God Bless Snowboarding!
Sun, 08 Feb 1998
Ok admittedly the ramblings of a winter stranded, surfstarved kook, but
when has that ever stopped me.
I don't know much about snowboarding. The two neighbor boys are "in" to
it deeply. It's all they can talk about, and it even ranks higher in
their hearts to skateboarding. Both are accomplished skate and snowboard
halfpipers (thanks to them I almost killed myself last Memorial Day).
No, the most I've ever witnessed were some highly stylized, and
glamorously photographed snowboarding movies that spent long languorous
minutes of super slow-mo footage tracing every nuance of some guy carving
mile long turns in some snowfield at the top of the world. The airs were
infinite, the drops worthy of carrying a chute, but in the final
analysis I came away with the feeling these guys were just some
frustrated surfers or skateboarders looking for a bigger, colder, wetter
thrill. The Olympics has changed my mind.
This weekend I sat through 6 hours of tedious, mediocre Olympics
coverage before I got to witness real competition in just one event. If
CBS network is trying to blow their chance at an Emmy for their
reportage, they should just lay back and continue what they are doing.
As terrible and frustrating as the two week long commercial that was the
Atlanta summer games was, CBS seems committed to killing you with the
tedium of their talking heads and boring video pieces, in the hope that
the actual competition will keep you clinging to their every 8.5 minute
commercial breaks. I've already busted one remote in disgust.
So on a frustrating Saturday afternoon I sat down for what was to be the
first event of Giant Slalom Snowboarding. I was mesmerized. These boys
can carve and not in slomo but at what appears to be 150 mph. The
centrifugal force of the turns around the gates has most of these guys
laying out so far some have mounted skid plates on their thighs so when
they lean over and touch the snow, they aren't slowed down. Real time
views of the Giant Slalom were fixating - the speed, the control, the
balls. I'm a believer. My blithe comparisons of snowboarders to surfers
have been thrown out the window.
And what a wacky crew of characters. Contrary to the rigid and reserved
demeanor of the other competitors, the snowboarders are letting it all
hang out. Using their own peculiar sport jargon which one called
"Shredonics" the world journalists are turning to each other in wonder
at what language these boys are talking. When one was asked how he puts
up with all the attention the new sport is receiving by the world press.
dudeboy slim answers without hesitation "I imagine all of you naked."
Well imagine Nancy Kerrigan saying that!?
I really hope the snowboarders shake up the international Olympic
community, and I'm not saying here I ever want surfing to become an
Olympic sport either. It's just that compared to ice dancing, biathlon,
Nordic skiing, curling and ice sculpture, snowboarding is the most
interesting, exciting, balls out thing going at the Winter Games.
One journalist wrote that CBS's preliminary coverage of the games was so
insufferably bad that he decided to go "channel snowboarding"
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! If the sport can do no more than replace surfing as
the metaphor for cruising channels or the internet then I for one will
give it a great big tip of the old "Surf Free or Die" cap and say most
sincerely... YOU DUDES RULE, MAN!!!
Tue, 10 Feb 1998
Andy Willis wrote:
can anyone provide me with details of breaks in tobago
I was in Tobago over Thanksgiving Andy and it is truly a beautiful if
Though I didn't have a lot of time to search and try all the breaks, my
tour of the island did reveal a few. The East, or Atlantic side
generally breaks more often because of the prevailing Easterly winds. I
started my search in Scarborough and immediately observed several beach
breaks worth riding. Just past Scarborough is Minister Bay formed on the
East by Minister Point. This appeared to me to be a big grinding left
with several reef formations on the outside and a booming beach break on
the inside. It was too big and rough the day I went by. All along the
coastal road from Scarborough up to Roxborough I saw several inviting
beach and point breaks with nobody out. Given the right swell and wind
conditions, anyone of these places, most with no names, could be good.
But for my money the very best place I rode was on the West or Caribbean
side, at a place called Mt.Irvine Bay. A classic reef right with a
prevailing offshore breeze. It gets crowded because it gets so good.
There is a public beach right there with changing rooms, restaurants,
and a surf shop which rents all manner of boards and equipment. The
people are very friendly. For more detailed reports on breaks, I'd check
the shop at Mt.Irvine and talk to them about other breaks.
Surfing El Nino, Bayou Style
Tue, 10 Mar 1998
I was in New Orleans recently and after 4 days of attending the Mother
of all Analytical Chemistry conferences I was ready for some "wildlife".
In my short stay near Bourbon Street I had learned a few facts:
"Hurricanes" are both a lethal kind of storm and a lethal kind of drink
served in tall glasses and made with powerful rum. Things don't appear
to be what they seem under the influence of a hurricane i.e. the
dropdead gorgeous, statuesque, longlegged blond, wearing a painted on
mini over the world's most perfect ass, that I was following down the
street one night.....was really a guy (who was appearing in some
transvestite show on Bourbon). The worst Jazz bands in New Orleans are
better than most jazz bands anywhere else.
With several nights of prowling the French Quarter to recover from, I
decided to head out of town for an airboat ride in swamp country. Guided
by the non-specific suggestion to "head for Murty's" I drove East into
some of the wettest real estate I've ever seen.
El Nino has not only taken it's toll on the Left Coast, it's deposited a
record amount of water in the Bayou country. Areas that were once above
water and just soggy, are now several feet under water. The locals are
predicting a very bad spring in the low country of Louisiana this year.
The Bayous of Gulf coast Louisiana are strangely beautiful and wild. The
brackish water is teaming with wild life and kinda stunk as it perked in
the hot sun.
I missed the turn to Murtys Airboat Rides three times since the land
mark and sign to turn was actually under water. As I drove up to his
wreck of a cabin he shuffled out on the porch wondering what kinda city
slicker was he going to have to deal with now. By my reckoning Murty
looked to be between 80-95 years old, wrinkled, bent over, twitchy, blind
in one eye and mebbe 4 teeth in his head. Eons of swamp living were
etched on his cocoa brown face but the one good eye twinkled with life
and the slow speaking drawl did little to hide the razor sharp wit of
the man. He'd been dealing with tourists and thrill seekers all his life.
After sharing a mudbug (Louisiana crawfish) poboy sandwich with him that
I had brought along we moved very slowly toward Murty's ancient aluminum
airboat. I sat on a bench seat hanging onto a rope for safety and Murty
gave me some ear protection because the engine got kinda loud. Murty was
a slow moving guy until he sat up in the captains chair of that boat.
Then, godallmighty, the old coot became a raging Cajun. Since the water
was high, there was lots of open spaces to "get it on" and once we
cleared the small swamp channel, Murty opened that sucker up! Though it
seemed like we were going 100 mph, we were really only doing about
50-60. Murty didn't know, or care when I asked. It was plenty fast for
me. I could hear him cackling behind me through the ear protection and
engine noise as he tore ass up one channel and down another whip turning
that battered chunk of aluminum on a dime, almost throwing me out a few
times (oh, he loved that, HA!!)
After about an hour of high speed "fun" he back tracked through some
overgrown but truly gorgeous swamp pausing to show me the sights,
including a collection of extremely large and ominous gators.
Back at his crummy shack, Murty and I shared a local beer called Abita
and he briefly expanded on his philosophy of life and surfing. (?)
"Didja see them goddam surfers on Good Morning America this week young
"Well, yeah Murty, they were showing some big wave riding that occurred
in Mexico recently." (I was stunned that Murty had a TV.)
"Sheet boy, them goddam surfers must be outta their minds surfin that El
Nino like that. That's the biggest water I've ever seen. Tall as a swamp
cypress. You'd never catch me goin' in no ocean to face that kinda
thing. Damn foolish if ya ask me."
"Didn't you ever do anything foolish in your life Murty, just to see if
you could do it?"
"Sure, me'in my brother used to rassle gators for the tourists many
years ago. Some were biguns too."
"How big Murty?"
"Mebbe two-three hunnert pounds, and nasty..... But them gators was
smart, they knew if they hurt me'in my brother they wernt gonna get that
live chicken for dinner at the end of the day." (Murty broke into a
hysterical cackle) So they let us flop 'em around and stick stuff in
their mouths, and later we'd give 'em a chicken."
"Sounds dangerous to me Murty."
"Oh, it was dangerous all right. One of them biguns roll on top of you,
thrashing around, you could get broke up pretty good. You can't tell the
mood of a gator looking in them eyes. Them eyes is dead eyes, no
life,....dead staring blank. Reading a gator is all body english, you
watch for the signs, then move outta the way when they gets to
"So Murty, wouldn't you agree that surfers challenging big waves to test
their skill and courage against the ocean is similar to you facing off a
"Sheet no boy. You get caught by one of them huge waves, you a dead man.
With a gator, once he got a chunk of an arm or leg, he's happy....and
you can survive that." As he held up his left hand missing 2 fingers and
started laughing his toothless cackle again.
After seeing Taylor Knox take the 50 foot drop in Mexico some weeks ago,
I had to agree, Murty had a point there.
Death is a distant rumor to the young
April 03 1998
Long, introspective, grab a beer or change the channel.
"Life would be infinitely happier if we were born at the age of eighty
and gradually approached eighteen."
- Samuel Clemens
Foonman woke up with his usual subliminal precision. He opened his eyes
at precisely 6:00am and stared peacefully at his wife who was sleeping
quietly beside him. He looked at the woman, worshipping her very
existence and wondered what his life would have been without her by his
side. A twinge of pain seized him at the very thought.
He sat up slowly and looked out the picture window of his bedroom that
overlooked the beach in Duck, North Carolina. The retirement home he'd
built in 2004 had been his life's dream and a reward for the hard work
and conscientious saving he and his wife had done most of their lives.
It was his pride and joy. At first glance he knew the long awaited swell
from a gigantic offshore Hurricane named Nancy had arrived overnight.
Windows shook in their frames with each concessive explosion of another
wave pounding the beach front. Surfers all along the Outer Banks had
been waiting and watching for this day to come. Though the storm
remained well offshore, the massive swells spoke volumes of it's
strength and power. Foonman had made his own preparations for this day.
He was as ready as he'd ever be.
Walking slowly into the kitchen to get his already steaming cup of
coffee, compliments of his Mr.Coffee machine, he went through his mental
checklist of aches and pains. The arthritis in his hip was bad as usual,
but after warming up and taking his usual 800mgs of Motrin, it would
calm down. His lower back and shoulders continued to be very sore from
working in the yard, but he could ignore that. Curiously the knifelike
pains from his stomach were absent this morning, letting him make the
decision to skip his pain pills today. He needed to be on top of his
game in the water. It was going to be a big day.
He'd been waiting all summer for the kind of swell that was here now.
The doctor had told him to go ahead and go surfing as often as he wanted
and the summer had offered up a variety of swells to let him practice
on. He always looked forward to the peace and tranquillity he found in
the ocean and the long hours he spent there helped him sort out all the
things he needed to think about. Just recently he had spent a few days
with his lawyer and accountant setting up a trust fund for his daughter
and checking on his investments and insurance policies. Though he'd
made a killing in the bull market of the late 90's, financial matters
were of no interest to him now. Let the accountants sort out all that
stuff, he had waves to ride.
Walking back to the bedroom he leaned over and kissed his wife softly
and whispered in her ear. She murmured her response and he left, slowly
closing the door behind him. On the way down the stairs to his dented
and rusted out old Ford Explorer he glanced over the protective dune to
see the first amazing signs of what would be a glorious sunrise. He
decided the old 8'6" round pintail would be his ride today. Good
floatation and speedy enough to race a few waves. He tossed a small
thermos of coffee and a bag of donuts on the passenger seat then hoisted the board onto the roof rack. Suddenly he heard the soft woofing of his old dog Jake, who even at age 14 was always eager to join him on dawn patrol. He walked over to the slat wood fence and rubbed the dog's aging, white mussel through a space. Jake looked up hopefully wagging his tail, eyes begging to be invited along. The huge Chesapeake Bay Retriever had been his companion on many a morning run, but today he was just going to have to stay behind. Foonman had no idea of how long he'd be gone this day and hesitated to bring the big dog along only to have him stay in the truck.
On the way to the Army Research Pier the first fiery tendrils of dawn
began to streak the horizon. The massive spirally walls of the storm
could be seen as they textured the distant sky. Pulling into his secret parking place Foonman was surprised to see no one there. "Oh man," he thought "it must really be going off down South, either at the Hatteras Lighthouse or Buxton." The cool offshores were holding the big walls up until they were well into the sandbars, then they would pitch out and crash down with jackhammer perfection. This was some serious poundage.
He walked back to lock up the truck but just tossed the keys on the
driver's seat instead. He wasn't sure why except there was no one
Kneeling on the shore to attach his leash and mutter the prayer for
safety he always made anytime he entered big water, Foonman was suddenly seized with a spasm of pain so sharp an involuntary sob escaped his lips. Damn, he thought, the doctor said it was going to get bad but thought it might be weeks before he had to use the self injected morphine packs. When he'd learned that the radiation treatments he'd endured all summer had done little to stop the raging stomach cancer he had, the doctor offered to supply him with the injectable drugs whenever
he wanted. It was all he could do for him. The doctor quietly told him
he had a few months at best and the end was going to be ugly and
painful. Strangely, Foonman was not frightened by the prognosis and deep
in his soul he knew it would never come to that. He was certain of God's
love and protection.
As the spasm receded he slowly hoisted his board and waded into the
shorebreak hoping to beat the next big set and the next violent spasm
outside. His board lurched ahead swiftly through the water propelled by
arms that had worked tirelessly in the gym and daily surfing sessions in
preparation for just this occasion. Luckily he made it over the big
spraying tops of the next set and made it outside into the lineup. His
experienced eye told him the swell was building. It would be closing out
within the next hour or so.
Picking off a few smooth walls he rode a few shoulders to get used to
the speed and movement of the waves...fast, exciting and violent when
they broke. His abilities would be sorely tested today and he fought to
maintain a high clean trim, inside rail glued to the wave face, for
maximum speed and the option of launching out the top when they came
over. He tried to relax and enjoy the session. If only he could ignore
the ever increasing pain in his gut. Twice when spitting out seawater he
could see the spittle was tinted with blood.
During a long lull he reflected on his long and good life. His wife and
daughter were such a joy to him and his years of activity in the sport
of surfing had carried him through some hard times and enhanced the good
times. There was many a time when he sought the good counsel of the
ocean, to settle his thoughts and put his life in perspective. He
glanced at the shore and admired his beloved Outer Banks, the jewel of
the Right Coast. He'd been visiting these special waters almost all of
his life and they'd supplied him with a lifetime of good memories.
This particular day was becoming one of those epic days. The waves he'd
managed to ride had been some of the finest he'd caught in his life. The
tremendous feeling of accomplishment he felt almost offset the sharp
pain in his midsection that felt like someone grinding a giant corkscrew
into his stomach. His life was good, his life was complete. He loved his
family and this very moment with an intensity he hoped would carry him
through whatever he faced.
A dark green shadow darkened the horizon as a 5 wave monster set formed
outside. The biggest and last wave was a massive uniform wall of water
destined to closeout when it found the shallow drag of the sand bar
inside, but it would be no less...the wave of the day. Foonman raced
outside to meet the gathering wave knowing it may catch him as he did
so. The adrenaline rush erased all sensations except that of excitement
as he sized up where he would make his turn. As he whirled his board
around toward shore he could see the warm sun toasting the seaoats in
the dunes, the flocks of seabirds and the beautiful sand beaches. It
took his breath away.
With two strokes he launched into the wave face, turning high he inched
up on the big board for maximum speed. The pintail found it's groove and
raced down the line toward a distance point it would never reach.
Suddenly he realized it had always been his dream to pull off a Cheater
Five on a big wave like he'd seen Jeff Hakman do in the movies at Sunset
Beach. The wave seemed big and steep enough, the water was clear and
blue and it seemed like an ideal time to try....what did he have to
lose? Slowly he shuffled toward the front of the streaking board and
semi-squated near the nose, tentatively reaching his right foot out to
the tip. The time/space/slowdown thing he'd experienced on big waves
before, kicked in as he sat in wonder of it all. His every sense soaked
up the nuances of the moment and his mind drifted to thoughts of his
wife and family and the exquisite love he felt for them. He turned to
glance at his reflection in the perfectly smooth waveface and he saw a
man at peace with himself and his life....smiling, performing a maneuver
he'd never done before in his life. He was as happy as he'd ever been.
Out of nowhere a thick-lipped piledriver of water crashed down on him,
ripping the leash from his leg and driving him down to the very bottom.
He felt himself pinned to the sandbar on his back and he stared up in
wonder at what had happened. It occurred to him that he loved it where
he was, and he never wanted to leave. But slowly, as the whitewater
dissipated and cleared he could see the sun as it shown through the
green tinted water and he began to float toward the surface....toward
the bright, warm, light of the sun.
* * * * *
She had cleared the messages off the answering machine but remained
puzzled by Dr. Wheeler's voice. It seemed strained. It had been two
years since Foonman had drown and she still kept in touch with the
doctor as she attempted to put the pieces of her life together. The
insurance policies had covered and secured everything, but just recently
she knew she could never stay in the beach house, with it's joyful
memories left to taunt her. She'd just put the place on the market.
She dialed Doctor Wheeler's number and waited for him to pickup.
"Hi, Roy, it's JoAnne."
"Oh, hi JoAnne. I know it's been a long time but something has been
bothering me for the last two years and now that you've made plans to
leave the area, I needed to come clean with you."
"What is it Roy?"
"The autopsy. I lied. I wrote that your husband drown hoping that the
insurance companies would not investigate his condition and think that
he committed suicide. But that wasn't the case."
"What do you mean Roy? What happened?"
"He didn't drown JoAnne, there was no aspirated water in his lungs and
the tests showed cause of death was not due to drowning." Dr.Wheeler's
voice got a strange tone to it.
"Then how did he die Roy. What was it?"
"This is hard to explain JoAnne, and I'm not really sure I can. I've
never seen anything like this, even with a person in your husband's
condition. It's like......he just decided not to live anymore. As though
he'd gotten to a point in his life where he'd tried and done everything
he wanted and decided to stop living....I....I can't explain this."
"I understand Roy. You'd have to have lived with the man to know what
this means and I know exactly what happened. It wasn't fear of death, it
wasn't the fear of what was left of his life. It was experiencing the
love of his life and the knowledge that he may not be able to have that
any more. He was not a coward, but in my eyes he was a hero. Thanks for
calling Roy, you've answered a question I've had for a long time now.
Thanks for your help."
"Bye JoAnne, take care."
She hung up the phone and pondered the whispered statement Foonman had
spoken to her in the darkness of their bedroom that morning. Instead of
saying, "I love you honey." Like he always did before he left, he said,
"I'll love you forever." She couldn't remember what she said, but
recalled feeling vaguely at peace. Just as she did now.
"There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear,"
- I John 4:18
Surfing...the perfect Mid-life Crisis
Sat, 04 Apr 1998
While down in the basement surfshrine the other night, by way of a weird
configuration of heating ducts, I could hear MrsFoon up in the living
room with two of her friends, dishing their middle-aged husbands and the
new behaviors they were demonstrating.
MrsBill: I don't know what's gotten into him lately, all he thinks about
is his damn sports car. He can't even fit in the thing without folding
up like a lawn chair.
MrsBob: All Bob lives and breaths is golf. He is consumed by every
facet of the sport.
MrsFoon: Foonboy, plays the drums everyday, listens to jazz music,
smokes an occasional cigar and surfs. Of course he did all this when I
met him, so he really hasn't changed that much.
MrsBill: Every weekend Bill is off to some rally or sports car club
event. Sometimes he's gone for the whole weekend and when he does come
back he stinks of booze, grease and oil.
MrsBob: Bob and his buds are gone at the crack of dawn every Saturday
and Sunday. Sometimes they play golf all day then they hit the 19th hole
for drinks and before you know it, it's almost dark. I never see the guy
and when he does come home he goes right to sleep in his recliner
(unless there's a golf match on).
MrsFoon: Foonboy leaves me at the crack of dawn whenever there's waves,
usually with a kiss. But luckily the surf sometimes blows out by
midmorning and he's back making me breakfast and dithering about the
cool rides he got. Sometimes he'll make a pitcher of Margaritas late in
the afternoon and we share it on the beach.
MrsBill: I mean the guy spends a fortune on that damn car, and
accessories, repair books, special wheels, rally packs, driving gloves,
sunglasses, sport shirts, club jackets, club memberships, car shows,
trips and customizing stuff.
MrsBob: You wanna talk money. Don't let him get into golf. Bob has 4
sets of very expensive clubs, 10 pairs of golf slacks, countless shirts,
golf gloves, golf bags, spikes, videos, how-to books, club memberships,
trips to Myrtle Beach, and magazine subscriptions. Now he's talking
about buying a vacation place in a golf resort somewhere where the
membership is $10,000/year.
MrsFoon: Foony bought a new bodyboard two years ago for $150, I gave him
new wetsuit for his birthday three years ago. He wears the same clothes
for years- hats, shirts, sunglasses, flip-flops, shorts, jackets. He
watches the same 3 videos over and over and over. He probably spends
more money on drumsticks and cigars than he has on surfing in the last 3
years. Unlike skiing or golf, you can pretty much surf for free and it
doesn't involve that much equipment. His only indulgence is buying the
beach place which we both love and enjoy.
MrsBill: God, Bill is so outta shape. He's got big gut on him now. He
doesn't do anything to work out and all he does is cruise around in that
car and go drinking with his buddies.
MrsBob: Ha, Bob claims golf is what's keeping him in such good shape.
Yeah right, the guy rents a cart to haul his fat flabby ass around the
course, then he and his buds go out eating big steaks and drinking
MrsFoon: Surfing is a very rigorous sport. Foonboy works out in the gym
a couple of times a week to stay in shape, and sometimes the surfing
sessions go on for hours. He's usually exhausted when he comes in. But
the doctor told me for a guy his age, he's in fairly good shape. The
only thing I worry about is he's clumsy and prone to injury. He's had
some bad ones in the last two years. I hope to keep him alive for a long
MrsBill: I worry sometimes. Someone told me they saw Bill driving a cute
young blond around in that damn car one day. It's such a babe magnet, I
can see why the cuties are attracted to it. I told him when he decided
on the red one it was such a mid-life crisismobile that it was a cliché.
He didn't seem to mind. He likes it when his car gets attention from the
MrsBob: I've heard the horror stories about the golf groupies and the
hired "help" on those golfing trips. Ball washers my ass! Those girls
are hired to boost the egos of bunch of decrepit used up old guys that's
all. If I every catch Bob catting around with one of those Bimbos, he's
MrsFoon: Far as I know there aren't very many women in surfing. Sure it
takes place at the beach and there are many young and cute girls to look
at. But our policy is he can look all he wants. Usually Foonboy is too
tired and stoked to take much note of the bikini girls, but when he
does, he claims all he sees is me. Whether that's true or not, I don't
care, he treats me wonderfully everyday.
MrsBill: It makes me sick I tell you, every time I go into the garage and
he has those Pirelli calendars with the naked women on them.
MrsBob: Oh Bob has a calendar called the "Girls of the Greens" which
shows topless women holding the flag sticks on different famous golf
MrsFoon: All Foonboy buys each year is some surfing calendar that shows
waves, but for some reason he always looks in the front of the Surfer
Magazine when we go to the news stand.
MrsBill: Well now he's hooked up to that goddamn internet. He spends
hours every night looking at sports car websites, ordering more junk and
getting information on events he wants to go to. What an enormous waste
of time and money.
MrsBob: Think that's bad, Bob spends all his time on the computer trying
out golf, video games that let him play all the famous courses in the
world. But when he does this he closes and locks the door to the study
so I know he's also visiting those porno sites too. He's especially, er,
affectionate after spending a few hours with those.
MrsFoon: Foonboy uses the internet to meet and communicate with people
all over the world about surfing. This so-called newsgroup is a forum to
discuss topics, voice opinion, exchange information, and learn more
about the sport. He even makes up these little stories that have
absolutely no basis in reality and he posts them to the group. Some of
them are pretty good, but whenever he talks about our personal lives I
give him a dope slap in the head. He claims most of the people he's met
on the group are really fine folks and a few times he's actually met a
MrsBill: Eeeeeuuuuwwwww, What a perv JoAnne, how can you put up with
that kind of behavior. Don't you know what kind of jerks inhabit those
chatrooms and newsgroups.
MrsBob: Yeah, if I were you I'd be hiring a lawyer. There's no telling
what kind of trouble he's going to get in with those people. God, if I
knew Bob was meeting people on the internet, I'd be filing for divorce.
MrsFoon: Hmmm, maybe I better start monitoring his time on that damn
Foon (punchy from my latest dope-slapping :)
Mon, 06 Apr 1998
It never ceases to amaze me how universal some of our experiences are,
no matter where you live or surf. I've been criticized by a few for
living off the cadaver of my past to make up for the lack of present
time experiences. Touché. Yeah, I dwell on the past sometimes, but the
great memories of the past are the motivation that keep me going back in
the water. Numerous people have thanked me for sharing these memories
because they so closely paralleled something that happened to them also.
A shared experience, whether we shared it at the same time or not, is
still a connection we all have. Like the cliché, "Only a surfer knows
what its really like," all the little anecdotes of things, like dawn
patrols, big swells, danger, humor, discomfort and sheer fun, bind us
all together in a mutual experience we can enjoy. It is a primary reason
you are reading stuff on this newsgroup now.
If I haven't already, someday I will spew the story of my very first
surfing experience Memorial Day Weekend, 1963 at Gilgo Beach, Long
Island, Nu Yawk. In it, I expect you will all see a little bit of
yourselves and when you first clambered onto the deck of a surfboard,
and aimed yourself out at the ocean. A pivotal experience, I imagine for
most of you.
The King is dead
Mon, 06 Apr 1998
Thirty years ago this weekend I was a college freshman on break from
school. I had driven down to Rockaway NY, to meet some friends and go
surfing. It was April 4th 1968 and at the time I'd been surfing about 5
years. I went to the designated street about mid-afternoon but my friends
were no where to be seen. There was a slight onshore breeze and the
dirty brown water was punctuated occasionally by a 3-4 foot set of
I put on an old and leaky wetsuit that was clearly inadequate to the
task of protecting me from the mid 40 degree water and testily waded
into the surf. The first flush of frigid water telegraphed to me this
was going to be a short session. Both my gloves and boots had been
ripped and repaired many times and leaked like a sieve. In those days
the wetsuits were primitive and did not have taped or even stitched
seams. I endured the lousy conditions for about an hour and when my
friends didn't show decided to sit up on the beach to try and get warm
in the weak sunlight. I stripped out of the wetsuit except for the
pants. The black rubber absorbed the sun's rays and radiated warmth all
over my body. I slipped on a hooded sweatshirt and my carpenter's jacket
and spent the afternoon idly warming myself on the beach.
Around dusk I packed it in and went back to my car. I loaded my board on
the roof of the old '64 light green VW bug and lashed it down for the
ride home. I drove North on the way to the Southern State Parkway but as
I did I noticed there were lots of people in the streets. In the black
neighborhoods I had to drive through, groups of people were gathered on
the street corners, some of them crying, some of them yelling and
gesturing. I couldn't make out what was going on.
While I was sitting at a light, suddenly a group of five men bolted for
my car and attempted to open the doors. They were yelling and screaming
at me, and one of them jumped on the small running boards of the bug
attempting to rip my board from the roof. I was so surprised by the
attack I popped the clutch and took off running the light. Just before
the guy dropped away from the car I heard a loud thud on the roof, then
quickly I heard rocks or bottles hitting the back of my car. I was so
scared I ran every light and stop sign until I got to the parkway. I
thought about trying to report this to the police, but decided to wait
until I got home.
When I pulled into the driveway of my suburban home I quickly got out to
get my board of the roof. I was stunned to see a philips head
screwdriver stuck cleanly through my board right up to the handle. I
was clearly amazed by all this as I turned questioningly to my father
who'd just come out of the house to check on me. He looked at the board
and the screwdriver and shook his head silently when I told him what had
happened. Then he said, "Son, a very great man was murdered today in
Memphis. What you saw tonight is just a small reaction to this terrible
That night we watched news reports of violence from all over the country
including the nations capitol, which was burned and beset by riots in
reaction to the killing of Dr.Martin Luther King. I didn't know at the
time, but for years afterward, my life would be affected greatly by the
racial strife that boiled to the surface that night. During college, 3
of our spring semester finals weeks were canceled because of racial
incidents and antiwar demonstrations. In my entire time in school, I was
only to come to be friends with 3 Black men who eventually turned away
from me to become Black Panthers.
Two of those men were themselves murdered, and one I have come to know
again and respect
as a lay preacher in the mean streets of Philadelphia.
A lot of important dates in our nations history I can relate to by way
of surfing experiences. I consider this to be one of the saddest. One of
my biggest fears is that the racial problem that faces this country will
never be resolved, and will serve one day to be it's downfall. End of
sermon. Sorry but I felt compelled to mention this.
The Meaning of Life
Wed, 08 Apr 1998
You're 16 years old, you live in the armpit of the Mid-Atlantic, York
goddamn Pennsylvania (I've spent "quality" time in some of the better
printing establishments in York, so I know of what I speak) home of the
world famous "York" dumb bells (I mean free weights), you're on the
threshold of adulthood and you say:
I have been thinking lately, and instead of having more of a confident
idea of what I started with, I am now more confused than ever.
Well welcome to the real world my friend, what teenage boy has not had
those very same feelings at one time.
If you're seeking advice, I'd say you have taken the first step to
success. As a teacher I was usually not surprised to find out that every
teenage boy, knows everything there is to know, about everything (As a
teenager I was living proof of that axiom). What you do with our good
advice is another step in that direction, but the choice lies with you.
If you really are into the surfing life, here's a bit of advice I'd like
to give you. Get an education.
And not a fact spewing, regurgitive, narrow discipline kind, but the
kind that teaches you how to teach yourself. How to seize upon a subject
and learn all there is to know about it. First and foremost is the
ability to read and comprehend, and I don't mean reading a few screens
of factoids off a computer monitor. I mean books with hard covers that
delve into a subject with more than just a glancing blow. What good is
all this? With the power to learn by yourself you can accomplish almost
anything. Sure the structure and discipline of formal education is
important, but the quality of what you come away with is essential to
What about surfing? Smart guys like Robert Brannan figured it out
early. There are ways to incorporate it into your life. Going to college
near a beach, scheduling classes so you can take advantage of morning or
late afternoon conditions. Hanging with guys who surf so's you can all
sponge (mooch) off each other for rides and gear (and food and $).
Picking jobs or careers that allow you to do the same thing. Few guys in
this world are good enough to make a living off the sport. If you want
it, its just as hard work as anything else. I'm glad I don't make a
living off the sport, when I surf it's pure recreation and fun.
John F. said it's a sport you can do all your life. At age 48 I intend
to live up to that expectation (God willing). But at times in your life
it won't be the most important thing, at times it will. You get to
decide what those times are.
We can't predict what will happen if you choose certain paths Trav,
that's serendipity (Look it up smart guy) because the meaning of your
life will be different from everyone else's. My best years behind me, I
get to say in the way of sage advice: get an education first, use common
sense, start an IRA ASAP, work hard at whatever you choose, keep a good
sense of humor about everything, and surf as much as you can. (oh, and
take a good multivitamin, avoid fatty foods, and wear your seatbelt!)
"Mistakes are stepping stones to failure."
"The trouble with the rat race is even if you win, you're still a rat."
"You only live once -but if you work it right, once is enough."
Joe E. Lewis
"Life is what happens to us while we're making other plans."
Thomas la Mance
April 14 1998
I'm riding shotgun with MrsFoon screaming down the big "eye Nine Five"
highway, like we're on some berserk rocket powered logflume ride from
automotive hell, watching my beloved smash every speed limit and a few
landspeed records to boot. I'm very conscious of the fact that her
Wanted Poster in every State Police Barracks from New Jersey to Florida
lists an alias under her cuteface picture as "leadfoot". Finally, as we
reach the North Carolina border and I finally find the best Rock'n Roll
radio station in the Carolinas (WRDU -Wilson-Raleigh-Durham RULES!!) I
can hold my tongue no longer:
"Don't do it hon."
"Don't do what?"
"Don't try to keep up with them."
"Keep up with who?"
"The New Yorkers"
"What the hell are you talkin' about?"
"I know them, they're my people. New Yorkers Rule I-95. Besides, they're
on a mission from god."
"Foonboy, have you been huffing the wetsuit glue again, what ARE you
"The New Yorkers, the ones blowing your doors off at 85 mph that you
keep trying to catch. Most of 'em are trying to get to Florida in time
for the beginning of Passover in just 12 short hours, and the others are
draggin their families to Disney World for Easter Vacation. Believe me I
know these people. No one or nothing will stop them, sweetheart, just
let 'em pass."
Seeing the logic in this and noting a NC State Mountie in a plain
wrapper on the turnout up the road, she lowers her speed to 75 mph. I
look out the window and see a van full of college kids roar by with a
hand made sign that reads, "Deaf Tones Rule". Really, I think, someone
has got to, but the Deaf Tones?. Just fill in your favorite band why
We were down in my beloved Wrightsville Beach for the Easter holiday and
the informal World Surff(ohio) Day hoping for some good weather, some
good waves and some good barbecue. After dropping MrsFoon off, saying hi
to Moms Foon I headed straight for the Crystal Pier. Well at least the
barbecue was good, and I did burn my bald spot thanks to the intense
sun. The waves? For a Good Friday, it wasn't very. 2-3 faces
(RightCoastian) a stiff offshore breeze, a million beginners in the
lineup with all manner of boards, but the noseriding long ones ruled.
Easter Sunday comes and I'm on preDawn Patrol with my two nephews, a box
of KKs, some coffee and hope in my heart. I've promised my sister we
will be at church services, if there are no waves. Blocks before we get
to the beach in the predawn light, there are dozens of cars and people
in the streets. Damn, I think, it must be humpin. Then I pull up to the
beach and I think, Damn, its a sunrise service at the beach featuring
what will be a truly beautiful sunrise, but no waves.
The inevitable strikes us with sledgehammer force. There are no waves
and my sister's spies will inform her of that fact, we're committed to
going to church. The boys are hangdog unhappy and bummed, but manage to
wolf down 4 donuts each.
Pulling into the church parking lot later, I'm not sure what to expect.
It had been a few years since I'd been to services at the Monkey
Junction Charismatic Pentecostal Church of the Gooey Death and Discount
House of Worship. First thing I notice as I settle in the pew with Moms
Foon and the boys is the 7 piece band tuning up. The two drummers are
laying down some stuff. I like one of 'em but the other is too fill
happy and he doesn't know how far his set carries in the church. Jumpin
in on the handclapper first tune are a Hammond 3D organ, piano, bass,
and guitar. The lead off number is a feel gooder and the pastor invites
everyone to greet their neighbor around them. A kid in a Surfboards
Hawaii t-shirt turns around, looks at me and says, "Didn't I see you out
at the pier Friday?" I nod yes, and he grins, "Mebbe we better pray for
some waves then." I couldn't agree more.
It's a big crowd and even though the service goes on for 90 minutes, the
music, dancing maidens and flaming tambourines give the event quite a
festive air. My youngest nephew gets stupid by saying, "I've been coming
here for years on Easter, and the story is always the same." Well Duh! I
dope slap him for being so smart and receive one myself from Moms for
being a jerk. Ahhh family. Families Rule.
I notice several young men in the church with shirts proclaiming the
brand of board they ride and figured they we're in the same boat as we
were. But Southern families have a strong church going tradition the
boys are all well mannered in church. If that would only carry over into
the lineup on a good day, things could be a bit more mellow. Manners
The pastor kept it mercifully short, going over the facts of the Easter
story and making it extremely clear to anyone who may have had any
doubts -Jesus Rules!!!! Are you willing to risk the consequences if you
Back again to the beach for hopefully an afternoon session only to find
gusty winds and no surf. I hung out on the beach with my nephews both
of whom have blown off college to find their own way. One's a well
respected chef in a local restaurant (and Bass Player in an alternative
band). The younger one is just embarking on his training as an
electrician. Both have asked me honestly how to face the future and
keep things in perspective. Both would love to continue to surf as much
as possible, but realize the necessity of work. Though their father and
mother are very worried about these boys, I recognize an innate quality-
they are honest workers. They can and will survive and most likely do
very well, thank you. So counseling them about their futures and urging
them to go to college was going to be delicate. I kept my advice short
and to the point, trusting they would see the message, "Boys.... you
rule. Your decisions, your intelligence, your common sense and good
character will rule every aspect of your life. Don't fear mistakes,
don't hide from risk, don't do anything stupid, and things will be
all right. And lastly, don't ever snake your Uncle Foon out of a wave. If you do, you're outta my will. Kapish?" The boys nod in unison, grinning ear to ear. They at least will have one relative to surf with for as long as he can get his fat butt in the water. Plus he knows the answer to the question:
Who rules? You do.
Hello.....I'm a Beachaholic
Thu, 16 Apr 1998
therapy masquerading as real posted material. Read at own
Hello, My name is Foondoggy, and I'm a beachaholic.
I come to this group not to find a cure for this affliction, but to be
with people like me who feed off the stoke of being on or near the
It started when I was young, actually before I was born. My Dad was a
Coastie in WWII and he patrolled the offshore waters of the entire Right
Coast. His family owned a beach house on the Jersey shore and that's
where he met my Mom. When I was born, I was delivered by a retired Navy
doctor who served and saw a lot of action on the blood soaked islands of
the South Pacific. My earliest remembrances were of warm summer days
spent on the polluted beaches of New Jersey. My parents owned a house
just minutes from the water and my Dad took me to the ocean when I was
just months old. Throughout my childhood our family vacations were spent
visiting the many beaches along the Right Coast that my Dad had
patrolled off of.
My childhood Doctor lived right on the beach. His son (my best friend)
and I spent entire summers playing on the beach and in the surf at his
house. When the weather was bad or the surf too big we stood next to a
giant Ships Wheel the Doctor had installed in front of a large picture
window that faced the ocean, and pretended we were on a ship out at sea.
Thus began my fixation of watching the ocean.
My earliest experiences with the ocean and beach were not all good.
According to my Mom, I was part fish and would simply not come out of
the water unless I was ordered to and threatened with punishment. There
were days I would spend the entire time, except for lunch and the
requisite half hour rest, in the water. Since I was a freckled,
strawberry blond kid I suffered some incredible sunburns. Three times I
was taken to the hospital with severe sun poisoning which consisted of
blisters the size of golf balls head to toe. Because of this my Mom took
to coating me with a layer of zinc oxide all over then making me wear a
thick T-shirt and a sailor hat turned inside out. Once I'd rolled around
in the sand with all this on, I was a pretty sorry sight. One oogly
By time we moved to Long Island I was just 12 years old and I already
knew I wanted to surf. By chance a neighbor of mine had an old Keioki
Popout with routed redwood stringers in the deck. I learned to surf on
this 10 foot whale by endlessly paddling out at Gilgo Beach, and
endlessly falling off if I ever did catch a wave. By time I had learned
to ride and I'd cut enough lawns, I was able to buy a 9'6" Jacobs, with
a two inch balsa stringer and a laminated diamond wood skeg. I was never
so proud in my life as on the day I brought that board home from the
surf shop. From then on, every spare moment of my young life was spent
at the beach.
This type of imprinting does not go away easily. As a young adult I was
fortunate to live in Southern California for a period of time to really
immerse myself in the beach and surfing culture. But when I finally
moved back East, I was unfortunate to wind up living 150 miles from the
shore. Those were really tough times and I suffered severe withdrawal
hanging around some suburban pool being very depressed.
A friend of mine finally bought a vacation home at the shore and I
volunteered to do nearly every chore, including cleaning and cooking,
for the privilege of using the place. When she finally sold the place to
move onto a bigger and better home in North Carolina, I quickly decided
to buy it myself. This was the original Foonpalace. We occupied this
place for almost 9 years. Some of the best times and best waves I've
every experienced were out in front of the old place.
Due to circumstances beyond my control I was compelled to sell the
Foonpalace last Fall. This was a black letter day for me as some of you
may recall. Little did I know what a tragic error this was. Once you've
owned, lived in and enjoyed a beach place, you realize what an addiction
it can become. Losing the place was like going cold turkey off a very
powerful and seductive drug. I have rarely experienced such physical and
I began to work long lonely hours. Late nights, weekends, holidays were
fair game for my self pity. Both my health and my marriage came under
enormous pressure and I began to disintegrate from unhappiness. I became
morose and fixated on maudlin ideas like death and injury (hard to
believe, huh?) I was a very unhappy camper and according to MrsFoon, a
First Class Prickbastard to live with.
Diagnosis: Terminal Beach Withdrawal
Prognosis: Mental and Physical deterioration punctuated with extreme antisocial and pathological behaviors enhanced by alcohol abuse and watching surf movies.
Cure: Get another Beach Place bub.
I always do what my wife and doctor tell me (yeah right Foon) so this
weekend I will be closing on a new beach property calculated to give me
many years of pleasure and little worry. This new place has been
nicknamed the "Foonbunker" because basically that's what it is. A poured
Concrete and Steel condo with larger than normal beach setback and
hurricane shutters rated at 125mph. It is a massive monolith of low rise
technology that has not had one repair or insurance claim due to storm
damage in it's lifetime. Plus it comes fully furnished and equipped. The
ocean view is just splendid.
The former owners were literally the little old retired couple who used
it only a dozen times a year for family holidays and vacations. They
even left all their beach stuff including two boogie boards which I have
marked "For the exclusive use of the Sandman or Surffohio." I hope the
Foonbunker will inspire some more uplifting and worthy writing from
yours truly in the future, and will be the scene of many a good surfing
I AM a Beachaholic and I am Stoked!!.
Tales from the Bunker
Mon, 27 Apr 1998
It was only a dream, but I was enjoying the hell out of it. MrsFoon and
I were dancing on the beach in front of the Foonbunker as dozens of our
new neighbors laughed and clapped and wished us well. We were swept up
in the moment and soon the dream turned to a swirl of images all
associated with passed and future good times at the beach.
A huge orange orb appeared in the sky and bore directly into my eyes
blinding me with it's brilliance. I started awake........damn, I was
looking directly out the picture window of the bedroom directly into the
rising sun. Someone hadn't closed the blinds the night before. Damn that
I could see directly out to one of the many breaks in front of the
Foonbunker and already there were two longboarders trying the small but
well formed waves. These guys were earlybirds and beat me to the punch.
I swiftly retrieved my coffee and a set of binocs and settled into an
easy chair on the balcony to watch.
Conditions were pretty good for early spring. A weather front had passed
through and the offshores were grooming a fairly long washboard of South
easterly swells that I could discern through the binocs way out in the
ocean. I zeroed in on the longboarders only to discover it was a couple
of old coots I'd seen surfing the breaks at the Foonpalace last year.
These boys were older than I was, but they could sure slide pretty, each
catching the swiftly moving walls and trimming instantly for a quick
exhilarating 50 foot ride before they dumped out. With water temps in
the mid 50s they wore full suits but no hoods. The waves were breaking
in waist high water.
I decided to bag going out to join them since I was going to our first
condo association meeting that morning and wanted to work up a bunch of
questions about our building and property. The brunch meeting was being
held at a local hotel, and judging by the number of BMWs, Mercedes,
Cadillacs, Lincolns, Expeditions, and Lexuses, in the parking lot we
were going to be in rare company.
When I walked into the meeting later I was immediately approached by the
two older gentlemen I'd seen in the water, Duncan and Don. They'd seen
my truck in the parking lot with the Toobs sticker on the bumper and
wanted to know if I had children who surfed. When I told them I was the
bodyboarder and who I was they both queried,
"Are you that guy from up town who surfs with the hat on?" "That's me."
I offered and we all broke into big smiles. "Welcome to the building
Foon, we're the only surfers here and since age has it's privileges, you
will be deferring all the good waves to us. We meet every day there are
good conditions at dawn down on the beach, and if our break is not
happening, we get in the Rover and go looking. You are welcome to join
us but the rules say the new guy bring the coffee." These are my kinda
guys. "Either of you guys like cigars and krispy kreme donuts?" I
grinned. Both glanced at each other and Don said, "We swore off them
both for our wives. But we'd be happy to watch you." grin grin.
Duncan, 53, a former Two Star General in the Army, career military now
retired, saw some action in Viet Nam and then pounded hallways in the
Pentagon. Works as a consultant for a military contractor. Winters in
Florida. Rides a 9'6" triple redwood stringer Surfboards Hawaii. Don,
56, former CEO for the biggest insurance company in Maryland, retired,
now works "the stock market" and travels with his wife all over the
world. Rides a modern Stewart Longboard shape.
They both tried surfing in the 60s then stopped only to pick it up again
in 1981 when they bought their units in the building. Both have a
certain primitive grace and natural instinct for wave harmony. No
tricks, pure glide. Both possess a very ingratiating self- depreciating
sense of humor that immediately made me like them. When I told them I
bodyboarded, they both rolled their eyes. Duncan said, "that's ok Foon,
but we both don't see so good so don't get offended if we accidentally
don't see you on a wave. By the way, your unit is on the highest floor
with the best view of the beach, so we'll be using it for post session
happy hours." "Anytime I'm there gentlemen, you're welcome."
"Oh no Foon, you don't understand, we want our own set of keys so we can
use it even when you're not there." They laughed at this. "No problem
gents. MrsFoon is the keeper of the keys and condo social secretary, you
can ask her for a set." It was all I could do not to bust a gut
laughing. Wait 'til they meet her.
Turns out Don is head of the Insurance and Building & Maintenance
committees and is a very important man to know. He is also well
connected locally and a reasonably good surfer. I count myself lucky to
have met these men and I'm glad they are going to be my neighbors. It's
the other guy, Sonny, who I met at the meeting and has the word "mafia
hitman" written all over him that I wonder about. He lives next door to
me and said he works as a "problem solver" and travels extensively. I
hope I don't cause any problems that Sonny needs to fix.
By my reckoning we are the youngest owners in the building, but some of
these folks have a lot of life in them. One of the ladies is planning a
beachparty Octoberfest in Oct. the weekend of my birthday. I told her
I'd be happy to help out, but it being hurricane season then, I may not
attend if the waves are good. She stared at me for along time and said,
"Are you one of those surfers too?" When I nodded yes, she smiled and
said, "Welcome to the building Mr.Foondoggy, you'll be in charge of the
I think I can handle that.
Re: Tales from the Bunker
Thu, 30 Apr 1998
the Sandman (infamous NW surfer) wrote:
I've got a better idea(or at least a more entertaining idea!); Why don't we trade places for a
few months? You come out here and stay in my trailer down by the river and I'll leave my backpack,
shortboard and machete for you to use. You can hook up with agent Utah and blaze trails subsisting on
nuts, roots and berries. It is Spring time, ya know. You'll surf every day. In the mean time, I'll take a
plane flight out to wherever the hell your yuppie condo is and settle in for a couple of months. I'll
do a little redecoration, meet all the neighbors and create a general aura of unpredictability in your
little sheltered yuppie condo community. Maybe Surff Ohio could come up and bring some items I won't be
able to pack in my luggage? Like a chainsaw, jackhammer, and a sledgehammer as I'm sure we'll have
a little remodeling to do on the Foonbunker before I feel "comfortable".
Next to the groveling, bloody knee, begging I've received from friends
and relatives to use the Foonbunker on every weekend this summer, your
troll for an invitation is somewhat refreshing. ;^) I like the
psychology of heaping abuse on me and my mode of wave riding, not to
mention lifestyle of choice, then offering to switch with me as an
antidote for my miserable existence -knowing full well that a person of
my health and injury persuasion would surely die a violent and ugly
death in the environment you would have me go to. Meanwhile you and your
sycophant, bootlicking lackey (words used purely as terms of
endearment), SurffOhio, :^) will live a comfortable life ensconced in the
luxurious surroundings of the Foonbunker, drinking my booze, smoking my
Macanudos and "teaching my wife how to surf" (that's a euphemism I'm
sure). My only recourse in extricating you from this cushy scam would be
asking my condo neighbor "Sonny da Hitman" to "fix" the situation. Nice
try my friend, take a number. I can schedule you for a nice weekend in
February 2002. The water should be cold enough for you by then. :^)
Love and hisses :^)
"In life it is difficult to say who do you the most mischief, enemies
with the worst intentions, or friends with the best intentions." -
Thu, 30 Apr 1998
Ok, I'm stepping into the end of the intellect pool I have no business
being in, and I hope some of the brighter bulbs on this group will take
my question and give a scientific explanation even I can understand.
What is it about the lip of a breaking wave that inspires both fear and
desire? It is at once the place we want to be the most and least, as the
energy of the wave is released. When I paddle out on a bigger than
normal day, the place I fear the most is the impact zone. The place I
desire the most is that point just in front of the impact zone, on the
wave face that is at that point going vertical. Is it true that the
point of the most energy release is the breaking lip?
One of the worst hosings I ever got was in small surf at Sunset Cliffs
in San Diego. Paddling out during a minus tide I attempted to turn
turtle as a head high wave almost sucked the reef dry and I got tangled
up in the kelp. As the wave came over, it literally pulled me up into it
and spit me out the top in a rag doll free fall that made me dizzy. Then
the lip slammed me down violently into the shallow water and planted me
on the reef. I felt so beat up I had to leave the water. From then on I
have been exceedingly respectful of even small waves that break hard.
So what is it you Einstein's? What is this fatal attraction we have for
breaking waves. Is the release of the power of a wave at it's peak at
the breaking point?
Or am I just a victim of Huey's bad sense of humor? Simple but inquiring
minds want to know?
"You can observe a lot just by watching."
"The greatest tragedy of Science is the slaying of a beautiful
hypothesis by an ugly fact."
Surfing Vancouver Island wrote:
There is nothing more life affirming than getting the shit kicked out
of you. It brings us in touch with our own mortality, and until we
come in touch with our own mortality there is no opportunity for
Put that in your pipe and smoke it
Well put Cam, no one suffers a good hosing as badly as I do. Part of
what I consider a good session to be is the joy and wonderment I feel of
just having survived at all. And part of the fun is screaming down a
tube shrieking, "I CAN MAKE THIS!!!" And having Huey announce in a calm
clear voice in your head as the wave tattoos your ass, "No you can't."
Something to contemplate over a good stogie.
FatallyFlawedFoon (say that three times, fast)