A Pox on you Jean Amour Polly
06 February 1997
Well friends, when it rain it whores.
First this week I found the Surfcheck site mentioned in
People Magazine's
Bytes column. Now from "the Navigator" column of that
venerable bastion of
journalism, The Washington Post, I find a few more
astonishing facts.
Under the heading "Hang 10, Dudes" the writer clears up a
mystery that has
been bugging me for years. He writes, "When New York
librarian and author
Jean Amour Polly coined the phrase, "Surfing the Internet",
she unleashed
a metaphor that soon became both hip and ubiquitous." I AM
STUNNED!! And
to paraphrase Ted Deits, if I may, "Today, I am ashamed to
be a native Nu
Yawker, and you should be too." At least the writer
acknowledges my
feelings by saying, "to the ears of "real" (ocean wave)
surfers, the
phrase grates like fingernails on a chalkboard." That's
about right.
The column goes on to praise the evolution of electronic
surfcheck
surveillance technology and mentions by name, Surfcheck,
Surfline and
Surflink. It includes mention of future plans by these sites
to increase
the number of breaks they observe, INCLUDING THE FOONDOGGY
HOMEBREAK!!!!!
The question is would I take $50 a month to mount a camera
on my deck?
F**k NO!!! But if say they want to pay off my mortgage, well
sheeeeit boy,
I'll man the damn camera myself and write the reports. (Now
come on, you
know me better than that ;^)
Finally, the writer claims surfing enjoys such tremendous
popularity in
Europe, that video sites are popping up everywhere.
Surfin'Holland, from
guess where? Surfnet, in Sweden. The London Surf Club. And,
Mare Nostrum,
from Italy. Oh also, a Norwegian site called Secret Spots.
I'm not sure
this is a surf page or a sex page, but can you imagine what
would happen
in the States if Ted Deits spun off another site by that
name?
Why it would probably all have us, "Surfing the Internet."
Damn you, Jean Amour Polly.
-Foondoggy
Foonboy in Florida, Geezers, Surfers & Motorheads
17 February 1997
I was in a much better mood by Sunday, Saturday was another
story. I'd
shoveled my truck out of 8 inches of snow, gone to work
early to finish
some projects, then drove to the airport with Mrs.Foon to
wait for our
delayed flight to Florida. To say we were ready for the
Sunshine State
was an understatement. The flight went pretty smoothly and
OUILA, our
bags were the first off the plane -things were looking good
until I got
to the car rental counter. We'd reserved a grossly self-
indulgent Lincoln
Towncar, but an elderly couple in front of us from Canada
(known in
Daytona as "PuckHeads") rented the last one, and as our
clerk pointed out
in the fine print "reserved vehicles were subject to
availability".
He explained that since this was the height of the season
and also Race
Week in Daytona, pickins were kinda slim in the car rental
biz. I put on
my best Nu Yawk game face and looked rentalboy in the eye. I
started the
dance:
"How 'bout a Chrysler New Yorker?"
"Sorry sir, we have no full size cars."
"Cadillac?" "Sorry sir."
"Jeep Cherokee?" "Sorry"
"OK rentalboy, what do you have for me?"
"How about a new Chrysler Cirrus sir, convertible?"
"I'm not a ragtop fan son, and I'm not about to drive a
puny little car
that sounds like a liver disease."
"That's Cirrus sir."
"Cirrus, Cirrhosis, what's the dif." I started to walk
away from the
counter. Desperate not to lose a rental the clerk blurted
out, "Would you
be interested in the Manager's car sir? It's a Ford Taurus
SHO."
I stopped short. Whoa Mommy!!! Now not authentically a
muscle car, I'd
heard the SHO (something like Super High Output) definitely
had enough
under the pedal to make my search for waves at least
interesting and much
quicker. "What's the Manager driving this week?" I asked.
"Mr.Morrison has been given loan of a Ford Mustang Shelby
Cobra this week
by one of the race car companies Sir." Damn, that would have
been my
choice too.
Ten minutes later I left the rental garage and 30 feet of
rubber as I
acclimated myself to the SHO. Out of the corner of my eye I
could see
Mrs.Foons face get "that look" as she said, "Are you going
to make me
sorry I brought you on this trip, Foonboy?" "Why no dear" I
said sweetly,
"I would never think of doing anything to make you feel that
way." "Too,
late, bub." She smiled, then -"I know you've been through a
lot in the
last few weeks at work and were really looking forward to
this vacation,
but let me remind you that the company tab doesn't cover
traffic tickets,
or bail."
Yes, by Sunday I was feeling no pain even as I stared out
from a top level
suite at the Adams Mark Hotel (arguably one of the best
resort hotels in
Daytona) and checked the meager surf conditions. That
morning I'd already
been to a preliminary race at the Speedway, ticket
compliments of some
race car executive I'd met in the jacuzzi the previous
night. Though
exciting and loud, car racing was not what I'd come to
Florida for. Thanks
to a heavy tip to the bell captain on Saturday (I always tip
heavy my
first few days at any Hotel, the rest of the week service is
impeccable)I
was invited to use the assistant manager's personal
bodyboard for the week
(a Toobs Big Bruddha-my kinda guy) and given several
suggestions on where
to use it. A storm front had developed and powered through
and everyone
was just sort of waiting to see if the swell would build and
the wind
would come around offshore. In the next 4 days I would prowl
the coast of
Florida from Vilano Beach, North of St. Augustine, to Vero
Beach (home of
the Dodgers in Spring training)just South of Sebastian Inlet
which is my
own surf mecca and legendary home surfturf of the reigning
World Champion.
As I watched a few guys go out near the Daytona Main Street
Pier, I judged
that indeed the surf was improving, and by Monday I would be
likely to
find some waves.
With Mrs.Foon in meetings all week, I felt free to roam at
will, starting
in Vilano Beach and moving down toward Daytona my first day.
Though it was
still blustery and cool, I managed to survive 3 go outs at
various
un-named beach breaks near Crescent Beach, Palm Coast, and
Flagler Beach.
I'd only brought my springsuit so my sessions were
punctuated with yelps
and hoots. Yelps with every coldwater flush as I ducked, and
hoots with
every wave I rode that broke my session famine since
Dec.26th. After six
numbing hours of small, mushy, closed out, semishorebreak
thumpers, I got
back to the hotel and spent an hour deicing in the outdoor
jacuzzi. People
inside were staring at me since it was by then, pouring
rain. I was happy
to just sit and consider the improving conditions both
weather and waves.
Coincidentally, our visit to Florida was during the launch
of the Space
Shuttle, Discovery, at four am Tuesday. Since I was heading
in that
direction anyway, I crashed early Monday night, got up at
two am to drive
down to Titusville for a looksee. I recommend, if you ever
want to get the
most excitement you've ever had for your taxpaying dollar,
go to a launch
of the shuttle! It is awesome! I was miles away, yet the sky
lit up like
daylight and the roar was so loud you could barely talk to
someone next to
you.
Though the traffic out of the Cape was a bitch, I drove
South and hit Vero
Beach at dawn. Caught a cheap, wonderful breakfast with
rocket fuel
coffee, fresh squeezed OJ and some grits. I was ready to go
out at the
first public beach I saw waves and paddled out to wallow in
the glory of a
Right Coast dawn patrol in Florida!! I was in pig heaven
riding waist to
chest semishore breaks and nobody out for miles! I moved
North to visit my
surf mecca, Sebastian Inlet, by midmorning. Incoming tides
and a North
crosswind made the surf a tad mushy for b-boarding, so I
just sat around
the picnic area and watched a few shortboarders tear it up
and reminisced
about the dozen or so trips I'd made here in my youth.
During my longboard
days, we'd leave New York on a February morning and be
surfing Monster
Hole the next morning. Too many good times to relate here,
but I couldn't
stop smiling at the beautiful sight of light green waves and
glorious
sunshine.
Moving North again, I was inspired to go out at a public
beach in
Melborne, and again at the Main Gate beach park at Patricks
AFB. Both
short sessions were fun with a friendly attitude from most
everyone in the
water. Over the next 3 days I was happy to have small but
fun surf to ride
at Satellite Beach, Cocoa, some no name beach breaks and
Surff's home
break in New Smyrna Beach.
Since this is getting long already, I'll continue with some
observations
and comments about this trip in another Post.
I love Florida in the Winter. For those of you who live
there complaining
about the wave famine, you can stay at my place in the Mid-
Atlantic where
the water temps are 38 degrees and see how that suits you.
Foondoggy (MY NOSE IT PEELING!!!!)
the tragedy
21 February 1997
The recent death of Todd Chesser has reminded me of a
painful episode in
my life that I choose to share with you, not as a way of
gaining sympathy,
but more as a catharsis for me. Thanks for the therapy.
The summer of 1965 was a young surfer's nightmare. Early in
June I was
afflicted with a serious case of mononucleosis -the kissing
disease
(oooo Foonboy, you devil you). Treatment of the disease in
those days was
weeks of bedrest and inactivity. As a sophomore in high
school with a
burning desire to surf the summer away, this was a death
sentence. I
remember the long months of June, July and August stretching
ahead of me
in a huge mindless span of boredom. After a few visits even
my friends
stopped coming by, knowing their tales of good days and fun
sessions would
just torture me.
I was so starved for surfing activity I would read and
reread my copies of
Surfer magazine over and over. I even took to watching that
monumentally
stupid teen show "Where the Action Is," solely because they
had a two
second sequence at the beginning and end of the show of
someone surfing.
By the end of August and my convalescence I had a major surf
clot stopping
up my stoke. I was in desperate need of waves.
At the first suggestion by the doctor I could go to the
beach, I lept at
the chance. It just so happened most of my friends were on
vacation and I
had to go alone. Early the next day I borrowed the family
wagon, loaded my
9'6" Jacobs and raced to Cedar Island beach on the South
Shore of Long
Island. I arrived just after dawn and parked at the very
last lot, not far
from the surfing beach. I didn't realize how weak I was
until I tried to
carry my board the long trek from the parking lot. I was
exhausted after
just a few dozen yards and wound up dragging it by the tail.
I was about 200 yards from the beach and I could see small
waves breaking
in the distance. I noticed too, a single young surfer
bobbing out in the
break, not far offshore. As I walked closer toward the shore
I observed
the rider turning his big board around attempting to catch a
3-4 foot
wave. As luck would have it, he pearled the board and fell
off. The board
squirted back outside of him and wound up floating parallel
to shore. As
the surfer came up he was facing me. Instead of looking
directly around
for his board he looked at me and waved.
I knew immediately this was a mistake and I started to yell
for him to
watch out behind him. Whether he thought he recognized me or
was just glad
to see another surfer to share the waves with I'll never
know. For almost
at the very next instant the following wave, breaking just
outside of him,
picked up his board and slammed it right into the back of
his neck. The
kid collapsed like a ragdoll... and never came up. I was
paralyzed with
horror. I dropped my board and ran as fast as I could (not
very) and waded
into the waist deep water looking for the boy. I started to
cry knowing if
I didn't find him soon he'd be gone. As I continued to
thrash and scream
in frustration at not finding him, slowly it dawned on me
that had I not
been there at that moment, that boy would still be alive.
After 10 minutes I raced back to the parking lot entrance
and told an
attendant what had happened. He called the beach patrol and
in ten minutes
the place was swarming with guards. A half hour later a
helicopter was
brought in to search. The beach was closed all day but all
they found was
the boy's surfboard. I was inconsolable and for years I
blamed myself for
that boy's death. Three days later they found the body
several miles up
the beach. The coroners report said he died of drowning as a
result of a
broken neck. I have never felt so guilty in my life.
Though I warn everyone I know to never go surfing alone, I
continue to do
so myself. I know that Todd Chesser had friends in the
water with him and
though they worked hard to save him, they couldn't. I have
such great
sympathy for Todd's family but also for those young men who
couldn't save
their friend. Those guys are in a lot of pain. Hang in there
Brah.
Foondoggy
The Seed of Stoke
22 February 1997
This is too long and too personal. Skip it. Just some
therapy for me.
"Life is the only art that we are required to practice
without
preparation, and without being allowed the preliminary
trials, the
failures and botches, that are essential for the training of
a beginner."
Lewis Mumford
We experience so much of our lives on a very superficial
level. We sleep,
eat, work, go to school, have a little fun, endure the
everyday
aggravations of modern life and try to find some humor,
comfort, pleasure,
peace and understanding of what it all means. Many of us
can count on one
hand the number of significant events that have shaped our
lives and truly
made a difference; Something that happened which is so
profound that the
experience became planted, like a seed in our soul, thriving
& growing
under good conditions or lying dormant during bad.
As a young man I took up the sport of surfing because of
peer pressure. I
joined the "surfer clique" at school 'cause I wasn't a jock
or a brain and
the lives of my friends and I revolved around the surf
culture of the
time. Happy as I was, I realized early on I was not well
suited to the
sport. Large, uncoordinated, freckled and very fair-skinned
with
strawberry blond hair, I was also socially unsure and
passive. Like
everyone, I wore the Pendleton shirts, puka shells, Katins,
zinc nose,
plastered my VW bug with decals, grew my blond hair long and
pissed off my
parents. The word "KooK" was giving me a lot of credit. As
much as I
wanted to be part of the sport, I always felt inadequate
compared to those
of my peers who excelled at it.
In the early morning hours of a crisp Fall day, in 1969, I
drove to the
beach house of a good friend in West Gilgo Beach, Long
Island, NY. We met
in the predawn darkness and walked the short distance over
the dune to the
beach. I'd been riding a new 6'10" slot bottom for about a
month, but I
still had not mastered it's blazing speed and whiplash
turning capability.
We were greeted that morning with some remarkable surf
conditions
consisting of a fairly large swell that produced some hollow
waves with 8
ft faces. The steady offshore breeze and unusual high tide
combined to
form the break way inside creating a thick-walled semi-
shorebreak. In
addition, a freaky backwash was wreaking havoc with the
shape and form. As
a result, maybe one wave of every set was certifiably
makeable, and it
wasn't until you were well into the wave that you actually
could see what
the backwash would do.
What we faced was a surfer's version of Russian Roulette. If
you were
lucky, you made the barrel. If not, the barrel made you
(die)! My friend,
Tomas and I paddled the short distance out to the lineup and
waited for
several sets to pass. Finally Tomas thought he had it wired
and took off
on a middle set wave. I lost sight if him until he came
blasting out the
top of the wave, high in the air just as the wave closed. He
scrambled
back outside just missing getting caught by another hammer.
He had that
"deer-in-the-headlights" look in his eyes. I thought, "How
bad could it
be?" and took off on a reasonable looking wall only to be
seriously
planted in the sand. Scrapes and cuts tattooed my back and
arms and I did
not like the feeling of being clueless about the waves.
Sitting out in the lineup, with only Tomas to talk to on
that beautiful
morning, I began to wonder as I watched several challenging
waves go
thundering by, "Is this what I really want to do?" I was
unconvinced that
surfing was really for me and felt I'd been easily
influenced by my
friends. I truly wasn't very good at it. Maybe it was a
phase I was going
through? Maybe I was really a biker?
Suddenly a long wall formed up outside and I sprinted out to
meet it. I
spin-turned my board at the last second and deep-stroked
into the face.
Standing quickly I faced a steep drop and a 50 foot long, 8
foot wall of
vertical moving water. No way was I going to make this. For
some reason I
figured, "What the Hell!!" took the drop with my foot on
the tailblock
and my arm buried to the elbow, then stepped up to the speed
zone on my
board. "Might as well Eat it Big - it builds character."
What a dope I was
in those days.
As my board picked up speed, involuntarily I crouched down
to keep my
balance and prevent falling off. A curious wave of feeling
enveloped me
mixing fear, wonder, happiness, anticipation and finally
serenity. I had
put myself in harms way with absolutely no power over what
would happen
next. (Pretty masochistic, wouldn't you say?) I remember
putting just two
fingers in the wave face, marveling at the smoothness of
it's surface and
delighting in the little spray grooves my fingers were
making. Time and
space seemed to slow down, and compress (does this ALWAYS
happen?) and I
don't recall hearing anything as I looked and absorbed every
detail of the
ride.
I was certain I would get pounded but out of nowhere a
backwash swell
launched its power up into the wave face causing the lip to
throw out far
over my head like the wide roof on a Southern style porch.
This would be
my first authentic barrel ride and as the wave reconfigured
itself due to
the backwash, it lined up in a big, long, symmetrical (and
makeable) wall.
I exulted in the speed, and felt giddy about the smooth
effortless glide
which gave the illusion of being weightless. I was seized
with happiness
by the fact I was actually going to come spitting out the
end. As I angled
over what was left of the shoulder, I simply sat down on the
tail of my
board. The wave expired on the shore and my feet were
touching the sand.
I was left sitting in about 2 feet of water.
Amazed and shaken, I was also deeply moved by this
experience. I picked up
my board and walked up the beach. This was some serious
magic for me and I
could not longer concentrate on riding these difficult
waves. For the
next hour I sat and watched Tomas have fun (and get
drilled).
Finally I knew. I could love this sport, whether I could do
it well or
not. The seed of stoke, in the form of a single ride, had
been planted
deep in my soul. For years after my stoke for the sport
grew, eager to
recreate that feeling on every ride. I rode bigger and
better waves after
that, but gradually I realized that episode was unique and
would never be
repeated. The feeling of that day was something I would
never quite have
again. It was the day I gave myself over freely to the
sport, no
questions.
There was a very dark period in my life. One of those black
emotional
wells we sometimes drop into and allow to envelope and
dominate our lives.
My spirit was broken with personal problems and I stopped
surfing for
years, replacing it with some very destructive behavior.
Friends and
family warned me my life was spiraling out of control.
One night, in the deepest, darkest, winter of this personal
nightmare, I
found myself unexplainably driving to the same beach at West
Gilgo. At 3
am in the morning of a bitter February night, I walked the
shore of that
beach and willed myself to recall every nuance of that
wonderful day years
ago. The memory flooded back and brought me to the brink of
emotional
collapse as I gasped and cried and shouted my anger into the
black night.
My recollection helped to melt away my bitterness and I
swore I would
never let this personal beast consume me like it had. In a
way, the tears
of that night watered the seed that was dormant in my soul.
Soon after, my personal life turned around. I went out and
bought a new
board, took leave of absence from work and traveled to
Florida for a soul
searching surfari. When I returned I was not quite a new
man, but one who
was definitely on the mend. Everyday I carry with me the
feeling of hope
that came with just one wave. It still breaths life into my
interest for
living and surfing. Yes, I am a surf lifer. Should that day
come when I
can't do it anymore, I will still go to the ocean and watch
every wave, as
every surfer does, and dream what it must be like to ride
it.
-Foondoggy
"Whatever the universal nature assigns to any man at any
time is for the
good of that man at that time."
Marcus Aurelius
The Magic Coat
Sun, 23 Feb 1997
It hangs from a nail in my basement surf shrine and its been many years
since I wore it anywhere. The cuffs are frayed, one pocket is shredded,
and the brass-looking metal buttons that once bore the Levi Straus emblem
are mostly worn smooth.
In the summer of 1965 I bought it for $12 at an Army Surplus store in
Newark, New Jersey. I needed a coat to wear on surf trips and the
three-quarter length, dark blue denim carpenter's coat seemed to fill that
need. Little did I know then it would become a constant companion and
protector for the next 20 years. Next to my surfboard, it became the most
important accessory I would take on nearly every surfari.
The lining was an ugly gray and red flannel fabric that looked, felt and
some would say smelled like and old horse blanket. During many cold nights
camping or sleeping under overpasses during rainstorms it was the only
thing which kept me warm and prevented me from leaving, possibly to miss
some great dawn patrol conditions.
If it could tell you all the places its seen it would include hundreds of
beaches on the Right Coast like Cape Cod, Pt. Judith, Block Island, Montauk
Point, virtually every South facing beach on Long Island, many in New
Jersey, Maryland and Virginia, most of the Carolinas and several in
Florida. On the Left Coast it would recall popular spots in San Diego,
Orange, Los Angeles, Ventura and Santa Barbara including epic sessions, at
Sunset Cliffs, Blacks, Trestles, Huntington Beach, Malibu, Rincon and
(shhhh) Hollister Ranch. Unfortunately the coat never went to Hawaii. The
coat had in fact become like a second skin on surfing trips and I wore it
at times when it wasn't even needed. Some of the best sessions I've ever
had were after wearing that coat. It became sort of my surfing charm.
Yesterday while working in the basement I came upon it, still hanging on
the wall. Many years of wear in all kinds of conditions have left it faded
and soiled. The blue corduroy collar is discolored and threadbare. I
remembered how I used to turn it up to protect my neck from cold wind and
rain. The shredded pocket is a result of the thousands of times I put my
car keys in it. The other pocket was used to store many things, and I'm
not sure I want to put my hand in it for fear of what I'll find.
The coat has absorbed and been stained with all kinds of fluids;
saltwater, rainwater, resin, coffee, ink, wax, beer, acetone, gasoline,
blood (don't ask), bourbon, soda, tequila, orange juice, snot, motor oil,
cooking oil, and hash oil (don't tell). I fear if it ever got near to an
open flame, it would explode. To my knowledge it's never been cleaned
except by the endless soakings in the ocean it received as a result of
various pranks by my friends.
I took the old coat down from its nail and slowly slipped it on. When I
weighed 180 lbs it was huge and could easily cover a couple shirts or
sweaters. Now, it fits a bit tighter, but there is still ample room for an
old sweatshirt. As I buttoned it up, I was immediately transported to a
universe of fond memories. The mind is a wonderful vehicle and memories
are the engine which power your ability to go anywhere you want to. I
spent a long time thinking of all the good times and great trips I shared
wearing that coat. The memories flooded me with good feelings and I
smiled at the thoughts of wonderful waves and exciting experiences.
As I finally removed the coat I was certain I would never get rid of it.
It had become a touchstone of my experience as a surfer and I could never
give up the thoughts and stoke it represented. It is the one garment I've
owned that has been with me throughout the entire time.
Mrs.Foon hates the coat, not for what it represents, but because it looks
so damn crummy. But like an old mutt of a dog, I can't help but love it.
In these days of hightech sportswear the coat looks like a dinosaur, a
relic, something a homeless person would gladly trade in for a warm down
coat or windbreaker. To me it is a diary, one only I can read.
I suggest, if you ever become attached to something; a shirt, hat, or coat
which accompanies you on your surfing adventures, keep it, preserve it and
cherish it. Some day when you're older, and you slip it on, your memories
will take you to your favorite breaks for your favorite sessions.
It's magic!
Foondoggy
"Nostalgia isn't what it used to be."
Simone Signoret
