Saturday, January 13, 2007


~photo by holddown

E WIND 5 TO 10 KT.

~Rare sighting of specie "brohamptus sooloodropsis" off the Chief Kiawanda Rock...

~The following was a compilation (with unsolicited additions) that a few posters on the OSP collaborated to put together a long while back...I can't remember who, if it was you...let me know.

It was a gray, rainy day…the waves were cold and lonely. The bearded Grizzly Adams[TM]-esque local scowled as I parked my Rangerover[TM] Deluxe Edition next to his rusted out ’79 Toyota Tercel[TM] in the cobbled lot. I was struck by the lack of sweet surf stickers on his Tercel. My Rover was plastered with them…I mean, I had them all; Hurley[TM], Billabong[TM], Reef[TM], O’Neill[TM], RipCurl[TM], Quiksilver[TM], Rusty[TM] and a sweet new Hollister[TM] that I had picked up at the valley mall yesterday. I thought to myself, "Game On, Bitch!", as I carefully exited the ‘Rover, avoiding soiling my brand new Ugg[TM] boots in the plentiful deposits of dog (I think?) poo. The locals, nor their canine friends, clearly did not cherish the beauty of their pristine break as much as I. I resolved, then and there, to leave this place cleaner than when I arrived. I secured Rell, my Labradoodle[TM], in her Cani-Kennel[TM] and sauntered towards the angry, scowling ruffian to see if we could begin a positive dialogue.

As I approached him, he seemed to take an almost offensive notice of me. His glare grew colder and menacing as I smiled and offered him my “Lance Armstrong braceleted[TM]” hand to shake. A gesture he did not accept. “Waves are totally sick today…yah, mon” I said, squatting down VC stylee. He looked down at me like a bug, and turned away. Unaffected by his negative energy, I stand, pulling off my Gargoyle[TM] wraparound SG’s and offer up "Sure is, like, so much better than being in the office, huh bruddah?" I looked at him. He silently stood there, unresponsive and aloof, leaning on his car, staring at the ocean, smoking what appeared to be a hand rolled cigarette[TM] with an unusual pungent odor. Did this dude even speak English? I began to wonder.

I had noticed several cig butts lying about on the ground around where we were stood. I recalled having seen an empty Folgers[TM] coffee can lying on the other side of my vehicle. Without even trying to explain my plan, I went back, picked up the can, put a couple handfuls of sand in it and returned to where I had stood earlier, next to the grizzled local that had yet to warm to my presence. It was quite a shock, but upon offering him the butt can to use and even after I took the time to pick up all the other butts and deposit them into the can, that he stubbed his smoke out and poured the contents, butts and all, on top of my head…completely dirtying my Oregon Surf Page[TM] beanie. What a jerk!

The sand, ashes and last burning embers filtered their way down the back of my Quicksilver[TM] hoodie, coming dangerously close to penetrating the waistband of my favorite vintage corduroy Ocean Pacific[TM] pants. My first instinct was to unleash upon him the ferocity of my limited, but effective, Tae Bo[TM] martial arts skills mastered by having witnessed countless pay per view UFC[TM] matches at my Tri Delta[TM] frat house. Had the debris marred my unsullied Uggs[TM], I surely would have. Instead, I silently headed back to my ‘Rover, selected the appropriate board (for the reeling left point-break conditions) from my Da Kine[TM] board bag off my Thule[TM] rack-mounted (fins back) mobile quiver, and suited up in my neon 6-5-4 to let my surfing do the talking.

Instinctively, I kept my head high and back arched as I jogged across the cobbled shoreline, skillfully avoiding pointy rocks, medical wastes and amoebic, rotting jellyfish. I only slipped once or twice. My bearded antagonist, whose regular visits and mastery of the break apparently entitled him to local status (Why hadn't I seen him the 2 times I'd been here?), acknowledged another unkempt individual briefly. Was uber-loc even there to surf? I now wondered why the old kook was looking south across the rock strewn shore. I followed his gaze over to an enormous driftwood log that had scrawled across it “IF YOU DON’T LIVE HERE DON’T SURF HERE”. Nice use of punctuation, I laughed to myself.

I snapped on the hood of my brand new, never before worn, custom colored, fuchsia & mauve wintersuit, a brand new state of the art Body Love[TM], which upon the back of were solar panels that heated during sessions, it’s raised Sunshield[TM] bumps made others laugh and had earned me the unfortunate nickname of “Wart”, but those trad losers simply hadn’t jumped into the world of nanotech like I had, their loss. I noticed that four other beater cars had pulled up and parked in the graveled lot. The drivers exited their vehicles, all of them seemed to know the bearded guy pretty well, handing him Coors Light [TM], sharing laughs and more cheap hand rolled cigarettes while looking in my direction. Their apparent envy of me was pathetic and obvious. I was amazed; here they were, drinking domestic beer early in the morning while others are just having their first Starbucks[TM] Latte! I realized that they must all be unemployed and so depressed that they can't do anything but drink and pop Zoloft[TM]. How sad.

Pulling on my Hurley[TM] boardshorts and my neon pink Reef[TM] rashguard over my wetsuit, I grab my brand new underground Surftech[TM] custom longboard with Protek skegs[TM] with an orange resin swirl, I realize that I hadn’t brought any SexWax[TM] with me. Bogus! So I walk over to the group of men drinking beer and laughing, and politely ask if I can borrow some wax and, hopefully, some base coat. No one responds, so I ask again. It seems that they don't even hear me, so I ask again. After about the fifth time I mention that I need to borrow some wax one of the guys walks over to my board. I wonder if he is going to wax my board for me or what. Instead, he picks it up and throws it onto the rocks.

Rather than letting this ruin my stoke, I stealthily slip my electronic key fob inside the bumper. I, of course, knew that this was the safe thing to do as only bro's knew of this hiding place, and no bro had ever divulged this to dirtbags who ripped off cars. I walked calmly over to my rock-tossed board, checked it for dings and tucked it away under my arm. Luckily, the LB Nose-Guard[TM] had prevented any serious damage. The longboard under my arm was a knockoff of a legendary surfer from the '70s, Whitenose Kauffman. Whitey was a notorious North Shore haole/local, who inflicted random judgments on visitors to the islands based largely upon the hangover he woke up with each day! After a few stints in Betty Ford[TM] rehab, he reformed himself. Then, after a niche autobiography that exposed the drug, alcohol and sexual appetites of the surfing elite, he had quickly relocated to the mainland. His label was now guest-shaped in the Cascade foothills and brought in steady and lucrative cash that was a great way to show the IRS[TM] his legitimate side...

Launching into the roiling shorebreak, I paddled towards the horizon filled with pride and enthusiasm. Although forced repeatedly to ditch my board as the sets roll through, I am only energized by these 3 foot walls of pure adrenaline and terror. Feeling very Johnny Utah[TM], I glanced back to witness some of the locals up close as I tried to reel in my tombstoning stick. Unfortunately, I cannot hear their support or advice that they are calling out to me because of my ear plugs and the Gath[TM] helmet w/ MP3 player that I am wearing. The Gath[TM] comes in handy as I am ragdolled across the cobbles within 10 yards of the shore. Only my Lost[TM] kook cord saves the day.

After several necessary and unavoidable board ditches and near death experiences I finally scratch over the top of the outside sets and work my way out to the line up. I set myself up, scanning for the next death bomb to roll through. I sense that some of the less skilled wave riders are upset because I've "cut in line", but they've already caught several and I spent much of my morning just trying to get out here. I hoot loudly as an all-black clad rider drops in on a wave I barely miss. As I struggle to reach the shoulder of the next wave, another surfer almost hits me! If I didn’t know better I would almost wonder if it hadn’t been on purpose. As they paddle back out their muffled shouts seem to indicate displeasure. Oh well, I'm sure once they have a chance to witness my finesse and skill they'll understand. Ooops! I fell on that first wave, but no worries, I'll just set up for the next one.

One of the other bros is paddling up to me. He probably wants to give me a bit of friendly advice; unnecessary, but appreciated. Unfortunately, due to the helmet with MP3 player I cannot hear him. “Wait! What are you doing? What are you doing? Stop that! That hurts! Stop it! Stop it!” Suddenly, the Spex[tm] I was wearing are wrapped around my neck and the repetitive dunking made it difficult for the clearly agitated and selfish local to understand my explanations. Finally, the water bully let me go and paddled toward the biggest wave of the day, leaving me in the impact zone and about to meet the rocks only 30 feet away. As it crashed powerfully, the wave held me under for what seemed an eternity. The waves just keep coming and coming, pounding and pounding. After resurfacing only to be met with another approaching wave, I admit, I began to panic. I try to relax and follow the advice from my longboard start up book, but I can't. Each time I surface I have to spit more saltwater out of my mouth. I'm beginning to choke. I'm flail about, struggling mightily. Why won't anybody help me? Fortunately my prowess as a waterman pulled me through.

Surfacing, I confidently claimed the final set wave with a raised fist and a "Wooohooo" hoot. The gaggle of semi-intoxicated, ragamuffin locals looked on. Barely audible over the Starbucks (TM) Jack Johnson mix on my MP3 player were the cheers and whistles of said locals. The water was peppered with large splashes and odd “kerpluncks” all about me, strange marine phenomenon to be sure! After adjusting my helmet and scrambling back atop my prized “LB”. I noticed my nemesis, the bearded local, pointing in my direction and palming a coconut sized cobble. Obviously, I had broken the “locals only” barrier and proven myself in these perilous conditions. Yet I wondered what the stone symbolized? Perhaps, as only those few dedicated waterman such as myself, that have conquered and dominated an ocean so fierce, battling 5 to 6 foot conditions, massive 2 foot walls of whitewater, can understand the rush, exhilaration and the addiction that is the way of the surfer. It is at that moment... not a foot away, that I saw the rock.

The near miss and the depth charge “plunk” alarm me, as I recognize the local’s true intent. The bearded one’s rock is followed by veritable hail of cobbles as I frantically paddle up the point out of range, cheered only by my fellow watermen’s muffled encouragement and fist shaking. Sitting up, I notice that I am being swept further and further up the point. Despite my mighty efforts, I cannot make any progress against Neptune’s mighty pull. Exhausted, I surrender myself to my fate.

It's only then that I remembered the mini cell phone I have built into the helmet. Thank God my life partner programmed the Coast Guard’s[TM] phone number into it. After connecting to the closest station via SatPhone[TM], I'm able to give them my exact coordinates because of my mini GPS[TM] device. They're there in a few minutes, and a cage is lowered down to me and I crawl into it. I'm ordered to detach myself from my board. I do so only because I am now in the safety of the Coast Guard and no longer need to clinch on to the board for life. As I am hoisted from the water’s surface, I notice a young kid wade into the water and retrieve my board, without even getting his shorts wet.

I adjusted my Spex[TM] and thought how this episode would solidly put me in tight with the locals, especially “Beardman”. I couldn’t wait to get back to shore, get my board from that kid and get back out there with my buds. After Channel 8[TM] was done with my interview…I had wisely called the spot "the Point"[TM], to keep kooks away…I looked forward to the awe and respect I knew awaited me!

This near-death experience reminded me of how fortunate I am. Now, not only am I a full-fledged, core local with an amazingly full Machado[TM]-like head of hair and Laird[TM]-like chiseled jaw, but my celebrity status due to numerous local news interviews and an upcoming appearance on Good Day Oregon[TM] has had a serious impact on my status in "The Pearl”[TM]. I can no longer peruse the cheese rotunda at Whole Foods[TM] without being recognized. The doorman at our loft is besieged by autograph seekers. My agent is looking into some endorsement deals. Alec (my L.P.) and I have worked through our "issues" and have rekindled what we had before Jonathon’s tragedy. Jonathon was killed in a freak accident in the workplace. While creating an eleven foot end aisle display masterpiece, using only napkin rings and mimosa glasses at Crate & Barrel[TM], he erroneously elbowed one of the glasses and the entire structure collapsed, killing him instantly. But I digress. I can't wait to get back out to the “Point”, to retrieve my surfboard from the kind young man who so valiantly rescued it from the victory at sea conditions on that fateful day and to share a round of expensive microbrews with my new found friends. Maybe they'll fill me in on the secret handshake and provide me with a snappy nickname.

My return to the coast was a difficult one to say the least. My Rangerover[TM] and quiv had mysteriously disappeared and the local police seem curiously disinterested. However, after spending my last three dollars (I found them in my mom's "sock" drawer) at McDonalds[TM] proved to be fruitful. I ran into the handsome young bloke that rescued my long-lost board and he told me it was at his friend’s house... then walked away…I can’t understand why he didn’t give me directions? I hope I can find his friend soon, as my parents are leaving town and making me stay with Grandma in Minnesota for a few weeks…something about severed elk heads on the porch?

The point is reeling; the CG is in full effect. Soon as I get my board I am gonna pull into some sick waves. All my buddies in Burns can’t wait for the pics! Lates!


Gaz said...

Doc, I'm fairly certain that I managed to pen a few of those lines, they sound fairly familiar to the clanging that goes on in my skull.

I think that thread was in response to the unrelenting marketing of the experience that is surfing, and how difficult it is to get away from the labeling of an art form/sport.

What was cool about the thread and why I enjoy the OSP is that there was a great deal of commonality from the various posters.

While obviously tongue in cheek, the caricatures of townies/vals and locals resonate fairly well. It was fun to open the page and see who was skewered and where the story went from day to day.

Doc said...

I couldn't recall if it was you...
But I think there was alot of back and forth between you and finger maybe?
I think there was somebody else tossing in too...
I went back in the archives but it was long gone...

nmm said...

I believe the Rev contributed quite a bit to that thread....