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!
Numbers scare the hell out of me. Want an example? 300. Terrifying number. This is why I have a deep respect for Northcoast shredder and beard-growing enthusiast Chris, who chooses to remove numbers from his life entirely. Chris wanted a board, but didn’t concern himself with the details. Our conversation went like this: Me: What are you looking for? Chris: Shaper’s choice. Me: Glassing? Chris: Have at it. Me: (scrunching eyes with what-you-talkin’-‘bout-Willis-like suspicion) When do you need it? Chris: Whenever. With respect to Chris, I went for a shortish, wideish, thinnish little number that would like nothing more than a wave about yay-high--preferably with water temps hovering around just right.
It's a real pleasure working with guys like E from Up North. Open-minded, willing to put up with my more, um, obsessive board-building tendencies, and stoked out of his mind. He's also got a bitchin' Northcoast blog here that highlights stoke, fog, and his impressive photography skills. This Campbell Brothers inspired egg measures in at 6 1/2ish and features hand-foiled bamboo blades by 101 Fin Company's Marlin Bacon--just the right combination of snap and soul. Glassing (including fins, opaque bottom wrap and pinline) by Leslie Anderson, who once got drunk and told me she had a crush on Mitt Romney. This board is designed as an all 'rounder, but I predict that on the morning the first long-period NW of the season starts to show on the buoys, this little egg is going to creep into bed with E and begin to whisper...
Leslie called last week and told me to get my tucchus up to the Fattyshack. "You got a bunch of boards ready and they need to get off my racks," she said. "Including the War Pony." I had no idea what the hell the War Pony was, but Fatty works with some pretty gnarly chemicals and sometimes forgets her mask, so I let things slide. The next day found me at the 'shack, loading boards into the minivan. Leslie disappeared, and a moment later strange sounds began to emerge from her shop, quietly at first--mouth harp, whistling, the grunting of several men, and...pan flute? The music swelled and, right on cue, Leslie emerged with a board held over her head like some giant beast she had killed in the forest and was now bringing back to the village to save us from a long-endured hunger. (Press 'play' to help recreate scene)
A melody formed, led first by twangy guitar, but soon overtaken by voice and strings. Suddenly, I knew: the swelling score, the mix of instrumentation that made me want to grunt commands to a nervous looking woman--this could only be Morricone, maestro of the American West, creator of the sounds that launched Sergio Leone and Clint Eastwood into Spaghettidom! Leslie, the War Pony thrust aloft, freshly polished gloss coat glinting in the sun, marched toward me in perfect time with the snare drum. The music reached a crescendo. I felt joyous, triumphant, a little thirsty. I wanted to get in a gunfight, squint, chew on a thin stogie, command a child to fetch things for me, entrusting them with my most valuable belongings for I had learned to trust no adults. Then, the music stopped. "The War Pony," Leslie said, holding the board out for my inspection. It was a high performance fish I had dropped off a few weeks ago. "Why War Pony?" I asked. "Why not?" she asked, shrugging. Then added, "You staying for a beer?" So the War Pony left its stable and awaited pickup as an official Bedroomer (some boards you just can't leave in the shop), as pictured below. However, one evening the usually understanding and magnanimous Mrs. HHG caught me staring at a little too long at the War Pony, so back into the shop the War Pony went. p.s.--that purple carpet was here when we moved in.
On October 28th, 1954, the French grape-growing hamlet of Chateauneuf-du-Pape passed a law forbidding any type of cigare volant, or flying cigar, from landing in any vineyard. Article one of the decree states: the take-off, landing, and overhead flight of the aircraft known as flying saucers, or flying cigars, whatever their nationality, are prohibited in the territory of the commune. Up here in Northern California, the legislative vibe is a bit different from le commune, so no such law exists. This is fortunate for local surf enthusiast T, who is clearly stoked to introduce his new Cigare Volant to our chilly waters. Full board, Martian-green opaque resin work with a cigar band complete the aesthetics of the cigare theme. The bladed-out rails, single wing in the tail, and flexie fin provide the space-age engine. The obligatory rocker/foil check. If you see T squirting around on his Flying Cigar along the California coast, feel free to push him of and take it for a spin. He likes to share!
Enough jibba-jabba, here's a longboard for Bodega Bay surf enthusiast Mike. Mike is famously hard on his boards. Despite the hefty glass job on this 9'6" noseridin' special, I drew up a Bill of Longboard Rights upon order that looked something like this: I, Mike, hereby pledge to take care of this surfboard most beautifully glassed by Fatty. I promise not to leave it on the top of my car, uncovered, when I spontaneously decide to drive to Tahoe for the weekend. I promise not to paddle out at Bobo with my dog perched on the deck. I also give my word that I will not attempt any ding repairs, as I have proven to suck at this, and instead I assure that I will bring my freshly damaged board straight to an industry professional." The comp band is to prove that he's full of it when he claims a cheater five.
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.
