California Gothic

K&N sped up from Points South, dropped off a delicious MacMurray Pinot Noir (no relation, though I have indisputable ties to this clan), picked up an 8’ Broadsword in EPS for her, a 6’something Lil’ Pill for him, and loaded them up before the cork was popped or sardines tossed onto a hot grill.
Rumor had them gobbling up south swell peelers in Santa Cruz before heading toward Point Conception, giggling as every surf forecast on the planet pointed to fun, solid surf headed their way.
Their dour expressions are just a quiet consideration of the merits of riding her board as a single fin, 2+1, or quad.

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.

Back to School

Spotted at my local beachbreak the other day. I may be wrong, but this doesn't seem like the best idea.

The Sword Also Rises

Christofuer, a serious devotee of trim and glide, likes to surf our chilly waters without a leash, booties, or concern for his person. And although he is patently opposed to razor blades and eating animals, he is clearly enthused about the idea of quiver expansion.
This 7’11” Broadsword should fit nicely into steep beachbreaky stuff that is ill-suited for traditional logs.
While hashing out ideas for the new stick, we discovered we’d both spent four years feeding our minds (and bodies, thanks to a shared, unrestrained passion for the school's frozen yogurt dispensers) at the same tiny Mid-Atlantic college. It's comforting to know I wasn't the only freshman with a surfboard stuffed into a Central Pennsylvania dorm closet during the Clinton years.
Christofuer catches more waves in an hour than I do in a month. I seriously considered jimmying the bottom contours to slow him down and create more waveriding opportunities for the rest of us.
Tailblock of yellowheart, bloodwood, and balsa. Foiling tailblocks smells a lot better than foiling foam.

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!

The Greymember

William Shakespeare didn't live in Northern California. If he had, his Sonnet 18, which compares his beloved to a summer's day, would have mentioned northwest winds, coastal fog, and dry riesling before 5pm. He redeems himself at the beginning of the third stanza, however, by introducing the concept of the 'eternal summer' inside us. He concludes the stanza with a reference to 'eternal lines' as well. Perhaps The Bard was a surfer after all...?
Anyway, stoked Bay Area shredder Dan has a plan for the eternal lines of summer: The Greymember.
The board stands a diminutive, yet fleshy 5'4" with a slimming dark cedar stringer and Member-specific keels.
The slate gray opaque reverse wrap (tapered!) reinforces the tombstone likeness, and just a hint of swallow tail keeps things lively in the back.
The "S" deck: meat where you want it, neat where you don't.
When I told Dan this was strictly a head high and under board, he said, "I'm gonna ride it in overhead Ocean Beach."
The kid's got moxie!

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!