Of Broadswords, Treehouses, Rum, and Poor Photography

Before.

After.

7'10 Broadsword for Brian, a local acolyte of shred, treehouses, and mindblowing single-malt rum.

Super rich coke-bottle green tint by the new guy at Almar. Fins courtesy of Rainbow Fin Co. Cedar stringer produced by the earth.

As a note of personal defense, even JP at Surfy Surfy, the guy who takes more pictures of surfboards than any other human being who has ever lived, admits it's hard to take pictures of surfboards.

Showerbeers Bronson

Last year I had a kid in class named Norbert. It was difficult for me to imagine an exhausted, overjoyed couple gazing down at the just-born, tiny naked ball of energy of their new baby boy and whispering Norbert...Norbert...Norbert...into his crackly pink ears.
We called him Bert, but still.

Same thing with new Sandwich Clubber Showerbeers Bonaparte. Whatever possessed the Bonapartes, flush with the excitement and stupor of childbirth, to gaze into their tiny boy's dark eyes and say Showerbeers, is not up to us to decide. Naming is every parent's right, but, unfortunately, they don't have to live a lifetime in the shoes of Norbert. Or Showerbeers. Or anyone named Richard that they insist on calling Dick.

Fortunately, Showerbeers has overcome this particular linguistic handicap, and has made those who know him proud. He finished law school without too much drama, has a healthy fan relationship with 80s cinematic masterpiece Cocktail, and is the proud new owner of a sweet new 8'6, rounded-pinnie Bronson.

Two-plus-one fin setup with a shreddy flexie in the middle, two-tone color lamination by the boys at Almar Glassworks, too-legit-to-quit Bronson radness.
If you note Showerbeers ripping his new sled in the greater Los Angeles area waters, or note this Bronson strapped to the roof of a diesel Bendzo in hot pursuit of a speeding ambulance, throw him a shaka!

Of Beards, Boards, and the Naming of Things

It would be a nailbiter if TofuChris and I had a beard-growing contest. My Scottish/Jewish heritage has me predisposed for both facial-hair density and uniform coverage, but Chris's lack of shame and humble grooming habits more than make up for the sparseness of his face bush.

9'4"

Plus, Chris pays little heed to the Full Beard Protocol, which clearly mandates beard-free faces between Memorial Day and Labor Day (similar to the Law-of-White-Pants for douches).
Beards aside, we figured it was time for Chris's signature model, mostly because he's been begging me for a 'signature model' for years, and I don't give a shit either way. We nailed the design, a high-pro noserider for  beachbreak shredding, but got stuck on the name.

In Genesis 2:19, Adam named all the animals in one big push. Impressive. We tried this with the help of a few IPAs, but came up with bupkis.
The obvious choice was the TofuChris model, but agreed this could isolate hysterics and meat eaters--my core constituencies.
I like keeping it simple, and offered Hi-Pro Beachbreak Noserider. Shot down.
Chris liked The Throatee, after his beard, which comes in low and hangs on dearly. Perhaps a bit close to the Neckbeard model by an industry leader in imported boards...

Names are central to identity and should be taken seriously. Scientists are keenly aware of this, which is why we have the Dumbo Octopus and the Dhole wild dog.
So I'm taking matters into my own hands and calling this hi-pro beachbreak noserider model the Helen Putnam, after Sonoma County teacher, mayor, and county supervisor. What a lady!
Plus, it's the name of the Ike's sandwich TofuChris is most likely to shred after one more punch on his Sandwich Card--avocado, breaded eggplant, cheddar, and french dressing, yo!

 It's business time.

Blue Bronson

Le Bleu Bronson for SF log enthusiast Erin, who convinced me to amend the Sandwich Club Charter to include a certain Outer Sunset bakery named after the Beastmaster that features perhaps the best breakfast sangie Team HHG has ever experienced.

Therefore, Sandwich Clubbers, the choice is now yours: a full sandwich card gets you either a ridiculously good Ike’s sandwich (no chips, for chrissake) up here in SoCo or, for you City shredders, an insane breakfast sandwich from ______________ (name withheld to preserve location’s reasonable line lengths), which is also endorsed by fine photographer and helmswoman of my Urban LadyShred team, Rebecca H.

Ladies always know where all the good breakfast eats are at!

Couplinches shy of 9ft, but designed to maximize the glide in typical Bronson style with more curves than a bucket of snakes.

Erin’s name means ‘Ireland,’ which is pretty fitting for a surfer—being surrounded by water and such.

Deep blue tint by Tony Mikus at Almar Glass Works in Santa Cruz. Polished by Tim the Polisher, who is a fine board builder, to boot.
That's the first time I've ever attached 'to boot' to a sentence--written or spoken.
Not convinced it works.

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.

You Are Here

You are in Mexico, and the water is warm.

Your eyebrows are crusty and you've surfed a lot today.

The waves are small and clean and a deep-afternoon gold.

Should you paddle out for a few more?

There is beer on the beach, but yes, you should paddle out for a few more.

You grab your 7’6” egg, not bothering to leash or wax. You stroke out to the lineup. The waves are small, clean, and a deep-afternoon gold. The water is warm and your eyebrows are crusty and you are in Mexico.

You spin and catch one. Early. You glide and swoop. You lean back. You step forward. You throw your arms over your head because you’re in Mexico and the water is warm and you’ve surfed a lot today.

There is beer on the beach, but you should paddle out for a few more. You stroke back out to the lineup on your 7’6 egg. You spin and catch and glide and swoop. You throw your arms over your head. You should paddle out for a few more. You are in Mexico, the water is warm, there is beer on the beach and the waves are small and clean and soon it will be dark.

Tastes of Summer

How much fun was last week (surf-wise)?

How great are Dark 'N Stormys?

How posed does this shaper-scoping-freshly-glassed-stick pic look?

Answer: it's only semi-posed. Posed in that I held a surfboard against an industrial backdrop while a picture was taken. Semi-posed in that the bulk of my attentions (which aren't that great to start with) were genuinely committed to not dropping this thing.

How great is Bud Light Lime?

Before you judge, amigos, let me recount a conversation that happened last week with one of my oldest and best friends who currently lives in Cleveland. It was 96 degrees in his house and it was nine o'clock. At night! And there was absolutely no hope of the temperature even reaching the low nineties during sleeping hours.

"How are you coping?" I asked.

"Well, there are some, um, things with lime that help take the edge off..."

"Like what?"

And he whispered the following three syllables which changed the shape of my summer (or really just the taste of the last week).

Bud Light Lime.

This man relayed this information is an artist. He has an advanced degree in Industrial Design. He hiked the entire expanse of the Appalachian Trail--some of it in Tevas. He's a Jew for god's sake!
So I did the only thing I could do: buy a twelver of BLL and have at it. Know what?
Magical.

And by that I mean Bud Light Lime magically transforms Bud Light into a greater version of itself--the version of itself that was nice to everyone in middle school, despite whatever was going on with their pores. The version that likes spending time with old people and other peoples' kids.

What, you ask, could be so different about the addition of a single word, a swart nub of a single syllable like lime? I ask you this: can you note the difference between awesome band Rush, and not awesome band Rush Limbaugh?

The addition of a single word.

Do you sense the relief of tension between Salmonella and Salmonella negative?

One word.

Billy Baldwin and Alec Baldwin?

A word substituted, but still.

Enough. Here's more surfboard.

Orange Egg

Does anyone remember the van with the external speakers in Robert Altman's (brilliant) Nashville? For some reason it was a highlight for me, as was seeing Elliott Gould in full 70s, gold-necklaced, hairy-chested glory. The van, a rolling audio advertisement for Hal Philip Walker's political ambitions, asks the question, "does Christmas smell like oranges to you?"
Well, for local wave-enthusiast Lucas, international shredder and dashing man about town, Christmas came a bit early this year, and it's definitely orange.
7' something egg, glassed with the lovely lady-hands of Leslie Anderson at Fatty Fiberglass. Lots of finboxes for lots of fin options.
Tight.

Bread in the Bone

Summer’s like renting a shitty house—it’s a little sketchy, you never fully unpack, the lease is strictly short term, and you’re always left wondering what happened to your money at the end of it.
On the positive side, you don’t really care when stuff breaks, catches on fire, or gets stolen by someone’s pervy shut-in cousin.
Last week saw a fun run of small surf up here North of the Bridge, with classic summer conditions: cool, foggy, and small peelers against a palate of gray water and sky. Pelicans, dolphins, and a whale or two were spotted cruising through lineups, and hoods—and, in one case, booties—were shed to welcome the warming water. It’s good to be back in California!
Foam was mowed, as well, including this 6’6 Lil’ Pill with an e-wing and five fin setup. Good for summer waves and beyond.
Damn, that's a terrible photo!
Still, you get the point--a little pulled in, a touch more rocker, a bit sleeker foil throughout.
Lots of fun stuff in the trunk.
Another terrible photo! This one's going to Leslie later this week for some laying on of hands, resin, and fiberglass. I've also seen her lay beers, glasses of wine, and bearded iguanas on surfboards. And corn snakes.
It's good to be back in California!

Smoked Egg

Hola Amigos, the next few weeks find my lovely family and me participating in our annual Screw-Up-Our-Kids'-Sleep-Schedules tour of the East Coast. Overall, things aren't much different over here. They have things called 'bagels,' that are really good. They also have something called 'humidity,' which is really bad. It is indeed a land of balance.

The greatest thing the EC is offering me right now is an air-conditioned room with 42" flatscreen upon which to watch World Cup soccer. Does it get any better? No need to respond.

What it doesn't have is my computer, with its HeadHighGlassy-ready gigabytes of fresh board porn. However, BrotherFromAnothaMutha Fred fired off these snaps of his new 7' something egg, which I pass on to you. Fressshhh!

Fatty always groans when she sees 'smoke tint' on an order card. 'Blah,' she says. 'Boring. Talk them into red.'

She always smiles when I pick them up, though.

When pressed, she can be made to admit that smoke tints are pretty bitchin'. This is all part of our process.

Check out those laps!

Lines Carved in Late Spring

Aloha Amigos, as we all know, spring is a time of change. Up here NOTB, the fierce Gulf of Alaska swells, exhausted from battering our shores, stagger back north to rest and reload. Our surf attention shifts to the south and, as our inland valleys heat up, fog grips our coastline. The winds are ceaseless, tearing in from the sea with the force and aggression of a pissed-off lover. It’s no coincidence the Furies in Roman Mythogy—the three goddesses of vengeance—appeared as a punishing, relentless wind that was born of the ocean. Even William Wordsworth (1770-1850), naturey-ist of Romantic poets, mentions the wind in his Lines Written in Early Spring:
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
Scholars seem to argue that this line is evidence that, to Wordsworth, nature has the capacity to feel, not just be. It experiences pleasure as it welcomes this most welcome season.
Surfers would probably call bullshit. The last two lines show the speaker forcing himself to understand pleasure, and they follow the word breezy. Clearly, Wordsworth’s spring finds him in a constant state of reminding himself, amidst spring’s furious winds, that the season is indeed lovely, that his allergies will clear up pronto, and it won’t be too long before things turn offshore, the water temp creeps up a few degrees, and glassy barrels abound like so much low-hanging fruit.
A bit much? Perhaps, but Wordsworth did spend a lot of time on the south east coast of England, and there isn’t any evidence to support that he didn’t select a surf-friendly wave-sled from among the planks of a wrecked steamship and shred some coldwater peelers…
Speaking of wavesleds!
8’6 cedar stringered Broadsword for Ft. Bragg George. George is a big guy, and I like shaping boards for big guys—they know what they want, and they can kick my ass. A winning combo that keeps me on my toes.
This is the smaller (8’0), blonder cousin to George’s board. It’s headed to Hawai’i after a brief tour of our chilly waters. Wish I was, too…
There is a family resemblance in the hindquarters.
Hopefully, you're finding wind-protected nooks to practice your craft. Take comfort in knowing that the furies will eventually loose their grip, the sands will turn their collective faces to the sun as they warm, and these winds, too, shall pass.

Twins

Ever since the first zygote divided into two separate embryos, humans have reserved special places in their rites and mythologies for twins.
The Igbo peoples of Nigeria saw twins as a curse, and would sacrifice them to the forest (as detailed in Chinua Achebe’s excellent novel Things Fall Apart).
The Navajo honor twins as descendants of the twin gods of sun and moon, believing that they will help restore order to the chaos of the world.
Americans like to stick a fake goatee on one of them and call them Evil.
Dr. Spock’s evil twin showed up in 1967, sporting the trademark Evil-Twin Beard.
Cartman's evil twin broke social boundaries, becoming the first elementary school kid with an Evil-Twin Beard to go prime time.
Surfers have our own preoccupacy with twins--twin fins, twin pins, Twinzers, the Hobgoods. Even our own Leslie Anderson isn't immune to their thrall, as evidenced by a pair of longboards that recently left her shop.
Jason's diamond tail log with 3/4" red cedar stringer seems to have shared some embryonic developing time with its twin below, blogged about here:
Both were shaped by hand in Sonoma county with smaller Northcoast waves in mind . Both feature single fin goodness, volan glasswork, and resin art by Leslie.
But what is perhaps most intriguing about twins is how they differ--which one is more popular with the ladies, which one is more fearless in the hockey rink, which one dances with their tongue out.
The differences in the above boards are equally intriguing—the bigass cedar stringer vs. the high density foam one, the diamond tail vs. the rounded pin, the clean shaven vs. the goateed one (one of these is not actually a design feature).
Although some may see one of the above boards as an evil incarnation of the other, I prefer the Navajo interpretation that twins are two parts of the same whole. That they, together, can separate the good from the evil, and order where before existed only chaos.
Or at least score us some waves when it’s head high or under.

The 6'10 Chronicles, and Literary Nerd Contest!

I love 6'10 rounded pintail season!

I also love weekends like these--'unseasonably' warm temps, a good swell in the water, and my lovely wife's experiments with Brussels sprouts and the perfect warm winter salad. Doesn't get much better unless, of course, you can factor in a lovely Fatty Fiberglass job.

Leslie couldn't resist putting her stamp on this one--a retro style Hastings blue tint, wrap, and deep red pinline on a thoroughly contemporary step-up shortboard. Local he-ripper Mr. M will be stoked.

Something old made new again, or maybe something new made old again.
ANNOUNCEMENT! I hereby declare the First Whenever-I-Feel-Like-It HeadHighGlassy Literary Nerd Contest. The first LitNerd who can tell me the name of the Junot Diaz short story where the line "something old made new again" is used to menacing effect wins a free Jamie Murray Custom Surfboards t-shirt (American Apparel, so you know it's schweet!).
Hint: the line is delivered by a man appropriately named Barbaro.

What's that? Are those 101 Fin Co. bamboo thrusters?
Another Announcement! 101 Fin Co. bamboo fins+ the Lokbox removable/adjustable fin system=insane.
Last Announcement! Come on out to the Toad in the Hole Pub in downtown Santa Rosa's Railroad Square (116 5th street) this Thursday night (Jan 15th) for their first monthly Surf Movie Night. This month features live music from the local surfabilly rockers Mr. December--upright bass and ukulele. I promised not to divulge the movie, but it's a good one, and, as always, the Guinness will be poured by an actual Irishman. Come on out!