Ode to an anticipatory surf report

Consistent surf has eluded much of the New York coast line over these days of autumn. There have been a few worthwhile days, like October 25, when in the morning it was slightly glassy, yet lumpy and not free of closeouts, before it cleaned up and peeled as the day progressed. (While most dudes weren't catching anything super that morning, and the current carried the lineup like an eastward conveyor belt, a handful of rippers were skilled enough to pull into full tubes and be spit out. Keep in mind that surf takes from this perspective embark from a vantage point of mediocrity. Here's hoping for enough good surf in the future to improve one's talent!) Overall, however, days offering ridable waves have been infrequent, unlike out West where swell can fill in over a course of several days or weeks. It's the East Coast, after all, so sustained swell isn't as much the norm as brief visits of random perfection.

Another such day is scheduled to arrive this Sunday. Surfline is predicting overhead surf throughout the day, with predominantly offshore winds in the 14-15 knot range. For those unfamiliar with the geography of Long Island's south shore, from its furthest corner west at Breezy Point extending eastward a few miles to Far Rockaway, land meets sea at a SSE slant and does so all the way to Montauk. The purely south facing Atlantic, Long, and Lido Beaches--and the more remote Robert Moses State Park--offer some surfing alternatives when the winds arrive from the north. For Sunday, however, the NNW winds are the ideal direction to hold up six-to-eight foot(+) wave faces at Rockaway and along the east end of the island. A forecast high of 60 degrees should remind all paddlers-out that this welcomed November window might soon be shut by seasonal frigidness. The following Monday is expected to be solid too, although with lesser size. (More my speed.)

I'll paraphrase a character from a story in Kimball Taylor's Return by Water, who said of the East Coast, in reply to the narrator's tails of many-turn-waves on an otherwise perfect day of Carolinian surf, "If you didn't get barreled, you didn't get it good." Sometimes, things come together nicely.

With that in mind, swimming a few laps--loosening the shoulders and back, practicing breath-holding--and dissecting clips of the pros getting covered up might be prudent measures of preparation. The clip below isn't purely tube time; it's Joel Parkinson's recap of the Rip Curl Pro Search in Paniche, Portugal. (Mick Fanning won and took the ASP title race to Hawaii!) However, the swell arrived in the latter portion of the contest to where heats became winnable only by getting shacked. Parko's oft white water and sand ensconcing barrels are helpful in prepping for this Sunday's projected conditions. The Search was held on a beach break similar to many of the Island's. So, watching Parko pull into the dumping waves alludes to what can be expected on this side of the Atlantic. And his bail on a double-overhead, Round 3 right-hander is a confidence booster (@ 3:19); even the pros get worked on bigger days.

Fingers crossed that Sunday's forecast is accurate--and that size and season keep lineups thin. If so, it could look a little some thing like this:

Joel Parkinson - Portugal WCT Wrap from Billabong on Vimeo.

Boots on the Ground

A wrinkled look at a fun afternoon on the periphery of Portland

One of the Northwest’s dominant traits stems from its cities’ relative proximity to no-man's land. A contrast to much of the East Coast’s gangly sprawl, remoteness is ascertained with ease in the upper left corner of the country.

Some 40 miles west of downtown, slicing through the Columbia River Gorge, extends the Eagle Creek Trail. The path quickly ascends a cliff not far from the parking lot; basalt ledges fall more than a hundred feet to one side while lanky cedars and maples sway and creak over head. Persistent moisture sustains an abundance of ferns. Color—green mostly—hardly seems in short supply in any direction. Owner of a moderate designation, the trail—beginning just off Exit 41 of Interstate 84—mirrors the creek for 4.2 miles until arriving at one of its many cascades, Punch Bowl Falls. (Those fleet of foot can carry on beyond Punch Bowl, where the terrain grows in difficulty and the distance reaches 13 miles before culminating at Tunnel Falls, where the lane meanders behind endless tumbling water.) Several portions are narrow, in which case, for some, the cable lines embedded into the rock faces are helpful.

During the summer months the crowds are obvious, but not all day. The two falls fill pools that maintain teeth chattering temperatures, so it’s best to toss yourself off one of the ledges when the sun is directly overhead—a time that varies daily. If not, the shade blatantly ignores even the hottest air filling the chasm to steal what little warmth remains.

Travelers looking to make a night of it can post up at the Eagle Creek Campground. The grounds, between the entrance off the old Columbia River Highway and the trail head, "built in 1915, [are] considered the first Forest Service campground constructed in the United States"—and the earliest to enjoy the luxury of flushing toilets. Which is nice. Other camps, Tenas Camp and the aptly named "7 1/2 Mile Camp," also lie farther into the woods.

Park fees apply, kiddy leashes recommended.

(*Image from Punch Bowl Falls. Map source linked.)

What crappy writing and the Portland food scene look like

Portland’s food scene can arouse frustration, especially if you find yourself exhausted from a day of venturing beyond the city limits, only to return with a stomach ready to eat itself. There is no shortage of bars and small restaurants on the streets of Portland; it’s variety and quality that suffer from low volume. Yet, a few notables exist—and provide a perfect reason to escape east, across the Willamette River.

Portland is a friendly place for the thirsty traveler: the types of beverages and places to consume them appear outnumbered only by the variety of hobos and frequency with which they ask for change. And when drinks are in supply, late night food will be in demand. The infamous Voodoo Doughnut on Third Street flaunts its twirling display rack of standard glazed donuts sharing a shelf with others topped with cereal, bacon, cheese, and the Nyquil Glazed and pepto-bismol (“currently on hold”). But given that the “product has a life expectancy of 8 [to] 12 hours,” and Voodoo is opened 24/7, the menu is anything but routine. Feeling romantic? Voodoo even does weddings; ministers sanction matrimonies beneath “the holy doughnut and a velvet painting of Isaac Hays or Kenny Rodgers (depending upon location).” [It’s Hayes, not Hays.]

Not much for the sweet tooth? Fret not. Although relatively removed on the east side of the city, no Portland late night can qualify as a success free of a Cartopia conclusion. A corner lot on Hawthorne and SE 12th Sts, this circle of food venders lends edibility to genius. Nowhere else can hipsters, drunkards, tourists, and transients share picnic tables in a parking lot surrounded by carts serving Mexican tortas and brisket, chicken potpies and hamburgers. It’s Portland’s most satisfying destination—a sentiment enhanced fully when visited at 4 a.m. Beware: cabs are scarce at that hour and the walk to the city is not brief.

Fire On The Mountain is the best wing joint in town. It’s myriad sauce selection—ranging from mild and flavorful to lip-scorching and eccentric—draws a crowd that quickly forms a line that snakes through the tables and beside the booths. It too is a hike from downtown, so hop a bike, catch the bus, or hail a cab across the Burnside Bridge to the right side of town.
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Note: This was originally a segment from a clip on Portland I was going to compose for Nat Geo Traveler’s blog, Intelligent Travel. I realized after returning that I had done nothing of remote interest to anyone but the crew of travelers with whom I went. IT blog is better than that. Thus it was scrapped—although I will post the recap on a worthwhile hike the story also included. Still, the info is useful—if you dig wings, Fire on the Mountain is a must—but the tone & style are nauseating. Evidently, the unimaginative, robotic writing I employed months ago while travel reporting can turn infectious, and borderline parasitic. It's why much of the content in most travel mags, especially the short departments, is lousy; it sounds like a fucking brochure even when being critical. Reproduction here shouldn’t suggest I’m proud of it, merely posting it for no other reason than I spent a morning in September writing it.

For greater depth and hilarity about the plight of the travel writer, check out Chuck--as in Thompson, author of "Smile When You're Lying: Confessions of a Rogue Travel Writer."

Robbed of victory?

How does losing your tricks affect your trade?

A quick rehash into the surfing realm. (Had a fun session Saturday, so it’s been full throttle in my head lately.)

A few weeks ago, just before the WCT contest in France, following the Trestles event the week prior, pro CJ Hobgood had his quiver of competition boards stolen from the pad where he was crashing. Unlike major sports where equipment costs are covered by teams, a lot of pro surfers still pay for boards with their own money. Sure, maybe they get deals, but they’re also burning through boards, keeping shapers like Bill Johnson and Tokoro busy. CJ asks one of his shapers in the video below, who’s on hand for whatever reason, how much he charges for boards as he shares with us surf bums what exactly went down. The guy says $300. Not exactly a pair of cleats.

I mention this because I was just traveling this here intraweb and visited the Hobgood’s blog, “The Goods Life.” The clips are funny and the surfing usually pro caliber; they have fun showing fans what life on dry land looks like for pro competitive surfing twin brothers. Entertaining every few weeks during a flat spell. (Very much flat, except for last Saturday, for weeks in New York.) Apparently, Ryan, this cat from San Diego, surfed with some dudes in Bali that were riding boards from CJ’s stash. He emailed the Hobgoods asking if they wanted him to say something. Ryan seemed to trust the story the dudes told him: that they bought them from a guy. "I found one of CJ’s boards, same airbrush and dimensions, and the guy admits that it’s CJ’s board that he bought off of someone shortly after the contest in France. I am staying in Bali and some French guy is staying here too with one of CJ’s boards," Ryan discovers. Always from a guy. Anyway, they posted the note online, for no obvious reason other than, perhaps, just thanking the dude publicly for being cool about helping CJ try to recover his boards. And from start to finish, on their site and in other quoted sources, CJ has been tremendously reasonable about the ordeal—some impressive perspective considering the inconvenience.

So, all that aside, when it gets down to it, how does that type of thing fuck up a guy’s surfing? Competitively, in this case. You have to do certain things on waves during heats you know will generate solid scores. You take the time to R&D an array of boards made by an array of hands. You find the right ones from the right guys, and you dial them to the point that the deck of the board becomes like a glove for your foot. And then, you step out of the chateau or some local home you’re renting, while competing in France, with family in tow, only to return to the scene of a crime. Your effort and money invested into the tools you need to earn an income are gone, with out a trace. Imagine a self-employed, trucking owner-operator. She wakes up one morning to realize she’d been driving for so long she forgot to sleep, but once she did, it was so deep that not even the firing up of her rig as it got jacked from outside her motel room was forceful enough to cause a toss or a turn.

That is a serious thing for a trucker and an athlete. And that all got me curious as to how his surfing, and approach to heats, has suffered, strengthened, or both. CJ was ranked in the top 5 at the time and has thus remained—#4 at the moment. What’s it been like to surf waves on unfamiliar setups; how does he position himself on the board when he’s paddling for a wave compared to those in the quiver he knew? Has his foot placement shuffled on carves and turns and airs? Has it affected his strategy in a heat; is he still confident enough to go on the waves he wants, first, or does he feel compelled to hang back and let his opponent take the first wave to judge how he has to surf on boards that aren’t his? Could it be that the boards he’s borrowed, bought, and since had shaped are actually better than the ones that got lifted? And if so, in what ways does that alter his agenda on tour? The pro contest in Mundaka/Sopelena on the northern coast of Basque country just ended today; CJ scored third place. Obviously, he's adapted, but what did it require?

Compelling. Would be cool to talk to these guys about that. (As well as the Irons brothers about the crisp million they got worked for by some swindling investment clown. Not entirely respectful of personal privacy, I concede, yet still fascinating story.)

Anybody else ever get boards stolen? For us lay folk, no doubt it really hurts in the wallet, and no doubt agitates our inner misanthrope. Message boards across the digital surfing world have notes from victims of surf theifdom. Always a dick move.

Regardless, CJ Hobgood—or anyone who’s friends with him—if you read this and feel compelled to respond, you’ll be guaranteed at least one interested listener. Would enjoy learning how such an odd and unlikely occurrence has affected your job. And also very much into what your riding now, and if there are any major deviations from the dimensions of the stolen boards. Are they different enough to have you reconsidering your go-to shapes? Will you get all 'Dane Reynolds / Kelly Slater' with your board selections?

See, so many questions. Total surf nerd doucheyness going on right now. But there’s an interesting story in the aftermath of getting robbed!

A side note

Watching Rachel Maddow, she's pretty fucking cool; her talking-head status is a simple occupation. She doesn't just spew. Maddow jumped into a daily recap of goings-on with her cut-the-shit, but in a polite way, delivery. Naturally, Obama's award was billed appropriately on top. She tore through a list of examples of past winners who hadn't accomplished a ton prior to being honored w/the Nobel. (I can't recite them; Herbet Hoover for his roll in the Treaty of Versailles, I think, and a German journalist who was cited while in prison for publicly opposing the Nazis. Others too.) She carried on, arguing that the award isn't always given reflexively, that sometimes people get it for pure effort, before rolling clips of Obama talking tough on disarmament and in support of prudent diplomacy from back in 2007 during the early part of his campaign. For these, he is too be applauded.

My beef, which is the point in the reply below, is not that his effort wasn't worth it. It's that for most of the time he's been in the spotlight, Obama's efforts have been mostly talk. And I don't mean that in a nitpicking way; he was just a candidate for longer than he's been president, so far, and has had less time to act. I voted for him because I believed he would, to an extent as can be expected for beltway politicians, work towards a better relationship with the world and decrease hostilities towards us while not undermining the country's interests. I still do. My beef is that he hasn't had enough time to exert the effort worthy of such distinction. And that seems to have weakened the prestige of the Nobel Peace Prize. A lot of folks in positions of power have made similar claims for a longer period of time, and attempted to extract results to a greater degree than Obama.

It's not that I think he doesn't deserve the award because he's the anti-Christ, like all those clowns shitting from their mouths about this, Chicago's failed Olympic bid, and the socialist cattle calls. He's an all right guy, he just needs to be a bit more active in proffering solutions to the world's so many problems. Talking is good, but it alone won't do. Regardless, he hasn't--that ain't changing. Now we should just hope that he uses what political capital the Nobel shares to execute his plans for a better place. That's all.

A reply to one take on Obama's Nobel victory

From Conde Nast's travel blog:

Every Traveler is a Peacenik --by Senior Consulting Editor Clive Irving

All of us who travel abroad are receptors for the world’s view of the United States. And we soon learn that the United States occupies a unique and difficult position in the world psyche. Whatever the economic malfeasances of our country, and whatever the burden of being branded a super power, we stand for something larger than any other nation. For all our faults, we remain that beacon of enlightenment, that distant shining light that arms hope and attracts wariness.

Over the last decade the editors of this magazine have heard from words spoken in many tongues that the United States had become insensitive- to say the least- to the complications of the world. That not only did we practice what was euphemistically called a “unilateral” foreign policy but that we seemed unheeding of the cultural and social loyalties of other lands. Most of all, it seemed, we failed to understand that not everybody wants to live as we do, as admirable as our lives may seem to us.

The real point was that our power to inspire the hopes of millions did not reside in the attractions of our material well-being or military muscle but in our commitment to being a true leader of world citizenship, in all its shades and beliefs and, particularly, in our commitment to social harmony and stewardship of the planet itself.

If we travelers learned one thing, ahead of many of our politicians, it was that power is defined by what you cannot do, not by what you can do.

Thus it is today that I celebrate the award of the Nobel Peace Prize to President Obama, who- it seems to me-was, long before he became President, a true receptor of other people’s views and a true observer of other people’s lives and struggles. Travel is a great educator. And our President is an educated traveler.
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While it's easy to agree that Obama is an educated traveler, this article fails to acknowledge that, while refreshing America's image abroad is welcomed—and indeed effective diplomacy—it's got nothing to do with efforts to combat turmoil with peace. Since when has something so passive as restoring a dilapidated reputation outweigh active strives to supplement tumult with harmony? Sure, Obama reversed Bush's Eastern Euro missile shield policy (still a defense pursuit that is furtively being continued in the northern reaches of Japan, or so someone who actually works there tells me). And, yes, he's been pushing for talks amongst Palestinians and Israelis, but that conflict has scoffed at even the best intentions, and more productive efforts and results than Obama has to show.

Alfred Nobel's will states that a portion of the award be bestowed to "the person who shall have done the most or the best work for fraternity between the nations and the abolition or reduction of standing armies and the formation and spreading of peace congresses." Obama's progress should be applauded, and his legitimate shortcomings thus far scrutinized. But given his success in the early states of his presidency, it seems there were more deserving candidates—ones who's strives to better this world by mitigating, within reason, a more targeted societal ailment would have benefited much more from the praise and press than a president who's good will is front page news merely because of the job he holds...and that his last name is not Bush.

Calling for nuclear disarmament is much different than actually accomplishing it; extending olive branches to foes like Iran is only a first step. Fomenting peace requires more than being a "true observer of other people’s lives and struggle." At some point, action is needed. And until he does something concrete, basing your celebration of his award on the merits of how warm and fuzzy he's made the world feel will convince nobody to join your party.

(Full disclosure: I voted for the President and support him when appropriate. But there are hundreds of folks out there who have done more meaningful work typifying the ideals the Nobel Peace Prize is intended to applaud.)

By: Me

Tones of Home, 2

Remnants of the country's prohibition still linger, despite the massiveness of the alcohol industry. Take for example, this odd ordinance:

It's illegal to drink beer out of a bucket while you're sitting on a curb in St. Louis.

Apparently, curbside boozing threatened the success of local saloons! And Missourians must have had an impressive penchant for heavy imbibing given that explicit decree against swindling the XXX from a bucket.

Beware, St Louis drinkers.

Tones of Home

About ten years ago, a random issue of Rolling Stone named Blind Melon as one of the worst bands is history, or something to that extent. Never has a publication lost a reader—of its music-related content only—in a faster time. We moved on, reconciled slightly. (RS political reporter Matt Taibbi remains all-time.) But the suspicion that the editors hadn’t listened, really, to the band seems to be impervious to expiration. If they had, they’d have come across a tune called “Tones of Home,” the title track of the band’s “Best Of...” that first appeared on their self-titled debut, as the album’s first single. But then came the Bee Girl, so “Tones” re-released to marginal fanfare. Anyway, Shannon Hoon died in 1995 and what minimal mainstream following they had soon did too. Now there’s just the obligatory coterie of diehards. (Mine hasn’t reached that degree of affection yet.)

My long-term girlfriend left today for roughly four weeks in St. Louis as part of her job. She works as a field producer on a TV show. Blind Melon came to mind as I thought of songs that sung to time spent at home while she's laboring in "The Show Me State."

St. Louis, eh? Shares legal boundaries with a university that has opted to honor its athletic tradition by applying “MIZZOU” on team jerseys that used to read “MISSOURRI.” Well, they have a hockey team that bread one of the best goal scorers to ever play in the NHL. (Brett Hull.) That’s cool. Otherwise, kind of a standard landlocked city.

But my lady is still in your grasp for the next month. The only cool reality this creates is nights of unshared sleep on a new mattress. And that’s a perk worth wagering. So after sending a text, the idea of a running commentary related to her time in St. Louis—and wholly intended to mitigate our time apart—came and stayed. What would it be called? Daily Dose of Home, the first name. Ahhh: Tones of Home. Why not give the song a listen? The lyrics a read? “All my friends patronize me, and they say yo hey boy!” Shannon Hoon soon crooned. “Have you found what you’re looking for?” I think I have, man. Hope you did. Although it’s unlikely we located similar things. But it sure sounded good—and thanks for the title.

Being in a relationship that involves periodic, above average bouts of separation, you quickly need to establish a connection, be it phone, email, text. In this case, we’ll do so via this space. Just a few notes pertaining St. Louis to reinforce the other connections. Ideally interesting, funny, and generally unusual things about the place. And, of course, a nod to New York, and also D.C. and maybe PA for old timey days.

Just a few tones of home.
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Oh, and Eero Saarinen was born in Finland in 1910 and died in the U.S. at the age of 51. He went to Yale, studied in Paris, and was an early fan of sculpture. Aside from being a pretty popular guy among architects for designing some cool shit, including, yep, St. L's Gateway Arch, he's remarkably unremarkable. There's a dearth of shady info about Saarinen. He must of suffered from either scandal deficiency or a secret-keeping overdose.
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Here it is, replete with typical-of-the-era lyrical anguish, standard guitar scales, a typical Blind Melon twisted bridge, odd harmonizing, and timeless awesomeness.

Ladies and gentlemen, an unexclusive performance by Blind Melon:

One last moment of enjoyment

Yeah, yeah, enough with the surfing already. It’s almost over…seriously.

Each stale office day is seasoned by Pandora, the online radio site that tailors its playlists (called “channels”) based on your preferences. It’s been around for a few years, and most people know about it. If not, come out of the dark. Jumping from channel to channel today, Angels & Airwaves’ “Secret Crowds” caught my attention. Was never a Blink fan, but this band’s sound is mildly unique and less teeny. “Secret” is also the second track on Taylor Steele’s “Trilogy,” the Billabong surf flick pimping out the company’s top three riders: Joel Parkinson and Taj Burrow from Oz, and Hawaiian Andy Irons. All three of these dudes can so skillfully pull maneuvers—with what appears to be unworldly ease—on moving water that words are rendered ineffective.

So, off to find that scene. A search yielded the clip below; the song soundtracks sessions in Mexico. This snippet coincides with (1) the song of day and (2) an aspect of surfing I’ve been especially focused on the last month or two: stalling and barrel riding. Parko, Taj, and A.I. are phenomenal tube riders—watching them is like “Rosetta Stone” for surfers. Seeing a guy get slotted in a thick, peeling blue barrel draws the eyes of anyone on the beach, and often those in the water. But what can be equally as fascinating (more so to this bloggist) are the techniques surfers use to both arrive and reside in a tube. Like football or hockey players watching film of last night’s game, progress lies in the details.

That said, here’s the Trilogy opening, blended with additional footage from each individual’s section in the movie. The eight timing highlights are the solid examples of barrel riding and technique—demonstrating how they got there and what they do to remain.

1:34 – Taj hits the brakes with a lead back foot stall, stashing his right hand into the face, riding the foam ball as the barrel widens. When it does, he drops the hammer and pumps down the line like lightning.

1:59 – AI, reentering after punching the lip, leans into a Donavon-esque bottom turn before stalling mid-turn up the face. Take cover.

2:08 – AI’s second tube of the same wave. He comes out of the first, digs a clean carve out onto the shoulder, then ducks and runs one more time. Effortlessly finds the sweet spot of the wave, and uses the same forehand drag as Taj to let the ocean do the work.

2:37 – Parko’s visually languid approach to surfing is old news. But rare does one so casually surf at such an unmatched level. Here he is being himself, pulling a sweet, easy stall up the face as the lip tumbles overhead. So smooth; so flawless. And gets covered up twice!

2:46 – Easily one of the best rides. AI anchoring into the face again. When it looks like the hole might close up, he lets loose and gets moving.

2:59 – You can see all of Parko’s weight on the tail of the board and his arm in the wave—clearly he’s moving faster than the wave. With a sweet little bottom turn and flick stall, he exits and reenters his second tube on this wave.

3:26 – Taj on another foam ball, squatting low to let the wave catch up. The first tube is very quick; he ejects into two big hacks. Then he pumps, finds the roof again (catch the quick, subtle, high speed stall at 3:40), and wraps it into a long roundhouse across the shoulder.

4:13 – Pure style, courtesy of AI.

Diversity, embraced!

A few months ago, I decided to focus considerable blog space to surfing. That was fun, but it's time to again practice the craft on more varied topics. Surfing will still be a staple, just less so.

Got a few nonfiction short stories on the docket, focusing on nostalgia and humor. More to come soon.

In the meantime, check out my friend Joe's scanned photos from the late 1990s through the early 2000s, and yours truly back pulling a few tricks on a skateboard here.