Log

Yellow Longboard.
Red fin.

Noserides.

I Love Log

I Love Log.

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 Full Blood Princess

I've written before about Bedroomers--boards so elegant, so innocent, that to leave them in the holding pen (guest bedroom) with the other sticks awaiting pickup would be scandalous.
How can one, in good conscience, place a finely foiled, fragile-as-china displacement hull in the same rack with a mush-shredding gremmie thruster?
What ethical shaper can allow an outer bar gun, high-polished and sleek as a needle to share the same space as a brutish, wide-backed, sand-finish quad fish?
None that gives a damn, I say.
So, on occasion, one of the more enchanting products from the Fattyshack is moved into the bedroom where, if mood strikes, one might gaze upon its lines and be hastened toward an exquisite idyll.
Or until one's wife tells them to cut it out.
So imagine my surprise when, still feeling the effects of East Coast jet lag, I woke in the wee hours this morning to find the lovely Mrs. HHG not just contemplating, but dreamily trailing a few fingertips, along a rail of this full-tint glossy log from her side of the bed. Imagine the betrayal--yet the thrill!--that accompanies such a discovery.
Also try to imagine an intense need for an egg sandwich on sourdough, which is what finally pulled me from the throes of this unanticipated spectacle.
Anyway, this model--a 9'6 Squareback--is designed for the soft and the cruisy up here on the Northcoast. She's headed to 2 Mile Surf Shop in Bobo, where she will hopefully find a good home with a tip-riding enthusiast. And while we're hoping, let's hope Drew and the boys keep her separated from some of the more nefarious shapes I've seen lurking on their racks.

Giant Shoulders

Sometimes it takes an entire village to do an important thing, like raise a child, or battle zombies, or hire samurai to defend itself from thieves.
Bringing a surfboard to life is not that dissimilar--often its design is a collaboration between surfer and shaper, between past and present, wave and waverider. The builder draws from a lineage of specialists, coaxes that knowledge and experience into a form and, if lucky, gets to contribute a stitch or two to the ever-evolving tapestry of surfboard making.
This 9'7" single fin log is a product of such an effort. Although only four hands ever touched this board during its creation, it is the result of the work of many, none the least of Mr. G. Cooper, whose guidance was as generous as it was mind-blowingly cool.
His old partner in crime, Ms. L. Anderson, then had her way with it, showing us kids how it's done.
The board is for The New Guy, journeyman surfer and Econoline van enthusiast, who recently arrived on our tiny stretch of coast with a lofty set of log riding ideals and the skills to back them up. He had a board order in before the silverware was even unpacked.
He, too, will stand on the shoulders of the traditional longboard surfers that preceded him, drawing idea and inspiration, perhaps tickling their ears as he dangles ten toes over.
And the rest of us, we will begin to make out a faint murmer of voices, a shifting of bodies in their seats, a shout or two of surprise from the kids. More voices will be added until, amidst the din, someone else paddles out into the lineup, spins, and strokes into a rising pulse of energy . They will stand and track their hand along the green face of the wave, their fingers making trails of diamonds that will linger for a moment, then fade into the distance.

Old School Hi-Pro

Sally is a woman who knows what she wants. She lives with four huge dogs, makes her own sausage, and has little patience for smalltalk. I suspect she has roots in a Rocky Mountain state. Maybe even Alaska.
A few weeks ago she called to order a board.
"I want a log," she barked into the phone. "Ten feet long and wide as hell."
When asked about her most frequented surf spots, she ticked off a list that would make our most hardened, heavily-bearded northcoast hellmen pucker in fear. Real ugly stuff--top to bottom suckout dredgers, sharky rock pits, thick horror shows with freakish appendages.
"A log?" I asked.
"Yeah," she replied. "And make it old school. Rolled bottom, single fin, heavy as a mofo."
"You might have some problems carrying a really wide board," I offered.
"What do you care?"

The information-gathering process was no less thorny. When I inquired as to her weight, she replied, "Somewhere between zero and a freaking million." When I asked her what she wanted the board to do, she replied, "Everything I can't, I'm forty two years old for God's sake."
I was smitten.
Complex women have always held me in thrall. Their powers of vexation seem unlimited, their motivations hazy. Psychologists might speculate that these women are embodiments of my self critical nature. That I seek them out to deflate an ever-swelling ego. That I attempt to recreate a dynamic with my mother, a complex woman with a penchant for making delicious kugels.
I took on the project--what else could I do?

As is my custom, I emailed her a few snaps of the freshly-shaped board. She replied a week later (message sent at 3:23am) with the following message, perfect in its litigious ambiguity:
You bastard.
The postscript read: get a haircut.