East Coast Dispatch--the Epilogue

Every summer sees the whirlwind HHG East Coast tour of New England states, Cape Cod beaches, grandparents, old friends, humidity, mosquitoes, ice cream, irrational liquor sales laws, and air conditioning. In the spirit of sharing, this trip’s lack of surfables has given me a moment to create a coastal New England socio-linguistic primer for those lucky enough to be planning a visit. Anchors away!
1. Appearance. The typical vacationing New Englander dresses blissfully free of irony. We knew we’d be seeing a lot of khaki during our visit, but the variety and sheer volume is what impresses us most. Green khakis. Yellow khakis. Khakis with embroidered whales, khaki skirts, hats, and an unconfirmed sighting (by Mrs. HHG) of a khaki beach blanket.
Below, my father demonstrates the typical accoutrement. Every summer he reaches deep into the suitcase, pulls out this getup, and sports it proudly for the duration of our stay. “When in Rome,” he says when asked about it, grinning. I’m pretty sure my mom makes sure it doesn’t see the light of day for the next eleven months. Let me talk you through it:
Faded Nantucket Red hat, crisp solid-colored polo shirt, well-worn khakis suspended by a sportfish-embroidered belt. Classic. What you don’t see: Boatshoes. No socks. Does it get any better?
2. Language. Often mocked, broadly misunderstood, seldom appreciated. The geography of New England is distinctly variegated—hills, valleys, rivers, snow piles, forests. It leads to not one, but hundreds of regional accents. A typical coastal New England observation about swimming conditions can offer endless variation. If the speaker is visiting from Boston, it may sound like, “This wahtah’s wickitt whumm,” whereas a Long Islander may posit, “Hey, this shit’s freakin’ hwaht,” while a Marylander might speculate , “they got crabs in this wutter, huh-wun?”
Each variation presents a host of invaluable anthroplogical data.
3. Fishing. It’s solid. As per tradition, 10th generation Cape Cod waterman Capt. Kenny Eldredge got Team HHG into some bluefish and striped bass (stripahs). Also as per tradition, Mrs. HHG spanked everone else on the boat, going as far as pulling up two fish at once—a bass and a blue on the same rig. Who said we can’t all get along?
This is what happens to good stripers from Nantucket Sound.
Stoked to get back to the left coast in a few days and crack into a fresh stack of foam!

Pig in a Shiny Blanket

The widepoint aft, narrow-nosed, rolled-bottom Pig got its name from cowboyin' enthusiast Dale Velzy, who likened its image to that of a pig when viewed from horseback. It's a time-enduring design, and a valid approach to Northcoast surfing.
Unlike the coastline south of Point Conception, the water up here goes from very deep to very shallow without much inbetween. Longboard design elements tend to focus more on controlling speed rather than generating it, especially during the takeoff and bottom turn, and the Pig does this quite well.
It's pulled-in nose adds some curve to the planshape, and fits into a steep curl more decisively. The rear widepoint is an excellent command center, and, in addition to getting into the wave earlier, sets an authoritative line when combined with the 'D' fin and bottom curves.
This particular model is the product of an ongoing effort with Leslie to squeeze the square peg of the design into the round hole of our Northcoast waves. She wrapped this pig into a classy volan blanket, glassed on the fin so skillfully foiled by the good folks at Rainbow Fin Co., lay down a matching resin deck pinline, then polished her up good.
Speaking of coasts, I'm on the east one right now. Did you know that sometimes in New England you have to use your car's A/C at night? I shit you not.

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.

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.

Ate-Oh

8' Broadsword.
Caramel resin tint and chocolate resin pinline by Leslie Anderson.
2+1 fin setup.
Rounded pintail.
This board sports a logo that's been unemployed for about a decade. For some reason, Fatty had one hanging around her shop and thought it was a match. If you see someone on a board with this brand, you might want to distance yourself. My early clients were, um, spirited. And by that I mean unattractive, drunk, and prone to slothfulness.
They also tended to favor the stinkbug, which should be noted was a personal choice rather than a comment on the design or craftsmanship.

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...