Coast. West Coast. Whatever.
This latest of Unde’s aquatic schralp machines measures in at 7’2 x thick x wide. Leslie lay down a beautiful classic yellow tint with matching deck patch inlay. Dark brown resin pinline to match the cedar stringer. This five fin-boxed egg is designed for anything Unde cares to paddle into. Which is just about everything.
Unde: more stoked than my one-year-old about a grasshopper. Pretty much sums it up.

The Golden Load

The opening lines to William Blake's To Autumn read:
O Autumn, laden with fruit and stained
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
Beneath my shady roof.
Sounds familiar to those of up here NotB: we've got fruit in gross abundance, we're up to our nips in grapes, and we'd like nothing more than autumn to park her lush keester under our roofs for a while and end our run of uninspiring windswell.
This autumn's bounty includes Paul's new golden 8' Broadsword pintail, just about ripe and ready for some steep Northcoast beachbreak.
Blake was regarded by many, incuding himself, as nuts. He concludes his poem with autumn rising, dusting off his boots, then:
o'er the bleak hills fled from our sight;
but left his golden load.
It is precisely because of these last lines that I no longer give this poem to high school students.

Love's Labour's Gained

National holidays always give me pause. First of all, it's unsettling to have garbage pickup on Tuesday instead of Monday.
Second, holidays have a tendency to nag us with the message to think of others instead of ourselves. Who needs it?
Finally, a day off pretty much guarantees horrendous surf conditions.
But each of these dark clouds have their silver linings and Labor Day, unlike other holidays that wrack me with guilt as I pour lukewarm Tecates down my gizzard like they were the elixir of life itself, is designed for selfishness. What's not to love? Labor Day celebrates us, the American worker, just as we are.
It's an interesting choice to give us the day off to celebrate work, but whatever--we're supposed to drink cheap beer and let the littler ones run around with the bigger ones until their shapes are hard to distinguish in the waning light of evening. We're supposed to slap at mosquitoes or marvel at fireflies or vaguely wonder where our sweatshirts or spouses or dogs are as we stand around a bbq grill or sit around a fire pit or, if we're really lucky, stare into the gently pulsing embers as a beach bonfire fades into the fog.
All this because of American labor and all it stands for.
And up here North of the Bridge, it still stands for something. This 6'4 Lil' Pill, e-winged, cedar stringered, built for speed, inspired by the Campbell Brothers, and finned with bamboo was designed, shaped, glassed, finned, sanded, and polished by two people.
Four hands.
A singular desire to build something good.
It is also colored with resin in Laphroaig-bottle green.
My neighborhood sports a genuine old school steakhouse with a mind-boggling, wallet-draining single malt scotch menu. Surfboard building business has been conducted there through the years, and single malts have been sampled, extoled, heralded, cursed the next morning. The language of Scotland's chief export occasionally makes its way onto order cards: highland butterscotch opaque; Speyside honey tint; Lagavulin 16yr old yellow.
After a recent evening lush with liquid peat, smoke, and brine, the words Laphroaig-bottle green were jotted down. Leslie called soon thereafter.
"What the hell does that mean?" She demanded by way of introduction.
I directed her toward the Google.
"Got it," she said. "You could have just written pine, but--"and this was one of those moments that made the weekly hours-long drive to her glassing studio all the more worth it, "I'm glad you didn't."
Hope you had a great day.

Of MiniLongboards, Minivans, and Mail

Aloha Amigos, the Postal Service may rest on Sundays, but HHG does not. This is why the last Sunday of every month is Full Disclosure Day, where I fling wide the doors to the HHG inbox to allow you, faithful reader, a glimpse into the innerworkings of a machine so complex, so forceful, that Newton's Second and Third Laws barely apply.
I also give you boardporn. Like this 8'0 Broadsword which may or may not be headed to Hawaii in the near future.
Onto the first letter!
Dear HHG,
Last week my boyfriend of six years bought a pair of Crocs, which he now wears all the time. When I asked him where he got such a dumb idea, he cited a blog post where you claimed, “real watermen wear Crocs.” Not cool, brah.
Croc Blocker

Dear Croc Blocker, anyone who disparages Crocs should immediately be strapped to a carseat and forced by a three-year-old girl to listen to "Micheal Row The Boat Ashore" on repeat for, like, ten straight hours. Wait, that's my current life, but still.
The same applies to those ridiculing minivans, midlength surfboards, or sleeping in boardshorts when you don’t ‘have’ to. It is open season, however, on those allowing 'brah' to sneak into their correspendence.
Full board 'honey' tint with a chocolate resin pinline. Delicious.
Onto the next letter!
Dear HHG,
In recent posts, I’ve seen a sprinkling of what looks like a white powder on some of the surfboards on your blog. Is there dust on your lens, or should we be concerned? Mom's already called twice.
Also, you owe me $22 for pizza.
Love, L____.

Dear Big Sis,
That white powder is, in fact, foam dust, which has the interesting distinction of getting everywhere. As I write this, there are foamdust footprints on the living room carpet, there is a fine mist of foam in the laundry room where I shake out my shaping duds, and even, inexplicably, in my undies. The minivan is the worst, as it looks either like a box of powdered donuts exploded into its rich, carpeted 1996 interior, or like it was recently used as a setpiece in a Miami Vice episode.
A $20 dollar check is in the mail. I’m keeping the $2 as recompense for the googlie-eyed stickers you jacked from me in first grade.
Dear HHG,
My buddy just got back from an Alaskan fishing trip, and his freezer is rumored to be packed with over 200lbs of halibut. How can I subtly ask him to share the wealth without getting my ass kicked?
Haliburgular

Haliburgular, if we are thinking of the same dude, it’s no use to ask. There is only action. It’s quite possible that this dude’s family is usually at the park around 11am on Saturdays. It is also quite possible that the unlocked freezer sits patiently, innocently, in a garage whose key code may or may not be 2225. It has also been reported that said bro’s dog can be pacified with beef jerky and a dirty tennis ball.
Remember: you didn’t hear this from me.
Also remember: Fish Taco Tuesdays. I’m coming over.

And with that, I will close tight the inbox until next time.

The Latest

Over here at HeadHighGlassy we like to keep things light—a quick shot of handcrafted boardporn, and perhaps a few musings on our shared experience as surfers in the 21st century. However, for the last seven or eight weeks, I’ve been sick. Comically at times, but mostly not. Mostly sick in the way that saw my wife and I using vocabulary normally heard in bad medical dramas. Sick in the way that that last week’s lab technician grimaced when she saw the constellation of blood-test punctures dotting my arms. Sick in the way that, over time, the radiologist running the cat-scanner and I learned each other’s work schedules, favorite books, children’s soccer achievements.
As I regain health, I’d love to pen a flip account of my last two months—ending with But Boards Must Go On!—were it not for the fact that I can recall, exactly, how terrifying it all was.
But it’s true, Boards Must Go On. The moon pushes and pulls, tides rise and fall. Pulses of energy gather into waves, hurl themselves at distant shores, reconstitute in different forms. For the briefest of interplanetary eye-blinks, some of us get to tap into that energy, and surfboards are a simple, ingenious way to do this. So while I’m humbled by many things lately—my wife and her infinite stores of patience and love, my mom’s homemade chicken pot pie, caregivers, viruses—I’m also thrilled to be harnessed by something larger than the self. To be a part of a community of weird, inspiring people who call or email or stop by to demand, in no uncertain terms, that their surfboard needs be met. Fortunately, they’re also patient, and this afternoon as I popped in the iBuds and stepped into the shaping bay for the first time in a month, I paused to feel this transference of energy. This live-wire scream of the planer, these grains of foam dust whirling through spider cracks of light, this unshakable throb of possibility. Health waxes, illness wanes. Boards are shaped. Handed over. Ridden. We are immersed, enslaved by joules and the law of conservation. Sometimes this doesn't work to our favor. Sometimes it does. And sometimes it just feels pretty fucking good.
Onto the boardporn!
Esteban's new double-wing quad stealth fish.
The stealth designation is given to any board that immediately goes into a board bag, is sneaked past any economically co-dependent members of the household, and is incorporated (with crossed fingers) into the existing quiver without mention or fanfare.
Although it's doubtful this one will escape notice, a man's gotta try.
As per usual, Leslie Anderson at Fatty Fiberglass makes the stuff pretty. All color, except the resin pinlines, done during the lamination. Badass.
I hope you are all well.

The Evil Eye

Hola amigos, I know it's been a long time since I rapped at ya, but the waters are not always head high and glassy over here at headhighglassy. I've spent much time recently in bed, and not in the good way. The days unravel like a ball of tired, dizzy yarn, punctuated by the occasional visit to the doc, who's getting closer to putting his finger on what exactly ails me, though I wouldn't recommend anyone put their finger on it, as it probably looks like this:
But boards must be dreamed of, then shaped, then glassed, then delivered. It is the wool that spins into yarn, the grain that feeds the sheep, the water that feeds the grain. It is the child who pulls on your pantleg and turns their sweet round face up to yours, the dog that circles at your feet, drops, and licks your ankle just once. I believe I have a fever. Onto the board porn!
This is Janna's new 8-something broadsword ordered for her somethingtieth birthday.
It has lots of fin options and an Evil Eye on the deck, so don't snake this nice lady if you see her shredding the waves of Northern California or Central Mexico.
Could be the fever, but did I mention Leslie reproduced this design IN RESIN?
Janna comes from a long line of waterpeople--Portuguese fishermen, to be exact--and this Evil Eye has protected them from drop-ins, kooks, and angry gods for generations. I'm going to stare it a little longer with the hope my virus will get exercised and head back into the deep and the dark from whence it came. Perhaps it will leave a little chicken soup and turn the heat up a bit on its way out...

The Little Pill

While not a new design, the Little Pill has undergone some refinements during the last few seasons. The outline has become sleeker, the foil more tuned in for better waves, and the entry rocker increased.
It's not a groveler, and will go well with south swells--lowtide reefbreak, beachbreak, or anywhere where speed and control are in high demand.
This one's a five finner with a light and snappy set of bamboo side fins by Marlin Bacon at 101Fin Co., but they work well as quads for a little extra oh my! sensation.
My preference du jour? 2+1 . Why? No idea, just feels good.
Know what feels bad? Holding a surfboard like this in a stiff breeze.
Insane resin work, as per usual, by Leslie Anderson at Fatty Fiberglass.
This Little Pill stands 6'5 1/4 x 21, and is up for grabs. Shoot me an email if you're interested. It should be taken several times a day with lots of water.

Father and Son

For a short time in third grade a secret admirer left celery in my locker. The individual sticks were neatly trimmed and placed in small sandwich bags. The first few offerings were anonymous, but later featured notes written in a girlie script.
Then my vegetable devotee began to get creative. Once, there were a few scratch-n-sniff stickers included. Another time a slender packet of ranch dressing accompanied the celery. A note read, “celery and ranch is cool!”
And for a brief time in the third grade, it was cool.
Until I learned that it was not Rachel Stein leaving me the celery, as I had hoped, but my sister. My mom made her do it out of fear that I wasn’t eating enough leafy greens.
What does this have to do with this 5’8 double-wing quad fish for Northcoast surf enthusiast David? Not a lot, other than to point out that it’s nice to have family looking out for us once in a while.
Accompanying David’s order was this 5'10, 80's inspired resinwork grom fish for his son.
Much cooler gift than a sweater.
Speaking of Father and Son, Cat Stevens penned a song under that title, converted to Islam, changed his name to Yusef Islam, ditched his music career, gave a sizable chunk of his fortune to humanitarian causes, sort of called for the death of Salmon Rushdie, then performed on The Colbert Report. In that order.
Just in case you’re keeping tabs.