Redwood Tramps

Things were simpler back then, when hobos ruled the earth. There weren’t as many pressures to appear ‘clean’ or ‘hygienic’ or ‘nonthreatening to children’; Whiskers were encouraged, explored for crumbs, made pointy. Food fell into two categories: stew and whiskey. Often the stews featured whiskey.

And people looked you in the eye. Unless, of course, they were missing an eye and the other tended to wander. There was a lot of that. Perhaps because of the whiskey stew, which was really room-temperature turpentine in a metal bucket.

Anyway, surf transportation was better then, too. No namby-pamby googaws like 'wheels,' or 'a roof,' and the combination of a plein air handcar, turpentine poisoning, and scabies made for a refreshing trip to the coast.

And the waves!

The waves were at least 100 times better then!

Or maybe they were 100 times worse.

It's tough to say, really, as the hobos wrote their histories in charcoal on the insides of their lambswool vests, then either traded their vests for berserker tonics or ate them outright. Oh well.

Although these days the redwood hobos are almost extinct, a few still survive. The most notorious are the Northcoast’s AppleJack Gang. Neither handsome nor in possession of a remarkable mental acumen, the AppleJack Gang is known more for shredding single fin logs with oldschool style, flagrantly experimenting with midlengths, and mercilessly schralping teeny fishes and eggs, mostly while under the influence of their self-distilled namesake thirst quencher (pictured bolted to car).

A rare sighting indeed: the entirety of the AppleJack Gang (From left to right). Boxcar Brent Bafflegab, the Soup Slurper. Dogballs Dan Dogballs, the Man With the Cat-Like Testicles. Linty Jay McStinky, the Cotton Sock Enthusiast. Acrimonious Andy O'Feely, the Absquatulator (aka: Sir Francis Drank).

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.

Blues for Yous

I don’t really know what do to with this word: community (I also don’t know what to do with the word moist, though that’s for another time). It’s not a tricky one to define—from the Latin cum for together, and munus for a gift, literally translating to ‘a gift to be shared’—it’s just that the word’s spread a little thin.

We’ve heard the term Surf Community as many times as we’ve heard our other surf clichés of the moment (Kelly Slater is a ‘Freak of Nature,' as well as everything that comes out of Dave Rastavich’s mouth, such as the endlessly repeating commercial where he states, ‘I’ve been gifted the opportunity to not have a 9-5 job…’Gifted? Good Lord. He also abuses blessing, for which there is no excusing). So are we experiencingcommunity when we surf? It’s a ‘coming together’ for ‘gifts,’ but, as we know, most waves are actively and purposefully un-shared. And what if you have not only nothing in common, but different values entirely than those in the water with you? What if they're dicks, or disparage others, or applaud when Rick Perry boasts of 234 executions while he was governor of Texas? Does it negate the community experience, or is there a sub-community of surfers who have little regard for human life?

What about when we’re out of the water? If we’re not sharing waves, or coming together, are surfers still in any way a community? If not, why are we constantly being told that we are?

Sorry for so many questions on a Friday, people. My eldest started pre-school on Tuesday, and I've been vexed with thoughts of her fragility.

What if her peers look askance at her bowtie noodle lunch? What if she puts her hands into the class orange juice again? What if she's the kid with a booger sheet stashed in her desk? Today is Show and Tell, which I think should go well. Christ, I’m a mess.

What am I talking about again?

Oh yeah, ChrisTofurkeys new 7somethin Cigar Volant. The young buck’s chasing down a sandwich with the same intensity he applies to beard growing and shredding barefoot on leashless logs in Northen California beachbreak. Dude’s committed is what I’m saying.

How much more blueberry can it get?

None more blueberry.

Beachbreak

I love watching long period swells go from this:

To this:
Couldn't bring a board to the coast today, but hit it with the Lil' Ladies and managed to capture an air and a drop-knee on the same wave. Makes a dad proud.

Lids

Hats are a fast and dirty way to make a statement.
A properly selected headpiece can announce, "I support an elitist class system that's outlived whatever claims to relevancy it once purported! " (see this summer's Royal Wedding), or, "I'm not smart!" (see all seasons of Jersey Shore).
This sturdy gem, however, is different. It claims, "I haven't washed my parking lot changing towel in a long time and I don't give a damn."
It warns, "if you're riding a popout, you best be on purple-nurple high alert."
It quietly shouts, "I'm gonna have another Tecate, them I'm gonna think about having another Tecate."
As the latest of my ill-advised forays into merchandise, I present to you the corduroy hat.
It's not impregnated with stretchy shit. It will not wick moisture or make your biceps look huge, and it's not silky-smooth-like-butter right out of the box. Do you have other people chew your food for you, for chrissake?
Hell no, because you're a do-er, and you're not afraid to break in a new pair of Carhartt's, or Levi's 501s, or a friggin' bronco.
And this baby blue bronc requires some breaking in, a little manhandling, and a lot of days on the range before it accepts you as its superior. It wasn't washed with cobblestones, massaged by authentic villagers, or 'distressed' by whatever it is that distresses things.
It was sewn up by snow-and-surf shredder/limited-run lidmaker Tommie at Dedicate in Jackson, Wyoming. We're only doing a few.
What your hat will say is, "I'm not trifled by wide-wale corduroy and, yes, I do know that corduroy is translated from the French cord-de-roi, or clothes of the king. Did you know that badass is French for what's perched on my head?" That'll show 'em.
Because you know that a good thing requires some real work, but once it's broken in, it's all yours.
Unless, of course, someone steals it. Then it's theirs. That's what you get for letting someone steal your hat, dummy.
Email me if you're interested in one. headhighglassy@gmail.com
$25 should do it.

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.

The Writing on the Wall

Amen.